Translingual Magazine Spring 2015 by Translingual Magazine

TRANSLINGUAL ISSUE 6 SPRING 2015 TRANSLINGUAL.ORG

Photo by Kalya Koltes

Meet The Staff Eliza Jaeger

Co-Editor-in-Chief, German Editor, Layout Editor

Jiya Pandya

Co-Editor-in-Chief, English Editor

Kalya Koltes

Co-Editor-in-Chief, German Editor

Alaa Abdelfattah

Arabic Editor

Bernardo Portilho Andrade

Portuguese Editor

James Min Italian Editor Maddy Dickinson

French Editor

Natalie Figueroa

Spanish Editor

Shane Healy

Japanese Editor

Tamri Matiashvili

Russian Editor

Samantha Vila Spanish Editor Joy Zhu Stephen Snyder

Chinese Editor, Layout Designer Faculty Advisor

Dear Reader, Welcome to the sixth issue of Translingual Magazine! There have been a few changes to the magazine since the Fall 2014 issue. We have asked each author or translator to write a short introduction to their piece in an effort to provide more context, and give each submission more depth. The Editorial Board would like to thank Kalya, who is graduating this spring, for the time and effort she has put into the magazine over the past three years. You will be missed. Enjoy this new issue of Translingual! Yours, The Translingual Editors-in-Chief, Eliza Jaeger, Jiya Pandya, and Kalya Koltes

Contents Pages English Title Language Author/Translator 4-5 Calligraphy Japanese Shane Healy 6-11 The Last Time Spanish Zachary Strauss 12 The Long Boat German Emma McDonald 14-15 Untitled Urdu Bilal Ansar Kahn 15-17 Saying Goodbye Spanish Samantha Vila 18-19 At Night Spanish Esteban Arenas 20-23

My Grandfather’s Epitaph

Portuguese

Marcos Barroso Filho

24-25 Dark Night Russian Kalya Koltes 26-27 All-American Girl Spanish Natalie Figueroa 28 Demain Dès L’Aube French Caitlin Towers 29 Away, Quinn, ‘Well Latin Ethan Brady 30 Certitude French Michaella Maxwell 32-33 Ocean Outbreaks French Maddy Dickinson 34-35 Drunk in Cairo Spanish Shane Healy 36-39 The Pit Nawat Frank Martínez 40 I Indonesian Adara Wicaksono 42-43 Exerpts from Calvino Italian James Min 44-47 1001 Nights Russian Tamri Matiashvili 48 If Spanish Samantha Vila 50-51 Let Us Rise Arabic Alaa Abdelfattah 53 The Walk Spanish Maddy Dickinson 54-55 2046 Chinese Joy Zhu 56-57

Where the Mind is Without Fear

Hindi

Jiya Pandya

58-61

Vocations and Misunderstandings

Portuguese

Bernardo Portilho Andrade

62 The Azurite Blue Space Mongolian D. Davaakhuu Photo by Corinne Koltes

「書道」シェイン・ヒリ筆をのど深くに入れてタールのような黒い吐物純白の紙の上でもう始まったかもしれない偽善者の美しさ聖なる芸術罪深い暗闇の中で私が溺れ死なせよう手に握る筆は私の武器だ致死の弾薬はこの木炭の墨だほら、全ての見て見ぬふりをしていたものを漆黒の紙に刻み込んであげる

「嘘」「虚栄心」「地獄」「狂気」私の中で燃えて出たがっている「吐き気」「毒」「食人」「恐怖」ページから呪いをかける偽りの「自然」の理想を崇拝するより死ぬまで書こう人間の無意識の中に潜むものについて心の一番深い所にあることについて一番傷つくものを全世界に見せたい目をそらずに直視してほしい私みたいに古代から伝えられた芸術を、前衛的なごみに変えるのは犯罪だと思うかもしれないエログロノンセンス

会社のブランドで粗悪に塗り隠されたでも私の墨と筆で、リアルな世界を描くたたき壊された明時代の花瓶のようにモノクロに写る暴力と堕落何千年の伝統はそうやって光を甦えらせる曲解され歪められているそれは私の大好きな「書道」私のたった一つの興味は不自然なもの、片輪なものきれいに書かれたものでも現実では不快なものあたかも名筆を書いているかのように文字化けを吐く空白だけが残るまで光は次々死んでいく芸術は頭が変な人を慰めるべきだだからこの右手で群盲を目覚めさせてあげよう「瀑声」のようなありふれた情念は無意味で心に響かない私は本物を作りたいんだ

Japanese calligraphy is an art form passed down from the pre-modern Nara period that continues to be practiced even in the present day. Usually, this type of calligraphy depicts the beauty of nature, and is also connected to Zen Buddhism. In this piece, the author writes about using Japanese calligraphy in a more modern sense, by creating works that focus on unconventional or controversial topics and images. Shane Healy, ‘18

Photo by Zeke Caceres

Calligraphy Stick the brush deep down my throat Black vomit like tar On the pure white paper It may have already begun

“Lies” “Vanity” “Hell” “Insanity” Burn inside of me, wanting to leave “Nausea” “Poison” “Cannibalism” “Fear” Cast curses on me from the page

The hypocrite’s beauty The sanctified art I will drown it In the sinful darkness

Rather than worship a false ideal of ‘nature’ I will write, until I die, of that which lurks In the human unconscious, what lies in The furthest recesses of our hearts

The brush I grip in my hand Is my weapon My fatal ammunition Is this charcoal ink

I want to show the entire world The things that hurt the most Please look upon them as I do Directly, without averting your gaze

Come now, all the things You are pretending not to see I will carve for you Into the jet black paper

One may think it a crime to turn an art Passed down from ancient times Into avant-garde trash Erotic grotesque nonsense

Like the shattered Ming vases Crudely painted over with company brands Thousands of years of tradition Is perverted and distorted

But with my ink and brush, I will paint the real world Violence and depravity reflected in monochrome That is how I will revive the light That is my beloved ‘calligraphy’

My only interest is in The unnatural, the deformed The things that are beautifully written But disgusting in reality As if writing an outstanding work I spit out corrupted text The lights die one after another Until only the blank space is left Art should console People who are disturbed Therefore, with this right hand I shall awaken the blind masses Commonplace sentiments Like “the sound of a waterfall” Are meaningless and do not stir my heart I want to create something genuine

La última vez El humo asciende de la chimenea del taller de Herman Elensky. Es el año mil novecientos cuarenta y uno y Rusia todavía no conoce la violencia y destrucción de los Nazis. Los fuegos crecen mientras Herman, un judío de diecinueve años, golpea el titano fuertemente con el martelo. Trabaja en el centro de Britovsk y cerca de su taller está la panadería donde se hornea la challah para el Sabat que viene y la tienda donde se cosen los kipot para los hombres. A la vista de la puesta del sol, Herman vuelve a su casa para prepararse para el Sabat con su familia. Cuando llega a casa, él huele el pollo kosher que su madre Olga está cocinando, ve que Rachel ha puesto la mesa perfectamente y oye su hermano Moishe recitando un pasaje de la Mishna en hebreo rápido. Es una familia pequeña pero fuerte y unida; en el shtetl la familia es la institución aún más importante que la religión. Cenan y dicen las oraciones de velas, vino, y challah. Todo está bien hasta que amanece. La familia de Herman se levanta de repente después de escuchar disparos y gritos en una lengua que no puede entender. Un soldado gritando con un tatuaje de una svástika rompe la puerta de su casa y les dice que salgan rápidamente. La Operación Barbarossa ha empezado. Toda la familia hace una maleta pequeña con poca comida y alguna ropa. Olga piensa en tomar sus joyas porque le eran pasadas por sus antepasados; cree que si los Nazis ven las joyas, las robarán. Por eso ella tiene una gran idea: llena una taza con agua, cierra los ojos, respira hondo y susurra “Tengo que hacerlo. Para mis hijos, para nuestro futuro.” Abre la boca y traga las perlas. Todo el pueblo está de pie afuera en el centro, esperando que los Nazis les digan algo importante. Un amigo de Herman le pregunta a un soldado alemán qué pasa y al instante el Nazi dispara a su amigo en frente de su familia. Después, los Nazis les dicen a los judíos honestos y inocentes que se suban el tren sin explicación. Tienen que despedir de su casa y su vida; no saben cuándo o si van a volver. Herman y su familia se suben al tren sin una idea a donde van, pero ellos tienen su fe y el estomago de la madre guarda algo que les ayudará en algún momento. El compartimento del tren es muy pequeño y hace mucho frio esta mañana. Moishe le pregunta a su madre por qué salen de su hogar, pero Olga no tiene una repuesta y nunca la tendrá. Ellos pasan cinco días dentro el tren sin agua, comida, ni baño. Son los cinco días más incomodos y espantosos de la vida de Herman. Él se olvida como tomar el brillo de la luz del sol, gozar el agua, comer patatas y pensar claramente. Sin embargo, no se vuelve loco como otros y todos que todavía están vivos en el tren lloran cada día y rezan a Dios por ayuda. Muchos de los viejos no pueden continuar a sobrevivir bajo esas condiciones; Rev Yankel, el rabí de Britovsk, lucha contra de enfermedad pero pierde la batalla. Durante sus momentos últimos, Yankel llama a Herman a su lado, mira a él con los ojos sincerísimos y le dice “En mi vida, he aprendido mucho y adquirido mucha sabiduría pero nada me ha preparado para esto. Esos animales no tienen una gota de merced o compasión, matan a todos los que son diferentes de ellos y dispararán a cualquier persona si significa que van a recibir poder por su muerte. Somos judíos y sí somos diferentes, pero necesitamos mantener nuestra tradición y orgullo. Sin tradición y nuestras costumbres únicas, no somos nada. A cualquier lugar donde viajamos, no va a ser uno de felicidad sino de lucha y atrocidad. A penas de todo que va a pasar, los judíos perseverarán como en el deserto y durante la inquisición. Hitler es el faraón Ramsés y el Rey Fernando; sobrevivimos en el pasado y vamos a hacerlo otra vez. Después de los cinco días en el tren, los judíos llegan a Polonia y se bajan del compartimento que está lleno de enfermedad, lágrimas, y muerte. La gente se bajan del tren y soldados alemanes y judíos alegres los saludan. Una judía con una sonrisa grande dice “Bienvenidos a Aucshwitz!” Herman por un momento piensa que hay esperanza para la población de su Britovsk. De repente los soldados Nazis les gritan que hagan dos colas: una para los vie6

Photo by Kalya Koltes

jos, minusválidos, y enfermos y otra para todos los que pueden trabajar. A este momento la familia de Herman se separa; Olga está a la derecha y sus hijos a la izquierda. Olga escapa de la cola y corre al lado de Herman, su hijo mayor. Durante el viaje en el tren, las perlas le devuelven y ahora se las da. Olga le dice “Son de mi bisabuela, una judía fuerte y de buen humor. Las perlas son un símbolo de nuestra familia y ahora te las entrego. Por favor protégelas bien.” Se abrazan y los Nazis fuerzan a Olga estar de pie en la línea. Debe ducharse y desvestirse con los otros que hacen cola con ella. Esta es la última vez que Herman y sus hermanos ven a su madre; esta ducha no la limpia con agua sino con cianuro. Herman vive en una barraca con sus hermanos y cuarenta otros judíos de toda Europa. Todos tienen dos cosas en común: el sufrimiento y el yiddish. El día cotidiano de Herman consiste en trabajar sin descanso de siete de la mañana hasta cinco de la tarde. Recibe un trozo pequeño de pan con un vaso de agua cada día y si Herman tuviera suerte él recibiría sopa con lechuga. Todos los días Herman oye los gritos de los judíos que mueren y los disparos de la pistola que les matan. Ve el humo del crematorio y sabe que su madre no se duchó. Cuando la vida en Polonia es demasiado difícil reza a Olga y le pide su ayuda y oraciones. Las personas en la barraca de Herman le dicen que si da dinero o algo caro a los soldados, les darán a los judíos más comida. Herman piensa en sus hermanos que están muriendo de hambre. Esa noche, Herman muestra a un alemán una de sus perlas en secreto y le pide carne y más agua. El soldado les asegura que nadie está mirando y vuelve con carne y un cubo de agua. Herman trae la comida clandestina a la barraca y se la da a sus hermanos. De repente, un coronel entra en su barraca y mira a ellos con ojos de furor. El coronel para en frente de Moishe y Rachel y toma la carne con fuerza de sus manos. Les dice tranquilamente que vayan afuera ahorita porque él tiene carne de una calidad superior para ofrecerles. Cinco minutos después, Herman oye dos disparos y los últimos gritos de sus hermanos. Los bestias le han quitado todo lo que tenía; está solo. En su bolsillo sólo tiene cinco perlas antiguas. Para proteger las joyas, crea un hoyo en su colchón con las uñas y las pone dentro de su cama. Para escapar sus condiciones fatales, Herman empieza a escribir poesía. Roba un bolígrafo de la oficina Nazista y usa la pared como su papel. Escribe poemas sobre su vida antes de la invasión y como podría ser su vida si los Aliados le liberaran del campamento. Piensa en la mujer con quien se casaría y todos los hijos que tendrían. Escribe sus esperanzas para el futuro y sus sueños de ir a la tierra de Israel. Nunca escribe de su vida en Auschwitz y sus poemas crean un mundo perfecto y ideal fuera del tercer Reich. Sueña con su libertad y los ingleses que vendrán a destruir el régimen de los Nazis. Termina un poema y lo lee en una voz baja: La pared de piedras doradas La ciudad de los tres religiones es mía Mi fe nunca morirá, de Rusia a Judea El año que viene en Jerusalén Es el año mil novecientos cuarenta y cinco y Herman ha pasado casi cuarto años trabajando para los hombres más malvados de todo el mundo. Ahora tiene veintitrés años y ayer fue su cumpleaños. Los otros judíos que viven en la misma barraca le dan un pequeño regalo. Le ofrecen un trozo de su pan cotidiano. Es el diecisiete de junio y está muy soleado y Herman levanta la cabeza para ver el sol. Cuando levanta la cabeza para ver el cielo, no sólo ve el sol brillante sino una docena de aviones con la bandera inglesa. El sonido de los aviones viene más cerca y los soldados alemanes corren de miedo para destruir todos los documentos y fotos. Los Nazis saben que están vencidos y empiezan a disparar a todos los judíos posibles. Herman se esconde abajo de un árbol grande y espera que termine la acción. Roba la pistola de un soldado muerto y empieza a disparar a los Nazis que le torturaban. Con cada disparo, Herman grita el nombre de una persona que los Nazis mataron. “Moishe! Rachel! Yankel! 7

Mamá!” Después de treinta minutos de bombas, disparos, gritos y muerte todo termina. Aucshwitz está liberado. Filadelfia es la ciudad del amor fraternal y ahora Herman entiende eso. Después de su llegada por barco finalmente puede comenzar su vida como en su poesía. Tiene la oportunidad infinita y puede hacer todas las cosas que los Nazis le dijeron que no podía lograr. Sin embargo, su viaje a los Estados Unidos cuesta un precio alto; él cambia todas las perlas por una vida mejor. Soy el producto de la sobrevivencia de Herman Elensky, un hombre que luchó por su existencia y tuvo mucho éxito. Yo tenía seis años y estaba en Filadelfia por un seder de Pesach. Veía un hombre muy viejo que yo no conocía; mi padre me dijo que él era Herman, mi antepasado que tenía noventa y tres años. Había doscientos personas en este comedor; Herman había pagado por todo y invitado todas las personas judías que conocía. Me sentaba con toda mi familia paternal. Todo el cuarto miraba a Herman mientras escogía su asiento; se sentó a mi lado. Empezó a hablar conmigo y me ponía incómodo. Me mostró el brazo; parecía que algunos números estaban escritos sobre la piel. La tinta azul significaba nada; sólo eran números. Herman me dijo: “Este tatuaje es el símbolo de la lucha de nuestra familia. Hemos sacrificado mucho y ahora nos regocijamos. No te olvides tu origen y expresa tu cultura orgullosamente. Siempre seremos una gente diferente y debemos mostrar esa diferencia al mundo!” Nunca me he olvidado esas palabras sabias que formaban mi perspectiva de vida. Murió cinco años después; tenía noventa y ocho años.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

The Last Time The smoke ascends from the chimney of Herman Elenskys’ workshop. It is the year 1941, and Russia still has not seen the violence and destruction of the Nazis. The fires grow while Herman, a nineteenyear-old Jew, strikes hot steel aggressively with a hammer. He works in downtown Britovsk. Next to his workshop stands the bakery where the challah for this week’s Shabbat is made and a store where the town’s men buy hand-knit kippot. At the sight of the sunset, Herman returns to his home to prepare for Shabbat with his family. When he arrives, he smells the kosher chicken his mother Olga is cooking, sees that his sister Rachel has set the table perfectly, and hears his brother Mosher quickly reciting a Mishnah verse in Hebrew. It is a small, but strong and unified family. In the shtetl, family is even more important than religion. They eat dinner and recite the prayers over the Shabbat candles, wine, and challah. Everything goes well until the sun rises. Herman and his family awaken suddenly after hearing gunshots and screams in a language none of them can comprehend. A screaming soldier with a swastika tattoo breaks down the door to his home and demands that he and his family leave immediately. Operation Barbarossa had begun. The whole Elensky family quickly packs a suitcase, filling it with nothing except a small portion of food and some clothes. Olga thinks about taking her jewels with her, as her ancestors had passed them down from generation to generation. She fears that if the Nazis see them, then they will steal them. She has an ingenious idea: she fills a cup with water, closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and whispers, “I have to do this. For my children, for our future.” She opens her mouth and swallows the pearls. The whole town is standing outside in the central square, waiting for the Nazis to tell them what they are to do. Herman’s friend Saul asks a German soldier what is happening. On sight, the Nazi shoots his friend in front of his entire family. Following the gunshot, the Nazis tell the Jews that they are to board the train. They must say goodbye to their house and their life; they do not know when or if they are going to return. Herman and his family board the train with no idea as to where they are going; but, they have their faith, and Olga’s stomach is full of pearls. The train compartment is very small, and it’s cold this morning. Moishe asks his mother why they have left their home; but, she does not have an answer, and she never will. They spend five days on the train without water, food, or a bathroom. These are the five most uncomfortable and terrifying days of Herman’s life. He forgets how to bathe in the rays of the sun, enjoy the taste of water, eat potatoes, or think clearly. However, he does not go crazy like others aboard the train and those still alive cry and pray to God for help. Many of the elderly cannot continue living under these conditions. Rev Yankel, the rabbi of Britovsk, fights against a disease but loses the battle. During his last moments, Yankel calls Herman to his side, looks at him with the most sincere eyes and says to him, “In my life, I have learned many things and acquired much knowledge, but nothing has prepared me for this. These animals have not a single drop of mercy or compassion. They kill all those different from them and will shoot anybody if his death benefits their rise to power. We are Jews, and yes, we are different, but we must maintain our traditions and demonstrate our pride. Without our unique customs and traditions, we are nothing. Wherever we are going, it will not be a place of happiness, but one of struggle and atrocity. Despite all that is going to occur, the Jews will persevere like in the dessert and during the Inquisition. Hitler is Pharaoh Ramses and King Ferdinand. We survived in the past and we shall do it once more.” After five days aboard the train, the Jews of Britovsk arrive in Poland. When they get off the train, both German soldiers and happy Jewish faces greet them. One Jewish

woman with a smile exclaims, “Welcome to Auschwitz!” For a fleeting moment, Herman believes there is hope for the people of his town. Suddenly, Nazi soldiers demand the Jews form two lines: one for the elderly, disabled, and sick, and another for the able-bodied. It is at this moment that Herman’s family is torn apart; Olga is placed to the right and her kids to the left. Olga escapes from her line and runs to Herman, her oldest son. During the train voyage, the pearls had returned to her and now she gives them to Herman. In this moment of panic and passion, Olga says to him, “These are from my great-grand mother, a good-humored and strong Jewish woman. These pearls are a symbol of our family, and now I bequeath them to you. Please, protect them well.” Following their short embrace, the Nazis forcibly move Olga back to her line. She is to undress and take a shower with the rest of those deemed unfit for manual labor. This is the last time that Herman and his siblings see their mother. This shower does not clean with water, but with cyanide. Herman lives in a barrack with his siblings and forty other Jews from all over Europe. All of them have two things in common: suffering and the Yiddish language. A normal day for Herman consists of working non-stop from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon. Every day, he receives a small piece of bread and glass of water, and if he was lucky, a bowl of soup with lettuce. Every day, Herman hears the screams of dying Jews and the gunshots that kill them. He sees the smoke rising from the crematorium and realizes that his mother never really took a shower. When life in Poland becomes too hard, Herman prays to Olga and asks for her help and prayers. People in Herman’s barrack tell him that if he bribes the soldiers with money or jewelry, they will give the Jews more food. Herman thinks of his siblings dying of starvation. That night, Herman presents his pearls to a German soldier in secret and asks for meat and more water. The soldier assures him that nobody is looking, and returns shortly with meat and a bucket of water. Herman brings the meat to the barracks and gives it to his siblings to eat. Suddenly, a Nazi colonel enters the barrack and looks at them with eyes of fury. The colonel stops in front of Moishe and Rachel and forcibly takes the meat from their hands. He tells them calmly that they are to go outside because he wishes to offer them higher quality meat. Five minutes later, Herman hears two gunshots and the last cries of his siblings. Those beasts took everything he had; he is alone. In his bag, all he has are five small pearls. To protect the jewels, he makes a small hole in his mattress and hides them within. To escape his deathly conditions, Herman begins to write poetry. He steals a pen from the Nazi office and uses the wall of the barrack as his pad and paper. He writes poems about his life before the invasion and what it would be like when the Allied Forces liberated his camp. He thinks of the woman he will marry and the many children they will have together. He writes of his hopes for the future and about his dreams to visit the Holy Land. He never writes of his experience in Auschwitz, and his poems create a perfect and ideal world outside of the Third Reich. He dreams about his freedom and the Englishmen that will come to destroy the Nazi Regimen. He finishes a poem and reads it aloud in a low voice: The wall of golden stone The city of the three religions is mine My faith will never die, from Russia to Judea Next year in Jerusalem. It is the year 1945, and Herman has spent four years working for the world’s most wicked men. Now he is twenty-three years old and yesterday was his birthday. The other Jews that live in the same barrack each give him a small gift. They offer him a piece of their daily bread ration. It is the 17th of June and the sun is shining. Herman raises his head to gaze at the sun. When he looks into the sky he not only sees a golden light but also dozens of warplanes painted red, white, and blue with the British Jack. The sound of the planes comes closer and the German soldiers run in panic to destroy all evidentiary documents and photos. The Nazis know they have lost and begin shooting all the Jews on sight. Herman hides behind a large tree and

waits for the action to subside. He steals a pistol from a dead soldier and begins shooting at those who once tortured him. With every shot, Herman shouts the name of one of his loved ones. “Mosihe! Rachel! Yankel! Mother!” After thirty minutes of bomb blasts, screams, gunshots, and death, everything stopped. Auschwitz is liberated. Philadelphia is the city of brotherly love, and Herman now understands that. He had taken a boat to America, and now he can finally start the life he imagined for himself in his poetry. He has infinite opportunity and can do anything and everything the Nazis once told him he would never achieve. However, his one-way trip from Russia to the New World came at a high price: he had traded all of his mother’s pearls for a better life. I am the product of Herman Elensky’s survival, a man that fought for his life and greatly succeeded. When I was six years old, I was in Philadelphia for a Passover Seder. I saw a very old man that I did not recognize. My father told me that his name was great-uncle Herman, my ancestor that was ninety-three years old. There were over two hundred people in that dining room. Herman had paid for all of it and invited every Jew and gentile he knew. I sat at the table with my father’s entire family. The entire room watched as Herman chose his seat for the evening; he chose to sit next to me. He started to speak to me, and I remember feeling uncomfortable. He showed me his arm; it looked like some numbers had been written on his skin. At that time, the blue ink upon his forearm meant nothing, they were just numbers. Herman said to me, “ This tattoo is a symbol of our family’s struggle. We have sacrificed much and now we rejoice. Never forget where you come from and always express your culture with pride. We will always be a different people, and we must show that difference to the world.” I never forgot those wise words that have forever formed my perspective on life. Herman died five years later, he was ninety-eight.

This was the story of my great-uncle Herman that I wrote for my Spanish short stories class during my Freshman year at Middlebury. Now as a senior I would like to share it with all of you. Zachary Strauss, ‘15

The Long Boat by Stanley Kunitz

Das lange Boot

When his boat snapped loose from its mooring, under the screaking of the gulls, he tried at first to wave to his dear ones on shore, but in the rolling fog they had already lost their faces. Too tired even to choose between jumping and calling, somehow he felt absolved and free of his burdens, those mottoes stamped on his name-tag: conscience, ambition, and all that caring. He was content to lie down with the family ghosts in the slop of his cradle, buffeted by the storm, endlessly drifting. Peace! Peace! To be rocked by the Infinite! As if it didn’t matter which way was home; as if he didn’t know he loved the earth so much he wanted to stay forever.

Als das Boot von seinem Liegeplatz abriss, unter den gellenden Schreien der Möwen, versuchte er zuerst seinen Angehörigen zu winken, aber in dem wandernden Nebel hatten sie ihre Gesichter schon verloren. Zu müde war er, um zwischen abspringen und rufen zu wählen, auf eine gewisse Weise fühlt er sich freigesprochen und unabhängig von seinen Lasten, von diesen Mottos abgedruckt auf seinem Namensschild: Gewissen, Ehrgeiz und all dieses Mitgefühl. Er war damit zufrieden, sich zu seinen Familiengeistern zu legen, ins Abwasser seiner Wiege, hin- und hergeschleudert vom Sturm, endlos dahintreibend. Friede! Friede! Von der Unendlichkeit geschaukelt zu werden! Als ob es egal wäre, welcher Weg nach Hause führte; als ob er nicht wüsste, dass er die Welt so sehr liebte, dass er für immer dort bleiben wollte.

I chose to translate “The Long Boat” by the late Stanley Kunitz, twice the Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress and winner of the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, from English to German. “The Long Boat” is one of my favorite poems, so I’ve spent a lot of time reading this poem, analyzing it, and sharing it. But not until I began trying to translate it to another language was I able to look at it in a new way, to consider the words and their meanings from new perspectives. This act of translation allowed me to further develop a personal connection with the poem as I had to more thoughtfully consider what each and every word of the poem meant, what each phrase was trying to convey. Emma McDonald, ‘16

Photo by Kalya Koltes

I am shit, the semen of ejaculation On the night of intercourse, I am the piss of a dog A cockroach is a disgusting thing, Qasim used to say I am the wet booger of its nose It would have been good if it hadn’t begun Now that I am, how can I not be? I get scared, my breath catches in my throat As soon as I put the knife on my wrist Then I blink on a strange day The bird sings, my penis responds White face, blonde hair Peacock’s gait, terrible is my state I read Ghalib, I listen to Hassan I masturbate, I share the grief Suddenly when I wake up, I become scared In disgusting vomit I take a dive I live one moment, I die two moments This river of fire I cross likewise Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting Let me gather courage, I’ll bring this story to an end

This poem mostly wrote itself; I barely intervened. It has flashes of my life but I will be lying if I say it is about me. Honestly, I think by taking the intention to put pen to paper, I allowed the ink to actively design a tale of sorts by drawing upon various images from my mind in those moments. What it means for you, it says to you. For me, it’s about the perpetually mercurial state of my being – my ‘becoming’ – as I continue to struggle with choosing life over death. Don’t bother researching the word Qasim – that’s my childhood pen name.

Bilal Ansar Khan, ‘18

Diciendo Adiós Mi corazón palpita, igual que el sonido del tren que pasaba por nuestro pueblo cada domingo - hierro rozando hierro. Nos sentábamos a ver el tren pasar, escuchando el silencio de la noche y la orquesta de grillos que salían a la madrugada. ¿Recuerdas como tomabas mi mano entre la tuya y me abrazabas mientras contábamos las estrellas, observando sin poder hacer nada como los astros chocaban en esa inmensa oscuridad tan lejana y profunda del cielo…? Veríamos como pasaba el tren, rodando hacia la incertidumbre, en silencio. Luego saldría el sol. Nos despediríamos con un beso y saldrías corriendo hacia tu casa. Cada vez pidiendo que la noche fuera más larga para poder pasar más tiempo juntos. No lo sabíamos entonces, o tal vez si y simplemente lo ignorábamos, pero nosotros también íbamos en ese tren. Un tren sin parada con un destino desconocido sin saber quién se subiría o se bajaría y en que parada. Y resulto que aunque quisiéramos no podíamos cambiar de tren. Y lo sé - lo he oído mil veces - que hay puertas que se cierran pero abren ventanas más grandes y bonitas de lo que podíamos haber imaginado… pero eso no lo hace más fácil despedirse. No lo hace más fácil irse sin mirar hacia lo que uno está dejando atrás. Aunque no haya muebles y los cuartos de los edificios que una vez llamábamos hogar estén vacíos, eso no lo hace más fácil cerrar la puerta por siempre… Mis maletas ya están listas esperando a la puerta de mi casa mientras me escapo a ver el tren pasar contigo como hacíamos cada domingo. Me tomas de la mano y tratamos de pretender que hoy es como cualquier otro domingo, pero el peso de la verdad y lo desconocido hace que el aire sea más difícil de respirar. Te miro mientras cuentas las estrellas, queriendo memorizar tu perfil y guardar tu imagen por siempre en mi mente. Igual que tus ojos que brillan, tan claros contra el amanecer del sol. En algún punto, mientras contabas las estrellas, sin darme cuenta, habían comenzado a rodar lágrimas por mis mejillas. Tú te das cuenta, me besas y me aseguras que todo estará bien. Que ya veré que bien va a salir la vida y que feliz seré. Me besas fuerte antes de salir corriendo, como siempre, pero esta vez para alcanzar tu tren. Y me quedo a ver tu tren partir hasta que se funde el hierro con el azul del horizonte… entonces me abraza la soledad y me siento tan pequeña y sin control en relación a la vida y al mundo. Pienso en lo que me has dicho y sé que tienes razón, después de todo siempre fuiste muy listo, pero ya no puedo decirte cuánto te quiero ni cuanta la falta que me harás… Después de algunas horas me paro de donde quede sentada mirando el punto donde desapareció tu tren por siempre, y aunque toma tiempo sé que todo estará bien, como tú dijiste, porque a pesar de todo todavía palpita mi corazón.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Saying Goodbye My heart is beating, the sound just like the train that passed through our town each Sunday - iron brushing against iron. We would sit to watch the train pass, listening to the silence of the night and orchestra of crickets chirping at dawn. Do you remember how you would take my hand in yours and hold me while we would count the stars, watching helplessly as the stars collided in the deep and far away darkness of the sky…? We would watch the train pass in silence as it rolled towards uncertainty. Then the sun would come out. We would say goodbye and you would run home. Each time wishing that the night were longer so that we could spend more time together. We didn’t know it then or maybe we did and we just ignored it, but we were also on that train. An unstoppable train with an unknown destination and no knowledge of who gets on and off at which stop. And it turns out that even if we wanted to, we can’t change our train. I know - I’ve heard it a thousand times - that when one door closes, a wider opens wider and prettier than what we had imagined… That, however, doesn’t make it any easier to say goodbye. It doesn’t make it easier to walk away without looking back at what you’re leaving behind. Even though the rooms in the buildings that we once called home are empty and all the furniture has been moved, that doesn’t make it any easier to close the door knowing that it’s the last time… My bags are ready and waiting for me by the door while I escape one last time to watch the train pass by with you like any other Sunday. You take my hand and we try to pretend that today is just a normal Sunday, but the weight of the truth and the uncertainty before us makes the air harder to breath. I watch you as you count the stars, that shine as bright as your eyes against the rising sun, wanting to memorize your profile and keep it forever in my memories. At some moment while I watch you, without noticing, tears start rolling down my cheeks. You notice, and you kiss me and tell me that everything will be alright. That I’ll see how great life will turn out and how happy I’ll be. You kiss me one last time before leaving, running out like always, but this time to catch your train. I stay and watch your train leave until the iron melts against the blue of the horizon… then I feel the weight of loneliness crash around me, and I feel so small and helpless in this big world. I think of what you’ve told me and I know that you’re right, after all you were always the smart one; but now I can’t tell you how much I love you nor how much I’ll miss you... After a couple hours I get up from where I’ve been sitting, staring away at the point where your train disappeared forever, and even though it takes time, I do know that everything will be alright, just like you said, because at the end of all of this my heart is still beating.

As a second semester senior, graduation is close. While this inspires feelings of excitement and accomplishment, there is also sadness at leaving certain places and people and some worry about what will come next. Overall, it is quite bittersweet, as life changes can often feel. This piece was written as a reflection of these musings about relationships, the meaning of places, and the uncertainty that life may hold.

Samantha Vila, 15’

Original by Rafael Pombo De noche No ya mi corazón desasosiegan las mágicas visiones de otros días. ¡Oh Patria! ¡Oh casa! ¡Oh sacras musas mías!... Silencio! Unas no son, otras me niegan. Los gajos del pomar ya no doblegan para mí sus purpúreas ambrosías; y del rumor de ajenas alegrías sólo ecos melancólicos me llegan. Dios lo hizo así. Las quejas, el reproche son ceguedad. ¡Feliz el que consulta oráculos más altos que su dueño! Es la Vejez viajera de la noche; y al paso que la tierra se le oculta, ábrase amigo a su mirada el cielo.

Photo by Zeke Caceres

At Night Not now, my heart is overwhelmed by The magic visions of other days. Oh Homeland! Oh home! Oh my sacred muses! Silence! Some are not, others deny me. The branches of the orchard no longer bend Their purple ambrosia for me; And from the whispers of other people’s happiness I only receive melancholic echoes. God made it like this. The complaints, the criticism Are blinding. Happy is one who consults Higher oracles than one’s own. It’s an impending Age who journeys with the night; As it hides at the pass of earth Open yourself, friend, and gaze at heaven. Esteban Arenas, ‘18

My Grandfather’s Epitaph Cinco e meia de uma tarde de setembro. O sol começa a dar sinal da trégua de vitalidade, de um arder só, cuja solidão só se acha nesta cidadezinha do interior. E grande desencontro se faz quando chegam as estrelas, atrasadas para fazer que seja um esboço de companhia ao farol dos dias. Zacarias encontrava-se sentado, ou melhor, prostrado na cadeira do quintal enclausurado que dava para a rua. Esta, de terra e cheia de rachaduras, começava a perder o brilho turvado diante do findar-se alongado do dia. E com a perda do brilho ia também se enfraquecendo a dor de cabeça, que martelava com a luz solar. No seu lugar surgia uma leve queimação no ventre. “Algo que comi”, pensou. E com novo ânimo pela trégua do dia intenso, Zacarias saiu a andar vagante pelos arredores. A rua levava o nome do falecido sogro, e sua memória esticou-se pela eternidade no reconhecimento medíocre de uma alameda desfaltada de uma cidade desimportante. E despreocupado, passou pela janela da casa da mulher cujo filho tinha gota, de Maria que se casou idosa só para sofrer maus tratos, e da velha que escapava para dançar com os ciganos. Também passou pela casa do velho que insistia em beber demais, e do casal que tinha um filho cujos relacionamentos todos questionavam. No fim da via, o boteco. Sentou para admirar o por do sol que se formava, as cores que se desprendiam e em listras formavam o horizonte, pintado com serras e árvores secas. A queimação virava acidez, mas seguia-se de um estremecimento, uma excitação que lhe agradava. E, sob luz suave, o fim do dia consolidava-se em um espectro completo, do branco ao vermelho, cor de gema de ovo caipira. E a acidez no esôfago virava nó, um nó suave que lhe trazia ao fim do dia e dos dias que pudera ter tido. Os dias que lhe teriam passado não saísse ele da capital, em tão volátil explosão de abandono. Lembrava-se da quinta mulher que teria na cidade grande depois de cada divórcio no frio de um escritório. Sua memória passou a vagar errante na memória do vilarejo de praia onde decidiria trabalhar. Os pés calejavam-se de andar na areia e suas juntas afundavam com o roçar de grão em grão. Via os jogos de domingo sob um mosaico. Na tevê do bar, redonda e com falhas nos cantos enquanto maridos compartilhavam suas amarguras de homem fraco, de estarem abaixo dos tamancos de suas mulheres, afogando-se nos copos americanos. No estádio da capital, sentado mas alimentando-se da fúria da torcida organizada. Ou na praia, saboreando um refrigerante: dietético para não atrapalhar a diabetes. Mas não adiantava: sempre perdia o seu Botafogo. O por do sol acabou-se numa sublime e desesperada descarga. O tímido despontar das estrelas e o frio sinalizavam hora de voltar. Hora de voltar. Pelo caminho, erguiam-se prédios e empesteava a brisa do mar. O som dos guindastes só não irritava mais que as gaivotas a atingir os vidros de um arranha-céus. O incêndio no ventre turvava a visão. Chegou em casa e viu a soma de tudo que a moradia lhe representava. O casebre, a cabana, o edifício, todos juntos em uníssono formando a sensação do lar. Viu três portões, três portas, três maçanetas. E no fundo, a solidão de uma só poltrona. Com o arder do tórax sentou-se, só, a ver o trio de televisões que se colocava na sua frente. Um arraial de luzes e cores incoerentes, esquizofrênicas. Com a novela prestes a começar, resolveu banhar-se. Apoiou-se na porcelana da pia para se despir. Adentrou a área dos chuveiros e deixou os respingos descerem-lhe as costas. A janelinha

enferrujada deixava vazar alguns feixes de luz que vinham da garagem. O anteparo de vidro fazia um leque de cores e sombras. O peito começava a derreter e turvar-lhe a visão. E lá foi visitado pelo filho bastardo que jamais tivera, que reclamou os carinhos que Zacarias nunca tivera chance de recusar e os passeios que nunca pudera adiar. A mãe lhe tomou pela mão e, juntos, correram para o ralo. Do ralo saíram os funcionários da companhia. Zacarias jurava desconhecê-los, mas o ar de cerveja embebida de miséria era familiar demais para recusar o olhar. E sentia o peito queimar. E então todos juntos, a família, o colega e até os animais se lhe afastavam, deixando-o ao estado que insistia em estar. Tomado pela solidão: aquela do caminhar sozinho, do olhar perdido pela poltrona, entregou-se ao eterno queimar da eternidade. Morrera de incandescência por nostalgia da solidão do que não aconteceu. E, atrasada, chega sua viúva Celeste para lhe fazer companhia.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

My Grandfather’s Epitaph 5:30pm on a September afternoon. The sun starts to give signs of surrendering its vitality, its lonely burning, that loneliness which can only be found in this country town. And a great discomfort comes in with the stars, too late even to sketch a companionship with the day’s lighthouse. Zacarias found himself sitting, or better, prostrated on the chair in his cloistered backyard, overlooking the street. The street, filled with cracks, started to lose its roily shine in face of the elongated end of the day. And as the brightness faded, so did his headache, which was previously pounding under the sunlight. A faint burning sensation in his stomach came to replace it. “Might be something I ate,” he thought. And drawing new energy from the heat’s surrender, Zacarias left to wander through his surroundings. The road had been named after his late father-in-law; his memory stretched through eternity on an unpaved lane in the mediocre recognition of an unimportant town. And nonchalant, he passed by the window of a woman whose son suffered from gout; of Maria, who married late only to suffer mistreatment; and of the old lady who used to sneak out to dance with the gypsies. He also passed by the house of that old man who insisted on drinking too much, and of the parents of the son whose relationships everybody questioned. At the end of the road, the tavern. He sat to gaze at the sunset as it formed, unleashing colors whose stripes painted the horizon’s hills and dry trees. The burning in his stomach turned acid, but it was followed by a chill, an excitement that pleased him. Under a subtle light, the end of the day consolidated into a full spectrum, from white to red to the colors of the egg yolks from nearby farms. The acidity became a knot, a gentle knot that drew him to the end of the day and of the days he could have had. The days he would have lived had he not left the capital, in such a volatile explosion of abandonment. He remembered the fifth wife he would have had after consecutive divorces in the coldness of an office. His memory wandered through the recollections of the beach village where he could have chosen to work. His feet grew calloused from walking on sand his heels sunk deep in as they touched the grits. He saw the Sunday soccer games through a mosaic. The tavern television flickered with flawed images as men confessed the bitter weakness of their marriages and drowned in small glass cups. He saw himself at the Stadium in the capital: seated, but feeding on the fury of the fan base; or on the beach, drinking a diet soda so as not to worsen his diabetes worse. But no luck: his team, Botafogo, was still losing. The sunset culminated in a sublime, desperate outflow. The timid onset of the stars and the cold signaled the hour of return. Along the way, buildings erected themselves and breathed pestilence on the sea wind. The sound of cranes was just less irritating than that of the seagulls hitting the glass of skyscrapers. And the fire in his abdomen obscured his sight. He got home and saw the sum of everything the household represented. The house, the cabin, the tall building, all together in unison kindled a sense of belonging. He saw three gates, three doors, three doorknobs. In the background, the solitude of a single armchair. With the burning in his chest he sat down, alone, before a trio of televisions. An array of lights and incoherent, schizophrenic colors. As the soap opera was about to begin, he decided to shower. He leaned on the sink to undress.

He entered the shower and let the droplets stream down his back. The little rusty window spilled a few beams of light from the garage. The glass fanned out an arc of lights and shadows. The burning in his chest began to melt his vision. And there he was visited by the bastard son he had never had, who reclaimed the affections Zacarias never had the chance to deny, and the walks he had never gotten to postpone. His mother took him by the hand and, together, they ran towards the drain. From the drain rushed out the firm’s employees. Zacarias could swear he did not know them, but their scent of beer, soaked with misery, was too familiar for him to ignore. And he felt his chest burn. Then all together, his family, his colleagues and even his pets drifted away from him, leaving him in the state where he insisted on being. Overwhelmed by solitude – that of walking alone, of gazing lostly from his armchair – he gave himself in to the ceaseless burning of eternity. Zacarias died from incandescending with nostalgia for a solitude which never happened. And, now, enters his widow Celeste, too late to keep him company.

My name is Marcos, and I’m a sophomore here at Middlebury. Recently I have been trying to develop my creative writing as a hobby and a dream. The following short story is my first original work, which I wrote in the beginning of 2014. It is the result of a search for my own narrative voice. I believe this search will continue for a long time, but I am now taking the opportunity to share with you readers a little bit of this effort. The story itself explores themes related to memory. It is, of course, inspired by my own grandfather, who died when I was only seven years old. In the story, I then created my narrative of a grandfather, in which he dives into his past. I sought to fill the text with surreal images because that is, to me, how memory works. I thank you all for your support in the start of this literary journey, and also appreciate any feedback. Marcos Antônio de Souza Barroso Filho ‘17

Photo by Kalya Koltes

Тёмная ночь Тёмная ночь, только пули свистят по степи Только ветер гудит в проводах, тускло звёзды мерцают. В тёмную ночь ты, любимая, знаю, не спишь, И у детской кроватки тайком ты слезу утираешь. Как я люблю глубину твоих ласковых глаз, Как я хочу к ним прижаться сейчас губами! Тёмная ночь разделяет, любимая, нас, И тревожная, чёрная степь пролегла между нами. Верю в тебя, в дорогую подругу мою, Эта вера от пули меня тёмной ночью хранила… Радостно мне, я спокоен в смертельном бою, Знаю, встретишь с любовью меня что б со мной ни случилось. Смерть не страшна, с ней встречались не раз мы в степи Вот и теперь надо мною она кружится Ты меня ждёшь и у детской кроватки не спишь, И поэтому знаю: со мной ничего не случится!

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Dark Night The night is dark, only bullets whistle over the steppe. The wind hums in the wires, dimly lit stars twinkle. I know that you, my love, are not sleeping in the dark night; you are standing by our child’s crib, secretly wiping off a tear. Oh how I love the depth of your gentle eyes, How I want to press my lips against them at this moment The dark night separates us, my beloved, and the troubled black steppe lies between us. I believe in you, my dearest. This faith keeps me safe from the bullets in the dark night. The feeling of joy calms me in this deadly combat, because I know that you will love me no matter what happens. I am not afraid of death; we have seen it too many times in the steppe It hovers over me as I speak, But you are waiting for me by our child’s crib That is why I know that nothing will happen to me!

Dark night” is a popular Russian WW2 song. It first appeared in 1943 in the movie “Two Soldiers,” and was famously performed by the Soviet actor Mark Bernes. Music: Nikita Bogoslovsky Lyrics: Vladimir Agatov Translated into English by Kalya Koltes, ‘15 25

Una Chica de América por Julia Alvarez Quería las calcetas, el maquillaje, la ropa de confección; Quería parecerme a una típica estadounidense; hablar Inglés así que no podrías darte cuenta que había venido de otra patria. Me encerré en el baño, trataba de emparejar mi cara con las palabras de mi nueva lengua: grimace, leer, disgust, disdain - las emociones que todavía no sentía en Inglés. (Y sadness con su sonido anglosajón me haría sentir lo mismo como tristeza? Pity tendría la misma ternura como piedad? Yo no sabía si algún día pudiera mostrar el sentimiento auténtico en una lengua prestada. Si se entendería cortesía como falsedad o los gritos de alegría traducirían como terror. Pues, con el espejo en mi mano, practiqué las fachadas desconocidos, las sonrisas anglosajones, las que contienen una originaria fluidez latina con la mejor fachada del sarcasmo inglés. Quería que mi mundo y mis palabras emparejaran otra vez Como cuando había vivido solamente en español. Pero no obedecería mi cara - como la marea mi cara regresó por mi corazón lunática a los costumbres de mostrar emociones. Mucho después de perder mi acento intenso, mi cara mostró que yo vengo de otro lugar. No podía guardar el continente sureño de la vista norteña de mis ojos, o hacer daño a mi cara por cortarla. No podía ser nadie más pero quién soy: una chica de América.

Photo by Kalya Koltes

All-American Girl by Julia Alvarez I wanted stockings, makeup, store-bought clothes; I wanted to look like an American girl; to speak my English so you couldn’t tell I’d come from somewhere else. I locked myself in the bathroom, trying to match my face with words in my new language: grimace, leer, disgust, disdain - feelings I had yet to feel in English. (And would tristeza even feel the same as sadness with its Saxon sound? Would pity look as soulful as piedad?) I didn’t know if I could ever show genuine feeling in a borrowed tongue. If cortesía would be misunderstood as brown-nosing or cries of alegría translate as terror. So, mirror in hand, I practiced foreign faces, Anglo grins, repressing a native Latin fluency for the cooler mask of English ironies. I wanted the world and words to match again as when I had lived solely in Spanish. But my face wouldn’t obey - like a tide it was pulled back by my lunatic heart to its old habits of showing feelings. Long after I’d lost my heavy accent, my face showed I had come from somewhere else. I couldn’t keep the southern continent out of the northern vista of my eyes, or cut my cara off to spite my face. I couldn’t look like anybody else but who I was: an all-American girl.

As a Latina born in the United States, I wanted to find a piece that captures my mixed identity as American and Latina. During my Spanish class this semester, I came across a piece of art by Alfredo Jaar called “This is Not America.” The piece reflected how America does not just reflect the United States, but everything from the stop of North America to the end of South America. I shift my perspective as to what I define myself as. Instead of seeing myself as a mixed identity, I perceive this special gift I have as an “All-American Girl” as a representation of multiple parts of America. Natalie Figueroa, ‘18 27

Demain dès l’aube, de Victor Hugo Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps. Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur. Tomorrow, before dawn, at the hour when the country fades into light, I will leave. I see you, and I know that you are waiting for me. I’ll go through the forest, through the mountains, I cannot stay away from you for any longer. I will walk with my eyes fixated on my thoughts, Seeing nothing around me and hearing not a sound, Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands crossed, Sad, and the day for me will be like the night. I won’t look at the gold of the night falling upon me, Nor at the sails descending upon Harfleur. And when I arrive, I will leave on your tomb A bouquet of green holly and flowering heather. Demand halos, valor or blunt shields lack our pain, I pardon. But you, just say cut you my tongue. I rage through the forest, I rage through the mountains, I cannot damn you, debt grows over time. I market the ‘yous’ fixed surely upon me, Sounds ring, odors fly, sounds extend over me, So, then come, lead us, countless laymen crossed, And leisure, per me, shall recount: once loved we. I don’t regret the others, swords fallen, Nor the while alone descending from your heart, And upon arriving, I met treasure sure as time, A bouquet hovering, your halo afire. I wrote this piece for the class “Lost and Found in Translation”. Our assignment was to “create a translingual mutation of a short poem”, and I chose Victor Hugo’s poem ‘Demain dès l’aube’. I first did a sense-to-sense translation of the poem, and then attempted a homophonic translation of the poem from French to English. This entailed reading the poem as though I had never studied French, translating based on sounds rather than words. Caitlin Towers, ‘16 28

Photo by Corinne Koltes

“Away, Quinn, ‘well” Original Catullus 101 multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus advenio has miseras frater ad inferias ut te postremo donarem munere mortis et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi nunc tamen interea haec prisco quae more parentum tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu atque in perpetuum frater ave atque vale

Homophonic Translation Mulled past generations, much periphery I ventured, At where those miserous fraternal amphs are housed. Until pastly I might dawn from moon rays’ mortal Adze; moot my quest, illoquous cinders. Cue: the queen, Fortune, my ether has stolen, his doom. Ho, a dismal gain, for no redemption have I, Now tamed in tears like princes would mourn portents, Traded a sullen tribute: my dismal furies. Accept the fraternal mourning: my moans and tear-flood. O Quinn, in perpetual friezure—away, Quinn, ’well.

This translation was completed as an assignment for Lost and Found in Translation, which asked us to try a “non-traditional” method of translation. I chose to attempt a translation of Catullus 101 that both matches the phonemic profile (i.e., is homophonic) and accesses the semantic meaning of the original Latin. This marks a departure from the more experimental end of homophonic translation, which often sacrifices meaning for a “better” match in sound. Notes I have on the translation: regarding the word “amphs,” I intend it to evoke the image of a Roman amphora. Additionally, I intend the apostrophized “’well” to be a contraction of the salutation “farewell.” Ethan Brady, ‘18 29

Certitude (original by Paul Eluard)

Certitude (semantically oriented translation)

Si je te parle c’est pour mieux t’entendre Si je t’entends je suis sûr de te comprendre Si tu souris c’est pour mieux m’envahir Si tu souris je vois le monde entier Si je t’étreins c’est pour me continuer Si nous vivons tout sera à plaisir Si je te quitte nous nous souviendrons En te quittant nous nous retrouverons.

If I speak to you it’s to hear you better. If I hear you I am sure to understand you If you smile it’s to better invade me If you smile I see the whole world If I embrace you it’s to continue myself If we live everything will be to our liking If I leave you we will remember In leaving you we will find each other again

Certitude (homophonic translation) Sea, jet, a pearl!…cipher mute, and tend her Seize your temper, just see sure; doubt can’t pander! “Sea to sewery, support me! Men, veer!” Say, to ‘sorry’, shiver them in daunting Sieged a train set per my county new, eh? So new we won’t touch. Seraph. A Play, sir! Sea jet, tack it to no new sovereign drones On deck in ten, no, no retreating, wrong!

This project was sparked by an assignment in Professor Billings’ Lost and Found in Translation course, for which we were to write a translingual mutation of a poem in a way that deconstructed what we normally expect when we think of translation. The title of Paul Eluard’s poem Certitude struck me as fitting for such an endeavor! I chose to write a homophonic translation with a different semantic meaning but that sounds (more or less) like the French (although it may sound more like French spoken with an American accent, because faking an accent was my way of separating the meaning and hear the sounds). In order to explore different word combinations, I made translation tables. Some of the sillier phrases that came up were “shiver lemon denter” and “sea jet tacky new new.” In the end I tried to strike a balance between semantic meaning and homophonic precision, coming up with a loose maritime theme. Michaela Maxwell, ’17.5

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

“Las Olas del Mar” Van y vienen sin cesar desde el horizonte sin parar bailando con el viento juntas están bañando a la gente de amor y felicidad... Que entre peces y gente van sin parar que entre el sol, el viento y la arena se escuchan sonar juegan con los niños que a la playa van bañando las arenas con las que jugando están para crear sus castillos en la orilla del mar... Una atrás de otra no dejan de cesar desde el horizonte hasta la orilla del mar van y vienen sin parar bañando de felicidad a todos los que a la playa van…

Conventional Translation Going and coming without ceasing From the horizon not stopping They dance together with the wind bathing the people with love and happiness... They go without stopping Between fish and people Between the sun, wind, and sand Sounding Playing with the children that go to the beach bathing in the sand with those who are playing creating their castles in the surf of the sea... one behind the other never ceasing to stop from the horizon until the surf of the sea they come and go without stopping bathing in happiness all those who go to the beach...

Photo by Kalya Koltes

“Ocean Outbreaks (Wilfully Misunderstood) Going and coming without stopping starting from the forecast without stopping with the rope dancing they are bathing the team of sex and prosperity… Without stopping, they go between tar and team between the sunshine, cord, and bullring they listen to the sounds play with the sissies who go to the beachfront bathing in the stones with those who play to make their upper decks in the lip of the mare… One behind the other they don’t stop from the extent till the mouth of the sea going and coming without stopping bathing in joy all those who voyage to the shore…

This piece was derived from an assignment for Timothy Billing’s class “Lost in Found and Translation”. We were asked to translate something via an unconventional method, or one that challenged conventional methods. I decided to translate this poem after observing a Spanish 3 class at MUHS. The students in that class were asked to translate the poem into English in “the best way possible”. In my observations of this class, I reflected on which type of translation the teacher had the class perform and how her interpretation, as well as the students’ interpretation, differed. Based off this, I chose to translate a poem from Spanish into English the usual way I would go about it, but then also chose to translate the poem by looking up every noun in a dictionary and choosing an alternative definition. Maddy Dickinson, ‘18

Borrac h Otra v o En El Cair ez ama o nece e por Juventu El aire n d Cras monit Medio a o No se si esto reado otra v Oriente ye ez No se si invo n Europa c Cuand ar a Je su o Los sig estoy frente cristo o a M ah a lo Frente s, las palma la última m oma aravill s, el oa a lo de a del m sis s Sin en undo tender conocido a Vomit ando e África n ¡Lo sa bía, lo el Nilo s abía, lo ¡Lo sa bía s Otra v , lo sabía, lo abía! ez ama sabía! nece e Los ca nE rr No se os, la gente t l Cairo co odo si gu No se mo llegó la como brujer e igual ía h se e Sin din ero ni scapó de H asta aquí ai u La nov ia que na mano po tí r sobre ahora tengo v le cort ivir aron la nariz

rasa ntud C e v u J o by le East d n Cair ne Healy I d i k M n u the Dr Sha ted by wn breaks in red d a l s n a tr amme da ito h , n o n o i M a m g s a r on Once ain, the air i urope hrist o ld C s E g u s n a i e nJ wor Once now if I'm o call o nder of the t k r e 't h n t I do t wo whe know efore the las the oasis 't n o d b I es, lm tre I stand When uries, the pa n nt ow The ce of the unkn g Africa t in In fron understand ut Witho g in the Nile new it! in Ik Vomit t, I knew it, it! knew airo i I w , t e i n C ew Ik it, I kn eaks in e same I knew ain, dawn br le remain th e it here ad p ag he peo itchcraft m aiti Once t d n a w rs e H The ca now how th caped from e s k e viv I don't now how it hand to sur ff her nose o k a I don't money nor ow, they cut t n u Witho riend I have rlf The gi

This is a translation of a song by a Puerto Rican punk rock band called Juventud Crasa ('Crass Youth'). I encourage everyone to give it a listen. Shane Healy, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Ne Shaput Kikūtamīn ne chikiwit. Istayatuya ne iīshkalyu. “Ay Dios mío bendito!” īnak wan kipitzinij ne imandil wan ijtzilikak. Ijyumikik, mukāwki kita ne iwēyka ne kūat wan muchijki persinar. Mario kipiayuk ne machej tik ne imēy: “Mā shimumūti, nunōya. Miktuka ini kūat.” Ne iwēyka muita sujsul tetek kēn su kineki mukwejkwelua katka, tajpaltik, chāmāwak. Ne itzuntekun muita katka kēn sē chuntal: miktuk, kupēwtuk wan kēnhayuk mutēnpēlujtuk kēn su kinekiuk kitankwa ne tāltikpak tik ne āpetatzin pal esti. Muita chikitik itech ne iwēyka tumāwak wan wēyak. Nimutzintemultij wan nimuchijki fijar: sēmaya ne itelevisor ne tubechi mukāki tik ini chipāwak tayuatzin. Muchi ichtaka, sējtuk, nian ne shupīlintāl mukākit. Kiānki ne tujtumat ka tālchi ne nunōya. “Uksēuk!?” tzajtzik, “no jodan! wan ān kīsat wēy” ijyumikik. “Yēk nemi, mamá Tita. Tiu-tiktūkat ini nūsan wan mūsta niu-niknūtza ne palej uksēnpa,” nīnak. Yaja kikinakak wan mukwepki kalijtik. “Nimetzilwijtuka ka ini tāy ikmān nechilwia ne nutēku. Uni pālej tē kimati.” Weli nikita ne iujūmiyu ne nunōya itan ne iēwayu malachnaj. Kwak tami kitūka ne kūat, Mario mukwepki wan kīshtij ne ikwēchpala eswijtuk. Kīshtij chiupi Coca tik ne refri wan mutālij pak ne sillón pal kita ne televisión. Nimukwepki nimumachtia pal ne examen de epidemiología ne semanaj wītz. Ijkiuni muajkāwki ne tayua kēn sejsēnpa. Anka nikīshtēmikik. Ka tejkia, intē nikelnāmiki yēk ne tāy panutuk, pero juro por Dios que ne nunōya intē majmawi iwan ini kujkūat ika ijkiuni nikitak. Ka tajkuyua nikāk sē pupuluka ka tatēnpan, o anka sēmaya ne ejēkat. Nimitūnia katka wan nimuketzki pal nimushīsha wan niāti kēman nikāk uksēnpa. Nitachishki tik ne tēntzin wan nikitak ka nē: ijkatuk tik tēnkal kiajwilia ne shujshūchit. Tajtaketza katka yamānik, anka iwan ne ejēkat. Nikejketzki niknūtza pero nimukāwki. Yaja pējki takwīka, tamik tajwilia wan ne ejēkat muwēyak wan seseyak chiujchiupika. Naja nipējki nikuchisneki. Kēman nīshpēluj, tēa nemi katka ka nē. Ne itakwikalis mukāki yamānik munēlujtuk ijtik ne ajkamalakat wan ne takūmi, wan tē nikmatki kwak nikīski ka tēnkal pal nitachia ijtik ne tayua. Intē welik nikita nian sē sītal tik ne ilwikak. Nikīski wan nē nikmatki ne tāl ujūlini tālajwituk itan ne nujnukshi petztituk. Sē mishti kitēma katka ne tayua wan ukpa nikāk ne televisor chachalaka wejka, ka nupan. Anka sēma nikīshkejketzki. San nimajmawki. Kwakuni ne tāl īshtzayān wan pējki kuyuni sē shaput ka itzinuj ne ikūyu wajkal, uni nikitak. Muajkāwki nejmach ne tāl. Anka ninejnenki o ne kūat kīski walnechwīka ijpak ka īshtēnpan ne shaput. Kwakuni nikīshmatki muchi. Ne shujshūlētket ikmān īnat ka tik ne miktan nemi sē pūchut ne kisālua ne miktan iwan ne tāltikpak. Ka nē nemit sē ukichwākash ne muchi kimati wan ne shujshūlētket ne kitakwaltiat. Ne wēy kūat, īnatuyat, yajaya ne iyūlu ne kal wan yajasan ne weli walinwīka tākamet ka nē. Ne sēkit nemit pal mupetztiliat wan patānit kiyayawaluat ne pūchut pal kīsat. Ini katka ne iyūlu ne tāltikpak wan kipia muchi ne ichālchiwan. Nitachishki katani. Ne inelwayu ne kwāwit yaja sē kwawit kōjtik kīsa tik ne miktan, kūwāktuk, tīltik, achka miktuk. Shujshūchit mulinit tik tzujtzuntekumat ne kiyawaluat muchi ne kwawit wan techtāwiluat. Ka sēnkak nikākiuk pupusuka ne televisor. San kwak niu-nimuustūmīma katka, nitaksak ijpak ne iwēyka ne kūat. Nitzajtzik. Yaja muyūlkwij, mukwejkweluj wan nechitzkij yūlik nechkimilua iwan ne iwēyka. Naja sēmaya nitachishki. Kēman tiajsiket ka ne miktan, intēa weli nikāki ne televisor. Muchi mukāw-

ki ichtaka wan nikijnek ne tzitzikwijyak, kēn neshti wan kūpala. Ka tālchi, itzālan sē ujmitāl, nikitak sē itzuntekun ukichwākash wan uksejsēuk ūmit pal ijikmān. Ne kūat mutēkak ināwak. Niknekituya nitachia ukchiupi achkatzin pal nikchijchimi pero nipējki nielmuyawa. Tamik nimisūta ka ne ijyak. Kwakuni pējki ujūlini ukpa ne tāl wan musūnēwki ne kūat. Ne ejēkat temuk kiyayawalua ne kōjtik kwawit wan kiajkēwa ne iijiswayu wan ne imajmajtzal. Ne ujmitāl papatakak nūjme. Kwakuni muchi pējki muchiwa neshti wan mumumushua wan puliwi ijtik ne wēy ajkamalakat. Nikitzkij ne nukwāch pal tē muajkānia. Muchi takūmiyak. Ne uksē tūnal nalīsak ka pēyna nimisūta. “Ay m’hijita. A lo mejor te cayó mal la comida ayer” nechilwij ne nunōya. Kāwāni katka sēa ne tūnal wan ne shujshūchit muīshpēlujtiwit ijtik ne tutūnka wan ini chachalaka tetekia ipal ne tēchan.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

The Pit She dropped the basket. Her face had turned pale. “Oh my Lord!” she said while grasping her apron and shuddering. She sighed, starred at the snake’s corpse and crossed herself. Mario still had the machete in his hand: “Don’t worry, grandma. This snake’s dead already.” The body seemed rather tense, as if it wanted to curl up—powerful, strong. Its head looked like some kind of joke: dead, severed and still trying to bite the world with its mouth all open in the puddle of blood, small in comparison with the plump, long body. I stepped back and noticed that only our neighbour’s T.V. could be heard through the clear night. Everything was silent, extinguished, not even the crickets could be heard. My grandma picked up the tomatoes from the floor. “Another one? Don’t fuck with me!” she shouted in Spanish, “and now they’re coming bigger,” she gasped. “It’s ok, granny Tita. We’ll bury it as well and tomorrow I’ll call the priest again,” I said. She grumbled and went back inside. “I told you already this is what my father used to tell me about a long time ago. That priest doesn’t know.” I could see my grandma’s bones beneath her wrinkled skin. When he finished burying the snake, Mario came back and took off his blood-stained t-shirt. He took out some coke from the fridge and sat down on the sofa to watch the T.V. I went back to study for my exam on epidemiology next week. The night remained, as always. Perhaps I dreamt it. To be honest, I don’t remember well what happened, but I swear for God’s sake that my grandma was not afraid of these snakes, (I know) because that’s what I saw. At midnight, I heard a murmur outside, or maybe just the wind. I was sweating and got up to go pee and drink some water when I heard it again. I looked out of the window and I saw her there: standing in the patio and watering the flowers. She was talking softly, maybe with the wind. I thought about calling her name but I kept quiet. She started singing and finished watering the plants as the wind grew stronger and colder little by little. I began to feel sleepy. When I opened my eyes, she wasn’t there anymore. Her song sounded faintly mixed within the whirlwind and the dark, so I unconsciously went out to look into the night. I couldn’t see a single star in the sky. I got out and felt the moist earth shaking beneath my bare feet. A mist filled the night and I heard the T.V. again, babbling in the distance behind me. Perhaps I only imagined it. I got scared. Suddenly, the earth cracked and a cave broke open at the foot of the calabash tree, I swear that’s what I saw. The earth got quiet. Perhaps I walked, or perhaps the snake came up and brought me there, in front of the cave. Then, I recognized everything. In the olden days, the elders said that there was a ceiba tree that united the underworld with the world. There lived an all-knowing bull, and the elders fed him. The giant snake, they said, was the heart of the place and it was the only one who could bring men down there. The others had to get undressed and fly circling the tree to get out. This was the heart of the world and it had all its treasures. I looked down. The roots of the tree were just a taller tree coming out of the depths: desiccated, black, almost dead. Flowers bloomed inside skulls lining around along the whole tree and glowing. Somewhere, I could still hear the faint sounds of the T.V. Just when I was about to hurl myself into the pit, I stepped on the snake’s body. I screamed. It came back to life, curled up, and grasped me slowly, wrapping itself around me with its body. I only watched. When we got to the bottom of the pit, I could not hear the T.V. anymore. Everything got quiet and

I smelled the stench, like ashes with rotten wood. On the floor, amid countless feathers, I saw a bull’s skull and other bones from time immemorial. The snake lay down beside them. I wanted to see them closer, to touch them, but I started feeling nausea. I ended up vomiting from the smell. The earth then began trembling again; the snake got into a tizzy. The wind came down swirling around the tall tree and tearing off its leaves and branches. The feathers fluttered everywhere. Then everything began turning into ashes and crumbling into the big whirlwind. I grasped my clothes so they wouldn’t be blown away. Everything got dark. The next day in the morning I woke up vomiting. “Oh honey. Maybe it was the food from yesterday,” my grandma told me. The sun was shining too hard. The flowers had opened amid the heat and the terrible babbling of the town.

I wrote this piece in Nawat based on a fascinating, old creation story about a boy travelling to the underworld on top of a giant snake. Down there, an omniscient bull grants him a wish and he chooses to bring everything the snake had shown him in the underworld onto the earth, pushing away the girl that had accompanied him. In this piece, I wanted to recreate the story through a Nawat-speaking young woman in the present to portray symbolically the generational and historical crossroads at which Nawat is now, as it undergoes a process of revitalization. Acknowledging tradition and the painful history of her people, the character sheds light on the position of this marginalized language in the modern society of a Spanish-speaking developing country. Frank Martínez, ‘18

Aku

Kalau sampai waktuku Kumau tak seorang ‘kan merayu Tidak juga kau

If my time has come I don’t want anyone to beg Not even you

Tak perlu sedu sedan itu!

No need for tears!

Aku ini binatang jalang Dari kumpulannya terbuang

I am but a wild animal Exiled from his own herd

Biar peluru menembus kulitku Aku tetap meradang menerjang

Though bullets should penetrate my skin I shall still strike and march forth

Luka dan bisa kubawa berlari Wounded and poison, I will run Berlari Keep on running Hingga hilang pedih peri

Until it hurts no more

Dan aku akan lebih tidak peduli Aku mau hidup seribu tahun lagi!

And I would care even less I want to live one thousand more years!

Maret 1943 March 1943 “Aku” is one of the most famous poems by Chairil Anwar, an Indonesian poet whose works had an undoubted influence on the creation of modern Indonesian identity in the arts. Although he passed away at the age of 26, he was estimated to have written around 96 works, many of which deal with the various themes of individualism, sentimentalism and existentialism. This particular poem was written in March 1943, during the time of Japanese occupation, and so it could have represented the nation’s longing for independence and to be free from historical fate. However, Anwar also wanted to present a personal statement in “Aku” by using rich vocabulary and irregular rhyming patterns to highlight his courageous and enduring spirit in the face of his own woes and troubles.

Adara Wicaksono, ‘17

Photo by Zeke Caceres

Excerpts from Calvino’s humanity

- Sì, - fa il Cugino, - era brava. - Anche la mia era brava, - dice Pin. - C’è pieno di lucciole, - dice il Cugino. - A vederle da vicino, le lucciole, - dice Pin, - sono bestie schifose anche loro, rossicce. - Sì, - dice il Cugino, - ma viste così sono belle. E continuano a camminare, l’omone e il bambino, nella notte, in mezzo alle lucciole, tenendosi per mano.

- Do you, do you remember your mother? - asked Pin. - Yes, she died when I was fifteen, - rebated Cugino. - Was she good?? - Yes-said Cugino - Yes, she was good- My mother was also lovely - murmured Pin. - We’re surrounded by fireflies - said Cugino. - When you look close - Pin talking,- when you look close they too are ugly beasts, a sickening reddish kind of vermin. - Yes, maybe -said Cugino- but seen from here they’re beautiful And they continued treading forward, the big man and the boy, into the night, amidst the fireflies, hands woven together. From Italo Calvino “Il sentiero dei nidi di ragni”

Così si potesse dimezzare ogni cosa intera, - disse mio zio coricato bocconi sullo scoglio, carezzando quelle convulse metà di polpo, - così ognuno potesse uscire dalla sua ottusa e ignorante interezza. Ero intero e tutte le cose erano per me naturali e confuse, stupide come l’aria; credevo di veder tutto e non era che la scorza. Se mai tu diventerai metà di te stesso, e te l’auguro, ragazzo, capirai cose al di là della comune intelligenza dei cervelli interi. Avrai perso metà di te e del mondo, ma la metà rimasta sarà mille volte più profonda e preziosa. E tu pure vorrai che tutto sia dimezzato e straziato a tua immagine, perché bellezza e sapienza e giustizia ci sono solo in ciò che è fatto a brani.

“If you could cut in half everything that is wholesome” said my uncle, laying down pieces of the convulsing halved octopi onto the bare reef, “Everyone could escape from the obtuse ignorance of their whole. I was whole, and everything came to me as natural and confusing, banal like the air; I believed I could reach everything and not just grind at the surface.” If you are ever able to become the half of yourself, and I wish you do kid, you will see what’s beyond the common intelligence of un-halved brains. You will have lost half of who you are and half of the world, but the half that remains will be a thousand times deeper and a thousand times more precious. And you too, once halved, will yearn for everything to be cut in half and heartbroken like you, because beauty, knowledge and justice only hold in what is torn to pieces. From Italo Calvino “Il Visconte dimezzato”

Translated by James Min, ‘17

ТЫСЯЧА ОДНА СТРАСТЬ, или СТРАШНАЯ НОЧЬ (РОМАН В ОДНОЙ ЧАСТИ С ЭПИЛОГОМ) Посвящаю Виктору Гюго

На башне св. Ста сорока шести мучеников пробила полночь. Я задрожал. Настало время. Я судорожно схватил Теодора за руку и вышел с ним на улицу. Небо было темно, как типографская тушь. Было темно, как в шляпе, надетой на голову. Тёмная ночь — это день в ореховой скорлупе. Мы закутались в плащи и отправились. Сильный ветер продувал нас насквозь. Дождь и снег — эти мокрые братья — страшно били в наши физиономии. Молния, несмотря на зимнее время, бороздила небо по всем направлениям. Гром, грозный, величественный спутник прелестной, как миганье голубых глаз, быстрой, как мысль, молнии, ужасающе потрясал воздух. Уши Теодора засветились электричеством. Огни св. Эльма с треском пролетали над нашими головами. Я взглянул наверх. Я затрепетал. Кто не трепещет пред величием природы? По небу пролетело несколько блестящих метеоров. Я начал считать их и насчитал 28. Я указал на них Теодору. — Нехорошее предзнаменование! — пробормотал он, бледный, как изваяние из каррарского мрамора. Ветер стонал, выл, рыдал... Стон ветра — стон совести, утонувшей в страшных преступлениях. Возле нас громом разрушило и зажгло восьмиэтажный дом. Я слышал вопли, вылетавшие из него. Мы прошли мимо. До горевшего ли дома мне было, когда у меня в груди горело полтораста домов? Где-то в пространстве заунывно, медленно, монотонно звонил колокол. Была борьба стихий. Какие-то неведомые силы, казалось, трудились над ужасающею гармониею стихии. Кто эти силы? Узнает ли их когда-нибудь человек? Пугливая, но дерзкая мечта!!! Мы крикнули кошэ. Мы сели в карету и помчались. Кошэ — брат ветра. Мы мчались, как смелая мысль мчится в таинственных извилинах мозга. Я всунул в руку кошэ кошелёк с золотом. Золото помогло бичу удвоить быстроту лошадиных ног. — Антонио, куда ты меня везёшь? — простонал Теодор.— Ты смотришь злым гением... В твоих чёрных глазах светится ад... Я начинаю бояться... Жалкий трус!! Я промолчал. Он любил её. Она любила страстно его... Я должен был убить его, потому что любил больше жизни её. Я любил её и ненавидел его. Он должен был умереть в эту страшную ночь и заплатить смертью за свою любовь. Во мне кипели любовь и ненависть. Они были вторым моим бытием. Эти две сестры, живя в одной оболочке, производят опустошение: они — духовные вандалы. — Стой! — сказал я кошэ, когда карета подкатила к цели. Я и Теодор выскочили. Из-за туч холодно взглянула на нас луна. Луна — беспристрастный, молчаливый свидетель сладостных мгновений любви и мщения. Она должна была быть свидетелем смерти одного из нас. Пред нами была пропасть, бездна без дна, как бочка преступных дочерей Даная. 2 Мы стояли у края жерла потухшего вулкана. Об этом вулкане ходят в народе страшные легенды. Я сделал движение коленом, и Теодор полетел вниз, в страшную пропасть. Жерло вулкана — пасть земли. — Проклятие!!! — закричал он в ответ на моё проклятие.

Сильный муж, ниспровергающий своего врага в кратер вулкана из-за прекрасных глаз женщины,— величественная, грандиозная и поучительная картина! Недоставало только лавы! Кошэ. Кошэ — статуя, поставленная роком невежеству. Прочь рутина! Кошэ последовал за Теодором. Я почувствовал, что в груди у меня осталась одна только любовь. Я пал лицом на землю и заплакал от восторга. Слёзы восторга — результат божественной реакции, производимой в недрах любящего сердца. Лошади весело заржали. Как тягостно быть не человеком! Я освободил их от животной, страдальческой жизни. Я убил их. Смерть есть и оковы и освобождение от оков. Я зашёл в гостиницу «Фиолетового гиппопотама» и выпил пять стаканов доброго вина. Через три часа после мщения я был у дверей её квартиры. Кинжал, друг смерти, помог мне по трупам добраться до её дверей. Я стал прислушиваться. Она не спала. Она мечтала. Я слушал. Она молчала. Молчание длилось часа четыре. Четыре часа для влюблённого — четыре девятнадцатых столетия! Наконец она позвала горничную. Горничная прошла мимо меня. Я демонически взглянул на неё. Она уловила мой взгляд. Рассудок оставил её. Я убил её. Лучше умереть, чем жить без рассудка. — Анета! — крикнула она.— Что это Теодор нейдёт? Тоска грызёт моё сердце. Меня душит какое-то тяжёлое предчувствие. О Анета! сходи за ним. Он наверно кутит теперь вместе с безбожным, ужасным Антонио!.. Боже, кого я вижу?! Антонио! Я вошёл к ней. Она побледнела. — Подите прочь! — закричала она, и ужас исказил её благородные, прекрасные черты. Я взглянул на неё. Взгляд есть меч души. Она пошатнулась. В моём взгляде она увидела всё: и смерть Теодора, и демоническую страсть, и тысячу человеческих желаний... Поза моя — было величие. В глазах моих светилось электричество. Волосы мои шевелились и стояли дыбом. Она видела пред собою демона в земной оболочке. Я видел, что она залюбовалась мной. Часа четыре продолжалось гробовое молчание и созерцание друг друга. Загремел гром, и она пала мне на грудь. Грудь мужчины — крепость женщины. Я сжал её в своих объятиях. Оба мы крикнули. Кости её затрещали. Гальванический ток пробежал по нашим телам. Горячий поцелуй... Она полюбила во мне демона. Я хотел, чтобы она полюбила во мне ангела. «Полтора миллиона франков отдаю бедным!» — сказал я. Она полюбила во мне ангела и заплакала. Я тоже заплакал. Что это были за слёзы!!! Через месяц в церкви св. Тита и Гортензии происходило торжественное венчание. Я венчался с ней. Она венчалась со мной. Бедные нас благословляли! Она упросила меня простить врагов моих, которых я ранее убил. Я простил. С молодою женой я уехал в Америку. Молодая любящая жена была ангелом в девственных лесах Америки, ангелом, пред которым склонялись львы и тигры. Я был молодым тигром. Через три года после нашей свадьбы старый Сам носился уже с курчавым мальчишкой. Мальчишка был более похож на мать, чем на меня. Это меня злило. Вчера у меня родился второй сын... и сам я от радости повесился... Второй мой мальчишка протягивает ручки к читателям и просит их не верить его папаше, потому что у его папаши не было не только детей, но даже и жены. Папаша его боится женитьбы, как огня. Мальчишка мой не лжёт. Он младенец. Ему верьте. Детский возраст — святой возраст. Ничего этого никогда не было... Спокойной ночи! 1880

Photo by Kalya Koltes

One Thousand and One Passions or A Terrifying Night (A Novel With One Part and an Epiloque) Original by Anton Chekhov Dedicated to Victor Hugo

The tower of One Hundred and forty six saint martyrs rang at midnight. I trembled. It was time. I anxiously grabbed Theodor’s arm and stepped into the street. The sky was as dark as printing ink. It was dark like in a hat put on a head. A dark night – it is a day in a shell of a nut. Rain and snow – these wet brothers – hit us hard on our faces. Lightning, despite it being winter, wandered in the sky in all directions. Thunder shook the air - a formidable, majestic companion of charming, like blinking of blue eyes and fast, like thoughts, lightning. Theodor’s ears whistled with electricity. Fires of St. Elm flew over our heads with a crash. I looked up. I started trembling. Who does not tremble when faced by the grandeur of nature? Several sparkling meteors flew through the sky. I started to count them and counted 28. I pointed at them to Theodor. - A bad omen! – He mumbled, pale as a Carrara marble statue. The wind moaned, howled, cried... The moan of the wind – a moan of conscience, drowned in heinous crimes. Near us thunder destroyed and burnt an eight-story building. I heard cries flying from the building. We walked past it. What did I care for a burning house, when more than a hundred houses were burning in my own chest? Somewhere in the space a bell rang plaintively, slowly, monotonously. There was a fight of elements. What are these powers? Will humans ever know them? A scary but bold dream!!! We called a coachman. We sat into a coach and rushed on. A coachman is a brother of the wind. We were moving forward as moves a bold thought in mysterious convolutions of brain. I put a purse with gold into the coachman’s hand. Gold helped to increase the speed of the horses’ legs twofold. - Antonio, where are you taking me? –Theodor moaned. – You are looking at me with a face of an evil genius... Hell shines in your black eyes... I am starting to get scared... Pathetic coward!! I was silent. He loved her. I loved her and hated him. He had to die on this dire night and pay with death for his love. Love and hatred seethed inside of me. They were my second being. These two sisters, when they live in the same shell, cause devastation: they are spiritual vandals. - Stop! – I said to the coachman when the coach rolled to the destination. Theodor and I jumped out. The moon looked at us from behind the clouds. The moon is an impartial, silent witness of sweet moments of love and revenge. She had to be a witness of the death one of us. In front of us was a precipice, an abyss without a bottom, like a barrel of criminal daughters of Danaus . We were standing on an edge of a crater of a dormant volcano. People say frightening things about this volcano. I made a movement with my knee and Theodor flew down, into the formidable abyss. Crater of a volcano – jaws of earth. - Damn it!!! – cried he as an answer to my damnation. A strong man, subverting his enemy into a crater of a volcano because of beautiful eyes of a woman – a majestic, grand and instructive picture! Only lava was missing! Coachman. Coachman – a statue, installed by fate for ignorance. Enough with routine! The coachman followed Theodor. I felt, that the only thing left in my chest was love. I fell on the ground with my face and wept of delight. Tears of delight are a result of a godly reaction, produced in the depths of a loving heart. Horses neighed happily. How difficult it is not to be human! I relieved them of an animal life of suffering. I killed them. Death is both fetters and a release from fetters. I went into a hotel “Purple hippo” and drank five glasses of wine. 46

Three hours after revenge I was in front of her apartment. A dagger, a friend of death, helped me get to her door through corpses. I started to listen. She was not asleep. She was dreaming. I was listening. She was quiet. Silence lasted for about four hours. Four hours for a man in love are four nineteenth centuries! Finally she called a maid. The maid walked passed me. I looked at her demonically. She caught my glance. Reason left her. I killed her. It’s better to die than to live without reason. —Aneta! – She cried – Why is Theodor not here yet? Anguish is eating at my heart. Some heavy foreboding is smothering me. O Aneta! Go find him. He is probably carousing with this godless, terrible Antonio!.. God, who am I seeing?! Antonio! - Go away! – She cried, and horror distorted her noble, beautiful features. I looked at her. A glance is a sword of the soul. She shook. In my glance she saw all: Theodor’s death, and demonic passion, and thousands of human desires... My pose was greatness. In my eyes shone electricity. My hair moved and stood on ends. Before her she saw a demon in earthly disguise. I saw that she admired me. For four hours lasted the grave silence and contemplation of each other. Thunder roared, and she fell on my chest. A chest of a man – a castle for a woman. I squeezed her in my arms. We both screamed. Her bones cracked. A galvanic current ran through our bodies. A hot kiss... She fell in love with the demon in me. I wanted her to love the angel in me. “I am giving half a million francs to the poor” I said. She loved the angel in me and wept. I wept too. What sort of tears these were!!! In a month in a church of St. Titus and Hydrangeas a wedding ceremony was taking place. I was wedding with her. She was wedding with me. The poor blessed us! She asked me to forgive my enemies, whom I had killed before. I forgave. With my young wife I moved to America. A young, loving wife was an angel in virgin forests of America, an angel before whom lions and tigers bowed. I was a young tiger. After three years from our wedding old Sam was already running with a curly boy. The boy was more like his mother, than like me. This angered me. Yesterday I had another son... and became joyous of happiness... My second son is holding out his hands to the readers and is asking them not to believe his father, because not only did his father not have kids, but not even a wife. Father is afraid of marriage as of fire. My son is not lying. He is a toddler. Believe him. Childhood age is a sacred age. None of this ever happened... Good night! 1880

“Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.” —Anton Chekhov (S. Shchukin, Memoirs (1911))

A renowned Russian playwright and author Anton Chekhov was guided by a writing style that we now come to call Chekhov’s gun. This style means removing every unnecessary detail from the story and only leave that which is instrumental. Tamri Matiashvili, ‘18

Si ¿Qué es de la vida si no se arriesga uno? Prefiero perder mis cartas apostando, Que perder la cabeza consumida por las dudas Con esa palabra común que expresa oportunidades perdidas: “si” Si hubiera hecho eso, Si hubiera dicho eso, Y si, que tal si, como fuera si… Dos letras que pueden derrumbar el razonamiento humano, Creando un espacio nebuloso entre la realidad y la posibilidad Dejándolo a uno con ganas de retroceder el reloj, de cambiar las condiciones que lo mantienen a uno en este péndulo de expectativas. Prefiero rogar por un poco de suerte y poner mis cartas sobre la mesa, Que dejar que esa palabrita, fastidiosa pero tan poderosa, me inunda y controla mis sentidos. ¿Qué es de la vida si no se arriesga uno?

If (English Translation) What is life without taking risks? I’d rather lose my cards betting, Than my head consumed by doubts With that word that expresses lost opportunities: “if ” If I would have done that, If I would have said that, And if, what if, how would it be like if… Two letters that can shake the foundations of human reasoning, Creating an uncertain space between reality and possibility Leaving behind the desire to rewind the clock, of changing the conditions that Keep us swinging and moving between expectations. I’d rather beg for a little bit of luck and put my cards on the table, Than to let that little word, pestering yet so powerful, flood me and take over my senses. What is life without taking risks?

“If ” is an original piece to highlight my feelings on this small word. “If ” is described as one of the biggest little words in our language. For only being two letters it holds a great potential for invoking change; for taking chances, for holding back. Samantha Vila, ‘15

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Let Us Rise Look at this chaos --- Is there a Refuge? Listen to every Ailment ---- Is there a cure? People are --- in despair and defeat They do not see the light --- They do not want to rise Each wanting to escape -- Wishing to see the Getaway Each working lazily --- Waiting for floods of blessings Corruption has spread --- And hard work has disappeared The situation has worsened --- Colonization has arrived Is there a stranger--- who will come with horses? Is there a Knight --- who will come as a guard(ian)? Where are the country’s masters? --- Where are the mighty rulers? Where is the voice of the people? --- Where is the resistance of obstacles? The reins have been freed--- It is time to unite They have transgressed the limits--- Hurdles must be set It's time to rise --- but how to climb The moment has arrived --- The solution is not to surrender Let us stand shoulder to shoulder --- Let us defend the Nile Let us defeat the enemies --- Let us die martyrs Let us bare the responsibility --- Let us achieve our mission We shall never kill dreams --- of (gaining) independence Let us rise to work --- Armed by hope No room for laziness --- Let us resist failure Let us defy boredom --- And resist the obstacles Let us fight fatigue --- let us rise! This poem is a call for Egyptian youth to rise and affect change. It is written around six months before the Arab Spring hit Egypt, as if the author felt the wind of change and was merely asking the youth to seize it as they did. The translation was not easy because the arabic version rhymes while the English doesn’t and thus that aspect is most certainly lost in translation. Furthermore, the poem is mostly written in imperative form, and because a verb in arabic can contain tense, and actor of the verb, the English translation is more wordy. Alas, Enjoy. Alaa Abdelfattah, ‘17 50

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

El Paseo

The Walk

Ando desnuda Bajo el cielo negro Lleno de estrellas Mirando al cuerpo mío

I walk naked Under the black sky Full of stars Looking at my body

La luz De mis ojos Reflejada tantas veces Para los que andan Allá arriba

The light In my eyes Reflected For those who walk up there

Respiro Y el aire blanco Escapa de mis pulmones Volando a reunirse con su pasado Y reflejar por otra vez

I breathe And the white air Escaping from my lungs Flies to reunite with the past again reflected by

Gotas de agua Lloran del cielo En saludos En bienvenidas

Raindrops Crying from the sky in greetings in welcome

Abro los ojos A ver Constelaciones Imprimidas en la piel

I open my eyes to see constellations Printed on the skin

I was inspired to write this story based on recent thoughts from one of my best friends’ about her identification as a bisexual female in the twenty-first century. Maddy Dickinson, ‘18

2046 親愛的 X，我們輕率的用淚水交換承諾，不覺意地闖進了一個伸手不見五指深邃的黑洞，被迫漫遊永無止境的四位空間。我從書架的裂縫間逃出來了。五年未見，你怎麼還記得我？五年在這個空間達幾秒長？一片刻的回憶被複製拉長。你是陽光的孩子，但你也是西藏高原上硬朗的山峰，時隱時現。你好像在我體內扭開了一個瓶蓋，使我不能遏止向你奔流。你從我生命裡沖走了修辭，如風中的經幡般撒走了我生活中的顏色，使我的生命變得淺白。我想我漸漸明白為甚麼愛是帶宗教色彩的。因為我愛的不止是你的身體，更會帶著朦朧的眼睛，接受和沐浴你在此刻不能解釋的存在。如果上帝存在的話，我覺得和你在一起的時候是跟他距離最近的時刻。你現在會說普通話了。當時，你還未會說普通話。因為我們嘗試使幻想變為現實，初戀更是我們與社會交合的媒體。如果生命與這個始初的理想背道而馳，反而變得虛幻和散落零碎。我想尋回這股貫穿生命的力量，變得再次鋒芒畢露，洶湧川流不息。但是在這個不再有深刻可言的世界，我寧願隨波逐流。我不知道，我記掛的是否只是林芝山水的倒影。也許我視角邊的光環並不是墮入深水所見水和天的交界，不過是未擦拭的眼鏡。對不起！我不是故意要如此的傷感。我還愛你。所以這趟回歸的旅程可以被稱作朝聖嗎？我踏上2046這班列車，你是不是會在月台等我？

Dear X, We exchanged thoughtless promises with tears and stumbled into a bottomless black hole, where we were forced to wander eternally. I slipped through the cracks of the bookcase without you, and I haven’t seen you for 5 years since then. Why do you remember me? I wonder how many seconds is five years in these dimensions, in which a moment is repeated and prolonged perpetually. You are sunshine’s child, but you are also a sturdy snow-peak on the Tibetan plateaus, elusive as the clouds. I feel like you have twisted open a lid inside my body to make me gush forth towards towards you uncontrollably. You washed away my adjectives and words, drawing the colors out of my life as the wind tugs the colors away from the prayer flags on the mountains. I think I am starting to understand why love is religious. As Kant said, treat others not only as a means but as an end. Your material existence is not only what I love, but I also accept unconditionally and bathe in your inexplicable and miraculous existence in this moment now. If God exists, I think I was closest to him when I was with you. You speak mandarin now. You have always been a negligent student until me. First loves are why we become social animals in the first place because we attempt to construct these ideals of each other in the real world. If we forget these ideals, our lives will become scattered and confused. I want to recover this energy that penetrates the linearity of our lives and become as glorious and turbulent as the storm again. And yet in this world in which profundity has become impossible, I would rather drift along like a loose leaf. I’m not sure whether what I miss are only reflections of Linzhi in the river of Yaluzangbu? Maybe the halo in the corner of my eye is not light from above water, but only because of blurry glasses. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sound so sad. I still love you. So do you think this voyage can be called a pilgrimage? I’m going to board the train 2046. Are you going wait for me on the platform?

Photo by Corinne Koltes

Joy Zhu, ‘17

Where the Mind is Without Fear by Rabindranath Tagore Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake

This piece was written in the early 1900s by famous South Asian writer Rabindranath Tagore, originally in Bangla and later translated to English. It was initially entitled ‘Indian Prayer,’ and reflected his hopes for a nation that, much as it is now, was slowly forming and coming into its own. It has been often cited, translated and read in a myriad of Indian languages, and my reasons for translating into Hindi were more selfish than the simple creation of art. India as a nation, and my ties to it, are in constant flux, and now, more than ever, Tagore’s plea rings true to me. I hope to see my home country awake into light and freedom, and I hope to be part of that journey in some form, from some place, at some point in time. Jiya Pandya, ‘17

Photo by Corinne Koltes

Vocations and misunderstandings If you write or paint or give speeches at your local church or play music or ride horses or take photographs or do any other thing that might seem interesting, you have probably heard this question a thousand times: “Do you do this for money or for pleasure?” So infinitely repeatable is this formula that it must reveal some deep and permanent trace of our way of seeing things – a common-place or topos of our daily rhetoric. Well, every common-place is a frame that emphasizes certain aspects of reality in order to momentarily give the impression that others don’t exist. So in order to comprehend a common-place, we need first to ask what it omits. What is omitted in the question above is the possibility that someone might dedicate their entire life to something neither for economic reasons nor for pleasure – or, even worse, that someone might keep dedicating oneself to something as if it were the most important thing in the world even when it only gives him pain and headache. What is omitted in this question – and in our way of seeing things – is what is called vocation. Vocation comes from the Latin verb voco, vocare, which means “to call.” The one who does something by vocation feels that he is being called to it by the voice of a superior entity – God, humanity, History, or, as Viktor Frankl would put it, the meaning of life. Considerations of profit or pleasure stand outside, and only come in as subordinate elements that do not in themselves influence decisions or inform evaluations. In the Germanic Protestant world there used to be a whole culture and mystic of vocation, and the search for the authentic vocation is precisely the theme of one of the main German novels, Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister. In Catholic countries the religious significance of vocation, which was consolidated in the scholastic ethics of “the duty of the state” (i.e. the duty of parents, merchants, military, etc.), started losing importance after the Enlightenment, digging an increasingly deeper abyss between priesthood and the “mundane” activities. The latter were emptied of all meaning, since only the first was considered vocational in an eminent sense. In Brazil, to make things worse, the population was constituted mainly of three kinds of people: Portuguese travelers who came in the hope of profiting and who could not return home, Africans imprisoned by force, and indigenous who had nothing to do with it all and who suddenly saw themselves misplaced within a society that they did not comprehend in the slightest. It’s easy to see, then, the immediate materialistic drive of the first group, and even more so the total vocational disorientation of the second and third groups, which had their life-meaning brutally amputated. A bit of the ethics of vocation still exists among us thanks to the influence of immigrants, especially Germans, Arabs and Jews, but it exists implicitly and never consecrated as a conscious value of our culture or paid attention to by schools and governments. 58

The superior realization of man in his vocation is then substituted by job search, seen merely as a means to subsistence, and with complete disregard for its content. The conformist subjugation to a mediocre and future-less job is then seen as the peak of being realistic, as the perfection of human maturity. All the rest is depreciated (and precisely because of that, overly-valued and anxiously desired) as “entertainment.” That’s why, in between forced jobs and obsessive entertainments, a deaf, envious revolt is accumulated in the Brazilian soul against anyone who leads a brilliant and significant life. To that person is attributed, even when poor, the suspicion of being a thief – at the very least a thief of luck. From there comes Tom Jobim’s famous observation: “In Brazil success is a personal insult.” Yes, in this environment no other loyalty is understood but that of losers around a bar table, emptying beer cans and screaming curses to the world. This is a country of people who are in the wrong path, doing what they don’t want, seeking relief in puerile and despicable (when not frankly depressing) entertainments. Our social science, blind to the most obvious psychological realities of our daily life, has never realized the immense vocational tragedy that condemns millions of people to live like caged animals, in between inevitable pains and impossible pleasures. Olavo de Carvalho [Translated from Portuguese by Bernardo Portilho Andrade]

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Vocações e Equívocos Se você escreve, ou pinta, ou faz sermões na igreja, ou toca música, ou monta a cavalo, ou tira fotos, ou faz qualquer outra coisa que pareça interessante, já deve ter ouvido mil vezes a pergunta: “Você faz isso por dinheiro ou por prazer?” Tão infinitamente repetível é essa fórmula, que ela deve revelar algum traço profundo e permanente do modo brasileiro de ver as coisas – um lugar-comum ou topos da nossa retórica diária. Ora, todo lugar-comum é um recorte que enfatiza certos aspectos da realidade para momentaneamente dar a impressão de que os outros não existem. Logo, para compreendê-lo é preciso perguntar, antes de tudo, o que é que ele omite. O que está omitido na pergunta acima é a possibilidade de que alguém se dedique de todo o coração a alguma coisa sem ser por necessidade econômica nem por prazer – ou, pior ainda, que continue se dedicando a ela como se fosse a coisa mais importante do mundo mesmo quando ela só dá prejuízo e dor de cabeça. O que está omitido nessa pergunta — e no nosso modo de ver as coisas — é aquilo que se chama vocação. Vocação vem do verbo latino voco, vocare, que quer dizer “chamar”. Quem faz algo por vocação sente que é chamado a isso pela voz de uma entidade superior — Deus, a humanidade, a História, ou, como diria Viktor Frankl, o sentido da vida. Considerações de lucro ou prazer ficam fora ou só entram como elementos subordinados, que por si não determinam decisões nem fundamentam avaliações. No mundo protestante, germânico, há toda uma cultura e uma mística da vocação, e a busca da vocação autêntica é mesmo o tema do principal romance alemão, o Wilhelm Meister de Goethe. Nos países católicos a importância religiosa da vocação, consolidada na ética escolástica do «dever de estado» (por exemplo, o dever dos pais de família, dos comerciantes, dos militares etc.), foi perdendo relevo depois do Renascimento, cavando-se um abismo cada vez mais fundo entre o sacerdócio e as atividades «mundanas», esvaziadas de sentido na medida em que só o primeiro é considerado vocacional em sentido eminente. No Brasil, para agravar as coisas, a população foi constituída sobretudo de três espécies de pessoas: portugueses que vinham na esperança de enriquecer e não conseguiam voltar, negros apanhados à força e índios que não tinham nada a ver com a história e de repente se viam mal integrados numa sociedade que não compreendiam. É fácil perceber daí o imediatismo materialista dos primeiros, e mais ainda a total desorientação vocacional do segundo e do terceiro grupos, brutalmente amputados do sentido da vida. Um pouco da ética da vocação existe ainda entre nós graças à influência dos imigrantes, especialmente alemães, árabes e judeus, mas existe de modo tácito, implícito, jamais consagrado como valor consciente da nossa cultura e muito menos valorizado pelas escolas e pelos governos.

A realização superior do homem na vocação é então substituída pela mera busca do emprego, visto apenas como meio de subsistência e sem nenhuma importância própria no que diz respeito ao conteúdo. A adaptação conformista a um emprego medíocre e sem futuro é considerado o máximo do realismo, a perfeição da maturidade humana. Tudo o mais é depreciado (e por isto mesmo hipervalorizado e ansiosamente desejado) como “diversão”. Assim, entre o trabalho forçado e a diversão obsessiva, acumula-se na alma do brasileiro a inveja e uma surda revolta contra todos os que levem uma vida grande, brilhante e significativa, sobre os quais, mesmo quando são pobres, paira a suspeita de serem usurpadores e ladrões, pelo menos ladrões da sorte. Daí a famosa observação de Tom Jobim: “No Brasil, o sucesso é um insulto pessoal.” Sim, nesse meio não se compreende outra lealdade senão o companheirismo dos fracassados, em torno de uma mesa de bar, despejando cerveja na goela e maledicência no mundo. Este é um país de gente que está no caminho errado, fazendo o que não quer, buscando alívio em entretenimentos pueris e desprezíveis, quando não francamente deprimentes. Nossa ciência social, cega às realidades psicológicas mais óbvias da nossa vida diária, jamais se deu conta da imensa tragédia vocacional brasileira que condena milhões de pessoas a viver presas como animaizinhos, entre a dor inevitável e o prazer impossível. Olavo de Carvalho

Vocations and Misunderstandings, written by the Brazilian philosopher Olavo de Carvalho, first appeared as a newspaper column in the year 2000. One of the most original and controversial voices in Brazilian letters today, Olavo has established himself as a vehement critic of the Brazilian academia and political class. He is a teacher of Philosophy to over 2000 students through his Online Philosophy Seminar and the founder of a news-streaming website called Mask-less Media. Bernardo Portilho Andrade ‘18

The Azurite Blue Space

Номин хθх огторгуй Анхны хайр шиг ариухан Номин хθх огторгуй Анхны хайр шиг дэвэлзyyр Аяа, Номин хθх огторгуй минь ээ!

The azurite blue space Has no dirt like one’s first love. The azurite blue space Has no body like one’s first love. Alas, the azurite blue space!

Re-translated into Mongolian by B. Davaakhuu

By Б. Явуухулан (B. Yawuukhulan) Trans. into English by N. Oyunzaya

This is a poetry translation from Adrienne Matunas’ (’13) student, B. Davaakhuu (a junior studying to be an English teacher at the National University of Mongolia, Orkhon branch). Adrienne is currently serving in the Peace Corps in Mongolia as a university English teacher. She runs a creative writing club for the university, and her students are working on writing original work in English, as well as translating poetry from Mongolian to English. This poem was translated by B. Davakhuu

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Thank you, Danny Andrada, for our new logo!

ÂŠ2015 Translingual A Magazine of Middlebury College go/translingual Please send any comments, questions, and submissions to translingual@middlebury.edu Photo by Zeke Caceres Photo by Eliza Jaeger