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Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Vol. I April 2013


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Editorial JoLT was born in the weeks following the visit of Moira Egan and Damiano Abeni towards the end of Hilary Term last year. Impressed as I always had been by their work and after they spoke to the Trinity Literary Society about ‘Poetry and Translation,’ I began to look for an Irish journal to submit my own original translation. When nothing quite right came up I thought it appropriate that Trinity should take a step towards translators in Ireland, and in my capacity as Chair of the Literary Society I emailed other chairpersons of language and cultural societies around Trinity with the proposal of founding JoLT. Kerstina Mortensen was the first to reply and invest both time and enthusiasm into the project. We expected this publication to be something small, both in budget and scope. When I met with Dr. Peter Arnds in the first months of Michaelmas 2013, I discovered the potential interest we could garner and the project expanded considerably. My first thanks could not go, then, to anyone but Kerstina and Dr. Arnds, without whom I would not have been able to push JoLT through its infant stages. Also, I wish to thank the Alumni Association & Trust who made the first financial donation to the project, and outran their projected financing significantly and surprised us with their generosity. Dr. Eve Patten and the School of English mobilized funds and publicity support soon after. I am indebted to Dr. David Scott and the School of Languages, Literatures and Cultural Studies who applied to the Strategic Fund on our behalf and provided the backbone of our funding. I extend thanks to Trinity Publications for granting us provisional publication status and for approving our start-up grant request. I am also appreciative of the Central Societies Committee for answering many annoying questions and troubleshooting our move towards publication status. The 2012-13 committee of the Trinity Literary Society supported me throughout and I could not have done it without their understanding. I should like to personally thank Inez Fletcher of the National Library for assigning our ISSN’s so promptly and seamlessly. The Executive Board members not mentioned above, Jessica Bernard (Treasurer), Lola Boorman (Public Relations Officer) and Karen Champ (Graphic Designer), engaged with their roles admirable from the day they were co-opted and never once made it look difficult. I’d like to make special mention of Karen for sitting patiently and diligently by my side through hours and hours of copy and layout editing, and for gracefully accepting my never-ending list of amendments and badly brewed cups of tea. My gratitude to the entire Editorial Board, which Kerstina and I assembled, and without the help of which JoLT could not exist, is boundless. Thank you sincerely for your communal


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effort, and for confirming to us from the beginning that this was a project worth working and fighting for. Many others could be named for their individual support and for constantly bringing relevant points to bear where I could not have imagined them, and for supporting the journal both in Ireland and abroad. You are too many to name but thank you for contributing to the JoLT community. But finally, of course, thank you to all those who submitted work. Each piece was read carefully by dedicated editors and where possible submissions were cross-checked. We received more submissions than we expected, and the rather lengthy online edition stands testament to this fact. However, tough decisions had to be made to keep the journal within a readable length. We hope to see more work in the future from both those who made the final cut and those who didn’t, as space constraints overcame our discernment for quality. Every effort was made by translators and editors to secure copyright wherever it was necessary. If you feel your work has been published here without consent or in a form that is inappropriate, please contact us immediately and we will ratify it and/or make amends in the errata to our online edition as soon as possible. We regret that in certain places translations had to be published without the original text and sources to reflect the wishes of certain estates and the inability of reaching the appropriate bodies. I would like to take all responsibility for the instances in which academic poise and rigor has been forced to waver, and I hope you appreciate it has been a year of firsts for JoLT. Claudio Sansone Chief Editor


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Contents Translations

Phaedo: The death of Socrates Two Letters on the Loss of a Daughter Þrymskviða Genesis B Wulf and Eadwacer Maxims II Three Poems The Tale of the Wandering Jew The Cat Honeymoon

Venina Kalistratova Charlie Kerrigan Kyle Hughes Gerard Hynes James Schuller Bernard William Mackey Dr David Scott Stephen Stacey Niall McCabe Ronan Murphy & Claudio Sansone The Daily Affront Rachel McNicholl Two Songs Una Mary Kelly from Canto X, Inferno Andrew Stephens Shadows Giulia Zuodar & Brenda Donohue Michelangelo Fionnán O'Connor from Death will come and it will have your eyes Claudio Sansone Untitled Miles Link Herman Melville James Hussey Three Poems Keith Payne The Heavy Breather Ursula Meany Scott The Passenger Next to Me Ursula Meany Scott Life is a Dream Patricia González Bermúdez Three Poems Hitomi Nakamura School Aaron Carr The Blind with the Harmônio Bruno Ochman Lustoza The Moon Guilherme da Silva Braga

7 11 19 31 33 35 41 47 65 68 69 75 79 81 85 87 89 91 94 99 106 116 120 126 130 132


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Extract from Chapter Eight, During the Jazz Era Prologue, The Midnight Court A Poem in Advising the Manners Related to Knowledge Yiddish Articles & Essays

Two Translations of "O beatrice", Giovanni Guidici, with Translator's Note A Translation of "Trip", Pier Vittorio Tondelli, with Translator's Notes Coexisting by Letter Correspondence Only? A Note about Ulysses in Spanish The Fate of Ulysses in Spanish Reflections on the Nature of Free verse and Poetic Form Translation, Turkish Style

Kerstina Mortensen Fionnรกn O'Connor Ifthahar Ahmed

138 144 153

Jessica Kirzane

171

Emer Delaney

185

Lucy O'Sullivan

190

Jessica Peart Mark Kenny Mark Kenny Maria Sukharnikova

194 203 205 209

Catherine Yigit

216


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Ancient Greek Φαίδων (116d-118a)

καὶ ὁ Κρίτων, ἀλλ᾽ οἶµαι, ἔφη , ἔγωγε, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔτι ἥ λιον εἶναι ἐπὶ τοῖς ὄρεσιν καὶ οὔπω δεδυκέναι. καὶ ἅµα ἐγὼ οἶδα καὶ ἄλλους πάνυ ὀψὲ πίνοντας, ἐπειδὰν παραγγελθῇ αὐτοῖς, δειπνή σαντάς τε καὶ πιόντας εὖ µάλα, καὶ συγγενοµένους γ᾽ ἐνίους ὧν ἂν τύχωσιν ἐπιθυµοῦντες. ἀλλὰ µη δὲν ἐπείγου: ἔτι γὰρ ἐγχωρεῖ.

καὶ ὁ Σωκράτη ς, εἰκότως γε, ἔφη , ὦ Κρίτων, ἐκεῖνοί τε ταῦτα ποιοῦσιν, οὓς σὺ λέγεις—οἴονται γὰρ κερδαίνειν ταῦτα ποιή σαντες—καὶ ἔγωγε ταῦτα εἰκότως οὐ ποιή σω: οὐδὲν γὰρ οἶµαι κερδανεῖν ὀλίγον ὕστερον πιὼν ἄλλο γε ἢ γέλωτα ὀφλή σειν παρ᾽ ἐµαυτῷ, γλιχόµενος τοῦ ζῆ ν καὶ φειδόµενος οὐδενὸς ἔτι ἐνόντος. ἀλλ᾽ ἴθι, ἔφη , πείθου καὶ µὴ ἄλλως ποίει.

καὶ ὁ Κρίτων ἀκούσας ἔνευσε τῷ παιδὶ πλη σίον ἑστῶτι. καὶ ὁ παῖς ἐξελθὼν καὶ συχνὸν χρόνον διατρίψας ἧ κεν ἄγων τὸν µέλλοντα δώσειν τὸ φάρµακον, ἐν κύλικι φέροντα τετριµµένον. ἰδὼν δὲ ὁ Σωκράτη ς τὸν ἄνθρωπον, εἶεν, ἔφη , ὦ βέλτιστε, σὺ γὰρ τούτων ἐπιστή µων, τί χρὴ ποιεῖν; οὐδὲν ἄλλο, ἔφη , ἢ πιόντα περιιέναι, ἕως ἄν σου βάρος ἐν τοῖς σκέλεσι γένη ται, ἔπειτα κατακεῖσθαι: καὶ οὕτως αὐτὸ ποιή σει. καὶ ἅµα ὤρεξε τὴ ν κύλικα τῷ Σωκράτει.

καὶ ὃς λαβὼν καὶ µάλα ἵλεως, ὦ Ἐχέκρατες, οὐδὲν τρέσας οὐδὲ διαφθείρας οὔτε τοῦ χρώµατος οὔτε τοῦ προσώπου, ἀλλ᾽ ὥσπερ εἰώθει ταυρη δὸν ὑποβλέψας πρὸς τὸν ἄνθρωπον, τί λέγεις, ἔφη , περὶ τοῦδε τοῦ πώµατος πρὸς τὸ ἀποσπεῖσαί τινι; ἔξεστιν ἢ οὔ; τοσοῦτον, ἔφη , ὦ Σώκρατες, τρίβοµεν ὅσον οἰόµεθα µέτριον εἶναι πιεῖν.

µανθάνω, ἦ δ᾽ ὅς: ἀλλ᾽ εὔχεσθαί γέ που τοῖς θεοῖς ἔξεστί τε καὶ χρή , τὴ ν µετοίκη σιν τὴ ν ἐνθένδε ἐκεῖσε εὐτυχῆ γενέσθαι: ἃ δὴ καὶ ἐγὼ εὔχοµαί τε καὶ γένοιτο ταύτῃ . καὶ ἅµ᾽ εἰπὼν ταῦτα ἐπισχόµενος καὶ µάλα εὐχερῶς καὶ εὐκόλως ἐξέπιεν. καὶ ἡ µῶν οἱ πολλοὶ τέως µὲν ἐπιεικῶς οἷοί τε ἦ σαν κατέχειν τὸ µὴ δακρύειν, ὡς δὲ εἴδοµεν


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Phaedo: The death of Socrates Plato trans. Venina Kalistratova (TCD)

And Crito said: “Socrates, I think the sun still raises above the mountains and has not yet set. I have heard of many who have drank the poison rather late, after they were ordered to, and rightly so, after having dined well and having enjoyed the company of their beloved ones. Do not hurry, there is still time.” Socrates said in turn: “Crito, I can see why the men you mention would do that, for they think that it benefits them in some way, however I am not prone to such deeds: for I do not think that it profits me in any way to drink the poison a little bit later: I would become a laughing stock for my own self, clutching desperately on to life and being stingy with it when there is not much left. But let it be, do not persuade me to do otherwise.” After hearing this, Crito nodded to a slave nearby, the latter left and wasting no time led in the man in charge of administering the poison, who was carrying it dissolved in a cup. When Socrates saw him he said: “Well, my good fellow, you are the expert here, what do I have to do now?” “Nothing more”, answered the executioner, “but to walk around for a bit after drinking it, until you feel some languor in your legs, after that just lie down: do this as I said” And he handed the bowl to Socrates. He took it rather cheerfully, Echecrates, steady, with no change of colour nor expression but with his customary headstrong frown said to the man: “To which deity do you say I should offer this drink as a libation? Would it be alright if I did?” He answered: “We only mix as much as we think is enough to drink.” ““I see”, added Socrates: but one has the right to pray to the gods, in fact one ought to, so that the journey to the other world would henceforth become


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Ancient Greek

πίνοντά τε καὶ πεπωκότα, οὐκέτι, ἀλλ᾽ ἐµοῦ γε βίᾳ καὶ αὐτοῦ ἀστακτὶ ἐχώρει τὰ δάκρυα, ὥστε ἐγκαλυψάµενος ἀπέκλαον ἐµαυτόν—οὐ γὰρ δὴ ἐκεῖνόν γε, ἀλλὰ τὴ ν ἐµαυτοῦ τύχη ν, οἵου ἀνδρὸς ἑταίρου ἐστερη µένος εἴη ν. ὁ δὲ Κρίτων ἔτι πρότερος ἐµοῦ, ἐπειδὴ οὐχ οἷός τ᾽ ἦ ν κατέχειν τὰ δάκρυα, ἐξανέστη . Ἀπολλόδωρος δὲ καὶ ἐν τῷ ἔµπροσθεν χρόνῳ οὐδὲν ἐπαύετο δακρύων, καὶ δὴ καὶ τότε ἀναβρυχη σάµενος κλάων καὶ ἀγανακτῶν οὐδένα ὅντινα οὐ κατέκλασε τῶν παρόντων πλή ν γε αὐτοῦ Σωκράτους.

ἐκεῖνος δέ, ‘ οἷα, ἔφη , ποιεῖτε, ὦ θαυµάσιοι. ἐγὼ µέντοι οὐχ ἥ κιστα τούτου ἕνεκα τὰς γυναῖκας ἀπέπεµψα, ἵνα µὴ ’ τοιαῦτα πλη µµελοῖεν: καὶ γὰρ ἀκή κοα ὅτι ἐν εὐφη µίᾳ χρὴ τελευτᾶν. ἀλλ᾽ ἡ συχίαν τε ἄγετε καὶ καρτερεῖτε. ’ καὶ ἡ µεῖς ἀκούσαντες ᾐ σχύνθη µέν τε καὶ ἐπέσχοµεν τοῦ δακρύειν. ὁ δὲ περιελθών, ἐπειδή οἱ βαρύνεσθαι ἔφη τὰ σκέλη , κατεκλίνη ὕπτιος—οὕτω γὰρ ἐκέλευεν ὁ ἄνθρωπος— καὶ ἅµα ἐφαπτόµενος αὐτοῦ οὗτος ὁ δοὺς τὸ φάρµακον, διαλιπὼν χρόνον ἐπεσκόπει τοὺς πόδας καὶ τὰ σκέλη , κἄπειτα σφόδρα πιέσας αὐτοῦ τὸν πόδα ἤ ρετο εἰ αἰσθάνοιτο, ὁ δ᾽ οὐκ ἔφη . καὶ µετὰ τοῦτο αὖθις τὰς κνή µας: καὶ ἐπανιὼν οὕτως ἡ µῖν ἐπεδείκνυτο ὅτι ψύχοιτό τε καὶ πή γνυτο. καὶ αὐτὸς ἥ πτετο καὶ εἶπεν ὅτι, ἐπειδὰν πρὸς τῇ καρδίᾳ γένη ται αὐτῷ, τότε οἰχή σεται.

ἤ δη οὖν σχεδόν τι αὐτοῦ ἦ ν τὰ περὶ τὸ ἦ τρον ψυχόµενα, καὶ ἐκκαλυψάµενος—ἐνεκεκάλυπτο γάρ—εἶπεν—ὃ δὴ τελευταῖον ἐφθέγξατο—‘ ὦ Κρίτων, ἔφη , τῷ Ἀσκλη πιῷ ὀφείλοµεν ἀλεκτρυόνα: ἀλλὰ ἀπόδοτε καὶ µὴ ἀµελή ση τε. ’ ἀλλὰ ταῦτα, ἔφη , ἔσται, ὁ Κρίτων: ἀλλ᾽ ὅρα εἴ τι ἄλλο λέγεις.

ταῦτα ἐροµένου αὐτοῦ οὐδὲν ἔτι ἀπεκρίνατο, ἀλλ᾽ ὀλίγον χρόνον διαλιπὼν ἐκινή θη τε καὶ ὁ ἄνθρωπος ἐξεκάλυψεν αὐτόν, καὶ ὃς τὰ ὄµµατα ἔστη σεν: ἰδὼν δὲ ὁ Κρίτων συνέλαβε τὸ στόµα καὶ τοὺς ὀφθαλµούς. ἥ δε ἡ τελευτή , ὦ Ἐχέκρατες, τοῦ ἑταίρου ἡ µῖν ἐγένετο, ἀνδρός, ὡς ἡ µεῖς φαῖµεν ἄν, τῶν τότε ὧν ἐπειράθη µεν ἀρίστου καὶ ἄλλως φρονιµωτάτου καὶ δικαιοτάτου.

(Original text taken from Perseus Digital Library)


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propitious: this I pray for and may it happen as I wish.” Having said that he took the cup and drank calmly and at ease. And all of us who had so far managed to keep our tears at bay, as we saw him drinking and even when he downed it, strength failed us, but I hardly managed to suppress the tears rolling down in streams, so I covered my face and wept, not for the man himself but on account of my own tragedy: to be deprived of such a friend. Crito left even before I had started to mourn (since he was unable to restrain his emotions). Apollodorus, who could not stop sobbing for a good while before, suddenly let out a dirge and moved us all to tears, all those who were present at the scene cried, except for Socrates himself. He uttered: “What are you doing, you strange people, I did not send the women away so you could embarrass yourselves like this: for one should die in blessed silence.” We hearkened his words, kept silent and contained our tears. He walked around and when he said that his legs were failing, he lay down on his back, after a while he called on the man who had provided the poison to inspect his feet and legs. Pressing hard his feet the man asked whether he felt anything. Socrates denied. After that (the man checked) also his calves and going over his body he corroborated the cold and stiffness. Socrates reached out and feeling his body said that he would depart when the cold had taken over his heart. As his chest was cooling down he uncovered and then covered himself up again uttering: “Crito, we owe a rooster to Asclepius: make sure you dedicate one, do not forget!” Then Crito said in response: “It shall be done. What else would you have us do?” Socrates did not answer his question, shortly after he stopped moving. The executioner uncovered the body, his features were motionless: at this sight Crito covered his mouth and his eyes. This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, the most noble, thoughtful and just man amongst our contemporaries.


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Classical Latin

Two Letters Marcus Tullius Cicero Servius Sulpicius IV.5 Scr. Athenis c. med. m. Mart. an. 45 SERVIUS CICERONI S. [1] Posteaquam mihi renuntiatum est de obitu Tulliae, filiae tuae, sane quam

pro eo, ac debui, graviter molesteque tuli communemque eam calamitatem existimavi, qui, si istic affuissem, neque tibi defuissem coramque meum dolorem tibi declarassem. Etsi genus hoc consolationis mi‚se›rum atque acerbum est, propterea quia, per quos ea confieri debet propinquos ac familiares, ii ipsi pari molestia afficiuntur neque sine lacrimis multis id conari possunt, uti magis ipsi videantur aliorum consolatione indigere quam aliis posse suum officium praestare. Tamen, quae in praesentia in mentem mihi venerunt, decrevi brevi ad te perscribere, non quo ea te fugere existimem, sed quod forsitan dolore impeditus minus ea perspicias. [2] Quid est, quod tanto opere te commoveat tuus dolor intestinus? Cogita, quem ad modum adhuc fortuna nobiscum egerit; ea nobis erepta esse, quae hominibus non minus quam liberi cara esse debent, patriam, honestatem, dignitatem, honores omnis. Hoc uno incommodo addito quid ad dolorem adiungi potuit? aut qui non in illis rebus exercitatus animus callere iam debet atque omnia minoris existimare? [3] An illius vicem, credo, doles. Quoties in eam cogitationem necesse est et tu veneris et nos saepe incidimus, hisce temporibus non pessime cum iis esse actum, quibus sine dolore licitum est mortem cum vita commutare? Quid autem fuit, quod illam hoc tempore ad vivendum magno opere invitare posset? quae res, quae spes, quod animi solacium? Ut cum aliquo adolescente primario coniuncta aetatem gereret? licitum est tibi, credo, pro tua dignitate ex hac iuventute generum deligere, cuius fidei liberos tuos te tuto committere putares. An ut ea liberos ex sese pareret, quos cum florentis videret laetaretur? qui rem a parente traditam per se tenere possent, honores ordinatim petituri essent, in re publica, in amicorum


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Two Letters on the Loss of a Daughter Marcus Tullius Cicero trans. Charlie Kerrigan (TCD)

4.5 Written at Athens, mid-March, 45BC Servius sends Cicero greeting. [1] After I learnt of the death of Tullia, your daughter, I was, as you might expect,

deeply and gravely affected. I considered it to be our shared tragedy, and if I had been with you I would not have hesitated to declare my grief in person. Yet such consolation is paltry and wretched, because those who should be on hand to offer it – relatives and friends – are themselves just as stricken, and find many tears in their attempts. All in all those expected to console are often much in need of consolation themselves. Nevertheless, I decided to write you briefly my present thoughts, not because I think you shirk you own duties, but rather that with some perspective your burden may be lightened. [2] How is it that your deep grief afflicts you so violently? Think how Fortune has taken from us those things which men should hold no less dear than children – country, reputation, office, every honour. What extra sadness can this one added trial bring? Shouldn’t you reconcile yourself to such things and so consider everything the less? [3] But you grieve for her sake, I know. How often when pondering this have you reached the same conclusion we reached, that, in times like these, how lucky were they who were allowed painlessly exchange life with death! What, after all, did she have to make her life happy at this time? What belongings or hopes or personal comfort? That she may have lived on a while married to one of the young men of today? You could have, I trust, picked some son-in-law from the modern generation worthy of your standing, and let her go with peace of mind. She may even have borne children and delighted in them as they grew to uphold their family tradition, seek the usual offices, and act with liberty in politics and among friends. Which of these was not taken away as soon as it was given? But it is truly awful to lose a child, except that this is worse: to


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negotiis libertate sua ‚us›uri? quid horum fuit, quod non priusquam datum est, ademptum sit? At vero malum est liberos amittere. Malum, nisi hoc peius est, haec sufferre et perpeti. [4] Quae res mihi non mediocrem consolationem attulerit, volo tibi commemorare, si forte eadem res tibi dolorem minuere possit. Ex Asia rediens cum ab Aegina Megaram versus navigarem, coepi regiones circumcirca prospicere: post me erat Aegina, ante me Megara, dextra Piraeeus, sinistra Corinthus, quae oppida quodam tempore florentissima fuerunt, nunc prostrata et diruta ante oculos iacent. Coepi egomet mecum sic cogitare: "hem! nos homunculi indignamur, si quis nostrum interiit aut occisus est, quorum vita brevior esse debet, cum uno loco tot oppidum cadavera proiecta iacent? Visne tu te, Servi, cohibere et meminisse hominem te esse natum?" Crede mihi, cogitatione ea non mediocriter sum confirmatus. Hoc idem, si tibi videtur, fac ante oculos tibi proponas: modo uno tempore tot viri clarissimi interierunt, de imperio populi Romani tanta deminutio facta est, omnes provinciae conquassatae sunt; in unius mulierculae animula si iactura facta est, tanto opere commoveris? quae si hoc tempore non diem suum obisset, paucis post annis tamen ei moriendum fuit, quoniam homo nata fuerat. [5] Etiam tu ab hisce rebus animum ac cogitationem tuam avoca atque ea potius reminiscere, quae digna tua persona sunt: illam, quamdiu ei opus fuerit, vixisse, una cum re publica fuisse, te, patrem suum, praetorem, consulem, augurem vidisse, adulescentibus primariis nuptam fuisse, omnibus bonis prope perfunctam esse; cum res publica occideret, vita excessisse: quid est, quod tu aut illa cum fortuna hoc nomine queri possitis? Denique noli te oblivisci Ciceronem esse et eum, qui aliis consueris praecipere et dare consilium, neque imitari malos medicos, qui in alienis morbis profitentur tenere se medicinae scientiam, ipsi se curare non possunt, sed potius, quae aliis praecipere soles, ea tute tibi subiice atque apud animum propone. [6] Nullus dolor est, quem non longinquitas temporis minuat ac molliat: hoc te exspectare tempus tibi turpe est ac non ei rei sapientia tua te occurrere. Quod si qui etiam inferis sensus est, qui illius in te amor fuit pietasque in omnis suos, hoc certe illa te facere non vult. Da hoc illi mortuae, da ceteris amicis ac familiaribus, qui tuo dolore


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suffer such things and have to carry on. [4] I want to tell you something which brought me no small consolation, if perhaps it might be able to lessen your grief. On my return from Asia I was sailing from Aegina towards Megara, and I began to survey the surrounding landscape. Behind me was Aegina, before me Megara; Piraeus to my right, Corinth my left. At one time these had been the most thriving towns imaginable, and they now lay ruined and abandoned before my eyes. I began to think to myself ‘Ah! We mortals baulk if one of us dies or is killed, yet how short our lives seem to be, when faced with so many ghost towns in a single place! Shouldn’t you, Servius, stop and remember that you are born a man and will die?’ Believe me, I was quite steadied by this thought. Place, if you want, the same scene before your eyes. At a time when so many illustrious men have died, the Roman empire so weakened, all the provinces in turmoil: are you still so affected by the loss of one poor girl? If she had not died now she would have a few short years hence, such is the price of mortal birth. [5] Now summon your thoughts away from such matters and remember things worthy of the character you hold. She lived, as long as she needed to, and together with the Republic. She saw you, her father, become praetor, consul, and augur. She married young men of the highest status and enjoyed almost everything there is to enjoy. When the Republic fell, she gave up her life. Do not forget, moreover, that you are Cicero, a man accustomed to instructing and advising others. Do imitate the bad doctor, who pronounces cures for his patients’ ills and yet cannot look after himself: subject yourself to the same advice you give others and clear your mind. [6] There is no grief which time does not lessen or soften, and it is unbecoming of you to linger like this and not to confront yourself with your own wisdom. If the dead feel anything below, she who loved you and honoured her own surely does not want you to act so. For her sake, for your friends and your household, who grieve with you, and for the country: make sure that your wisdom and service are available if they are needed. Lastly, since we had fallen into such misfortune that this needs to be said, do not let it happen that someone may think you sorrow less for your daughter and more for the crisis of the Republic and the victory of our adversaries. I


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maerent, da patriae, ut, si qua in re opus sit, opera et consilio tuo uti possit. Denique, quoniam in eam fortunam devenimus, ut etiam huic rei nobis serviendum sit, noli committere, ut quisquam te putet non tam filiam quam rei publicae tempora et aliorum victoriam lugere. Plura me ad te de hac re scribere pudet, ne videar prudentiae tuae diffidere; quare, si hoc unum proposuero, finem faciam scribendi: vidimus aliquotiens secundam pulcherrime te ferre fortunam magnamque ex ea re te laudem apisci; fac aliquando intellegamus adversam quoque te aeque ferre posse neque id maius, quam debeat, tibi onus videri, ne ex omnibus virtutibus haec una tibi videatur deesse. Quod ad me attinet, cum te tranquilliorem animo esse cognoro, de iis rebus, quae hic geruntur, quemadmodumque se provincia habeat, certiorem faciam. Vale. *

IV. 6 Scr. in Attici Nomentano med. m. Apr. an. 45 M. CICERO S. D. SER. SULPICIO. [1] Ego vero, Servi, vellem, ut scribis, in meo gravissimo casu affuisses;

quantum enim praesens me adiuvare potueris et consolando et prope aeque dolendo, facile ex eo intellego, quod litteris lectis aliquantum acquievi, nam et ea scripsisti, quae levare luctum possent, et in me consolando non mediocrem ipse animi dolorem adhibuisti. Servius tamen tuus omnibus officiis, quae illi tempori tribui potuerunt, declaravit et quanti ipse me faceret et quam suum talem erga me animum tibi gratum putaret fore; cuius officia iucundiora scilicet saepe mihi fuerunt, numquam tamen gratiora. Me autem non oratio tua solum et societas paene aegritudinis, sed etiam auctoritas consolatur; turpe enim esse existimo me non ita ferre casum meum, ut tu, tali sapientia praeditus, ferendum putas; sed opprimor interdum et vix resisto dolori, quod ea me solacia deficiunt, quae ceteris, quorum mihi exempla propono, simili in fortuna non defuerunt: nam et Q. Maximus, qui filium consularem, clarum virum et magnis rebus gestis, amisit, et L. Paullus, qui duo septem diebus, et vester Gallus et M. Cato, qui summo ingenio, summa virtute filium perdidit, iis


17

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hesitate to write you further on this, in case I seem unaware of your own good sense: I will finish up with this last suggestion. So often we have seen how graciously you bear success and praise your receive for it; show us that you can bear the bad times just as well, and that you do not make more of this burden that you should, in case of all virtues you seem to fail in this one. As to how I am doing, I will inform you when I know your mind is steadier, both about affairs here and how the province is now much settled. Farewell, Servius

4.6

April 45 BC

*

Written at Atticus’ villa, near Nomentum, mid-

Cicero sends Servius greeting. [1] Yes indeed, Servius, I wish you had been with me, as you write, at this dark

time. I gleaned some comfort from your letter, but it only made me realize how much I could have done with you here, as someone to console and share almost equally in this sorrow. For your words were well-chosen to relieve mourning, and you drew on your own past distress in consoling me. Your son Servius has rendered me every possible service at the present time, and in doing so has shown both his esteem for me and how much he believes you would approve of such kindness. You can guess that oftentimes his attention has been more welcome to me, but never more appreciated. I was comforted not only by your words and your empathy, but by your counsel too. I judge it shameful of me that I cannot bear my trial as you, in your wisdom, advise it should be borne. But I am overwhelmed and sometimes can barely contain my sorrow, because I lack those comforts which others, whom I picture before me now, did not in their own misfortune. Quintus Maximus lost his son, a consul and an outstanding man with many achievements behind him; Lucius Paulus lost two sons in a single week; your own Galus and Marcus Cato too, who lost a son of great ability and virtue: at such times their own standing offered some consolation. [2] As for me, I had lost all those honours you recall –


Classical Latin

18

temporibus fuerunt, ut eorum luctum ipsorum dignitas consolaretur ea, quam ex re publica consequebantur. [2] mihi autem amissis ornamentis iis, quae ipse commemoras quaeque eram maximis laboribus adeptus, unum manebat illud solatium quod ereptum est: non amicorum negotiis, non rei publicae procuratione impediebantur cogitationes meae, nihil in foro agere libebat, aspicere curiam non poteram, existimabam, id quod erat, omnes me et industriae meae fructus et fortunae perdidisse: sed, cum cogitarem haec mihi tecum et cum quibusdam esse communia, et cum frangerem iam ipse me et cogerem illa ferre toleranter, habebam, quo confugerem, ubi conquiescerem, cuius in sermone et suavitate omnis curas doloresque deponerem. Nunc autem hoc tam gravi vulnere etiam illa, quae consanuisse videbantur, recrudescunt; non enim, ut tum me a re publica maestum domus excipiebat, quae levaret, sic nunc domo maerens ad rem publicam confugere possum, ut in eius bonis acquiescam. Itaque et domo absum et foro, quod nec eum dolorem, quem ad re publica capio, domus iam consolari potest nec domesticum res publica. [3] Quo magis te exspecto teque videre quam primum cupio. maior mihi ‹le›vatio [mihi] afferri nulla potest quam coniunctio consuetudinis sermonumque nostrorum—; quamquam sperabam tuum adventum (sic enim audiebam) appropinquare. Ego autem cum multis de causis te exopto quam primum videre, tum etiam, ut ante commentemur inter nos, qua ratione nobis traducendum sit hoc tempus, quod est totum ad unius voluntatem accommodandum et prudentis et liberalis et, ut perspexisse videor, nec a me alieni et tibi amicissimi; quod cum ita sit, magnae tamen est deliberationis, quae ratio sit ineunda nobis non agendi aliquid, sed illius concessu et beneficio quiescendi. Vale.

(Original text taken from TheLatinLibrary.com)


19

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honours I laboured hard to attain – but now the one comfort which always remained has been snatched away. Friends’ concerns and affairs of state did nothing to waylay my thoughts; legal cases held no appeal and I couldn’t face appearing in the Senate: I thought that, as things stood then, all the fruits of my industriousness and good fortune had withered away. And yet when I think of those troubles we have been forced to endure and bear tolerantly, then I had her to go to. I could rest and lay aside all my cares and troubles in her conversation and her sweetness. Now, however, that grave wound I thought healed has flared up again. For back then home took me in when politics burdened me, and now, when home is so oppressive, I cannot escape into politics and find relief. So I stay away from home and the forum, because neither can comfort me from the sorrow of the other. [3] All the more reason why I look for you and want to see you as soon as possible. Nothing would relieve me more than to see you again and talk as we used to; I had hoped that your return (and so I hear) is not too far off. Another reason for this desire is so we might reflect together, as before, about how to deal with the current crisis, which requires the accommodation of everything to the will of one man. He seems savvy and generous to my mind – no enemy of mine and a great friend of yours. However things turn out, we need to plan how to achieve our goals not by being proactive but by waiting for his concession and goodwill at a quieter time. Farewell.


20

Old Norse

Þrymskviða Vreiðr vas þá Ving-Þórr es vaknaði ok síns hamars of saknaði; skegg nam at hrista, skǫr nam at dýja, réð Jarðar burr um at þreifask. Ok hann þat orðaalls fyrst of kvað: 'Heyrðu nú, Loki, hvat nú mælik, es engi veit jarðar hvergi né upphimins: Áss es stolinn hamri!' Gengu þeir fagra Freyju túna, ok hann þat orða alls fyrst of kvað: 'Muntu mér, Freyja, fjaðrhams ljá, ef minn hamar mættak hitta?' Freyja kvað: 'Þó mundak gefa þér, at ór gulli væri, ok þó selja, at væri ór silfri.' Fló þá Loki fjaðrhamr dunði unz fyr útan komÁsa garða, ok fyr innan komjǫtna heima. Þrymr sat á haugi, þursa dróttinn, greyjum sínum gullbǫnd snøri ok mǫrum sínum mǫn jafnaði. Þrymr kvað:


21

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Þrymskviða

trans. Kyle Hughes (TCD)

Angry was Battle-Þór when he awoke and his hammer was missing; He shook his beard, tossed his hair, The son of Jǫrð groped all around. And he spoke first of all: 'Hear now, Loki, what I now say, which is known to no one anywhere on earth nor of heaven: the god has had his hammer stolen!' They went to fairFreyja's dwellings, and he spoke first of all: 'Will you, Freyja, lend to me the feather-cloak, if I am going to find my hammer?' Freyja spoke: 'I would give it to you even if it were made of gold, and I would give it, even if it were made of silver.' Then Loki flew - the feather-cloak rustled until he came out from the dwelling of the gods, and came into the home of the giants. Þrym sat on a grave-mound, the lord of giants, he plaited collars of gold for his hounds, and trimmed the manes of his horses. Þrym spoke:


22

Old Norse 'Hvat's með Ásum? Hvi'st einn kominn

Hvat's með álfum? í Jǫtunheima?'

Loki kvað: 'Ilt's með Ásum, ilt's með álfum; hefr þú Hlórriða hamar of fólginn?' Þrymr kvað: 'Ek hef Hlórriða hamar of fólginn átta rǫstum fyr jǫrð neðad, hann engi maðr aptr of heimtir, nema fœri mér Freyju at kván.' Fló þá Loki fjaðrhamr dunði unz fyr útan komjǫtna heima ok fyr innan komÁsa garða; mœtti hann Þór miðra garða, ok hann þat orða alls fyrst of kvað: 'Hefr þú ørendu Segðu á lopti opt sitjanda ok liggjandi

sem erfíði? lǫng tiðindi; sǫgur of fallask lygi of bellir.'

Loki kvað: 'Hefk erfiði ok ørendi; Þrymr hefr þinn hamar, þursa dróttinn, hann engi maðr aptr of heimtir nema honum fœri Freyju at kván.' Ganga þeir fagra Freyju at hitta,


23

'What's with the gods? Why has one come

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation What's with the Elves? into Jǫtunheim?'

Loki spoke: 'It goes ill with the gods, it goes ill with the Elves; Have you the hammer of Hlorriði hidden?' Þrym spoke: 'I have the hammer of Hlorriði hidden eight rasta below the earth. It no man shall bring back, unless Freyja travels to me to be my wife.' Then Loki flew - the feather-cloak whistled until he came out from the home of the giants and came into the dwelling of the gods; he met Þór in between worlds, and he this speech first of all spoke: 'Have you a message for your trouble? Say while you are in the air the long tidings; Often the sitting one's stories fail and the lying-down one deals in falsehood.' Loki spoke: 'I have trouble and message, Þrym has your hammer, the lord of giants. No man shall bring it back unless Freyja travels to him to be his wife.' They went to find and he that speech

fair Freyja, first of all spoke:


Old Norse ok hann þat orða alls fyrst of kvað: 'Bittu þik, Freyja, brúðar líni. Vit skulum aka tvau í Jǫtunheima.' Vreið varð þá Freyja ok fnasaði, allr Ása salr undir bifðisk, stǫkk þat it miklamen Brísinga 'Mik veizt verða vergjarnasta, ef ek ek með þér í Jǫtunheima.' Senn váru Æsir allir á þingi ok Ásynjur allar á máli, ok um þat réðu ríkir tívar, hvé þeir Hlórriða hamar of sœtti. Þá kvað þat Heimdallr, hvítastr Ása vissi hann vel fram, sem Vanir aðrir 'Bindu vér Þór þá brúðar líni, hafi hann it mikla men Brísinga. Látum und honum hrynja lukla ok kvenváðir um kné falla, en á brjósti breiða steina, ok hagliga um hǫfuð typpum.' Þá kvað þat Þórr, þrúðugr Áss: 'Mik munu Æsir argan kalla, ef ek bindask læt brúðar líni.' Þá kvað þat Loki Laufeyjar sonr, 'Þegi þú, Þórr, þeira orða; þegar munu jǫtnar Ásgard búa,

24


25

'Dress yourself, Freyja, We two shall drive

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation in a bride's gown. into Jǫtunheim.'

Then Freyja became angry and snorted with rage, the whole hall of the gods trembled under the shock, that snapped in two the great necklace of the Brisings 'You would see me look like a nymphomaniac if I drove with you into Jǫtunheim.' Straightaway were the gods all to a meeting and the goddesses all to the counselling, and about this the mighty gods resolved how they the hammer of Hlorriði might retrieve. Then Heimdall said this, whitest of the gods he could see into the future as well as the Vanir 'We will dress Þór then in a bride's gown, he will have the great necklace of the Brisings. We shall have keys around him to rattle and women's skirts to encumber his knees, and on his breast spread gemstones, and neatly around his head wind a bridal veil.' Then Þór said this, the strong god: 'The gods will call me womanish, if I let myself be dressed in bride's linens.' Then Loki said this, Laufey's son, 'Be silent, Þór, with those words; At once will the giants settle Ásgarð, unless your hammer you recover to yourself.'


26

Old Norse nema þú þinn hamar

þér of heimtir.'

Bundu Þór þá brúðar líni ok inu mikla meni Brísinga, létu und honum hrynja lukla, ok kvenváðir um kné falla, en á brjósti breiða steina, ok hagliga um hǫfuð typðu. Þá kvað Loki Laufeyjar sonr, 'Mun ek ok með þér ambótt vesa, Vit skulum aka tvau í Jǫtunheima.' Senn váru hafrar heim of reknir, skyndir at skǫklum, skyldu vel rinna. Bjǫrg brotnuðu, brann jǫrð loga, ók Óðins sonr í Jǫtunheima. Þá kvað þat Þrymr, þursa dróttinn 'Standið upp, jǫtnar! Ok stráið bekki nú fœra męr Freyju at kván, Njarðar dóttur ór Nóatúnum. Ganga hér at garði gullhyrndar kýr, øxn alsvartir jǫtun at gamni; fjǫlð ák meiðma, fjǫlð ák menja, einnar mér Freyju ávant þykkir.' Vas þar at kveldi ok fyr jǫtna einn át oxa, krásir allar

of komit snimma, ǫl fram borit; atta laxa, þær's konur skyldu,


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Then Þór was dressed in a bride's gown and the great necklace of the Brisings. They had keys placed around him to rattle and women's skirts to fall around his knee, and upon his breast spread gemstones, and neatly around his head wound a bridal veil. Then said Loki, Laufey's son, 'I will also with you be as a handmaiden. We two shall drive into Jǫtunheim.' Straightaway were the goats driven to home, they hastened in the traces, well should they run. Cliffs burst, the earth blazed with flame, the son of Óðin drove into Jǫtunheim. Then Þrym said this, the lord of giants: 'Stand up, giants! And strew the benches! Now to me travels Freyja as my wife, the daughter of Njǫrð from Nóatún. There go here to the enclosures gold-horned cows, oxen all-black for the joy of the giant; I have a store of treasures, I have a store of jewels. It seems to me I lack only Freyja.' It came to be there early in the evening, and for the giants ale was brought forth; one ox (Þór) ate, eight salmon, all the dainties that were intended for ladies. Sif's man drank three casks of mead.


Old Norse drakk Sifjar verr sáld þrjú mjaðar. Þá kvað þat Þrymr, þursa dróttinn, 'Hvar sáttu brúðir bíta hvassara? Sákak brúðir bíta breiðara, né inn meira mjǫð mey of drekka.' Sat in alsnotra ambótt fyrir, es orð of fann við jǫtuns máli, 'Át vætr Freyja átta nóttum, svá vas hon óðfus í Jǫtunheima.' Laut und línu, lysti at kyssa, en hann útann stǫkk endlagan sal: 'Hví eru ǫndótt augu Frejyu? Þykki mér ór augum eldr of brenna.' Sat in alsnotra ambótt fyrir, es orð of fann við jǫtuns máli: 'Svaf vætr Freyja átta nóttum, svá vas hon óðfús í Jǫtunheima.' Inn kom in arma jǫtna systir, hin's brúðfjár biðja þorði: 'Lát þér af hǫndum hringa rauða, ef ǫðlask vill ástir mínar, ástir mínar, alla hylli.' Þá kvað þat Þrymr, þursa dróttinn, 'Berið inn hamar brúði at vígja, leggið Mjǫllni í meyjar kné, vígið okkr saman Várar hendi.'

28


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Then Þrym said this, the lord of giants, 'Who has seen a bride bite more hungrily? I have not seen a bride take bigger bites, nor a maid drink the more mead.' The all-wise handmaiden sat nearby, who found wordsfor the giant's speech, 'Freyja ate nothing for eight nights, as she was madly eager to be in Jǫtunheim.' He looked under the veil, he longed to kiss ('Freyja'), but he sprang back the length of the hall: 'Why are Freyja's eyes fiery? It seems to me a fire burns from her eyes.' The all-wise handmaiden sat nearby, who found wordsfor the giant's speech: 'Freyja slept not at all for eight nights, as she was madly eager to be in Jǫtunheim.' Inwards came the wretched sister of the giant, that one who the bride-fee dared to request: 'Remove you from your hands the rings of red gold, if you wish to earn yourself my love, my love, and all favour.' Then Þrym said this, the lord of giants, 'Bear the hammer to hallow the bride, lay Mjǫlnir on the maid's knees, hallow us together by the hand of Vár.'


30

Old Norse Hló Hlórriða hugr í brjósti, es harðhugaðr hamar of þekði. Þrym drap hann fyrstan, þursa dróttinn, ok ætt jǫtuns alla lamði. Drap hann ina ǫldnu jǫtna systur, hin's brúðfjár of beðit hafði; hon skell of hlautfyr skillinga, en hǫgg hamars fyr hringa fjǫlð. Svá kom Óðins sonr endr at hamri.

(Original text taken from E.V. Gordon, An Introduction to Old Norse, ed. by A.R. Taylor, 2nd ed. (Oxford: 1957), 136-141.)


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The heart of Hlorriði laughed in his breast when the stern-hearted one recognised the hammer. He killed Þrym first, the lord of giants, and the race of that giant all smote. He killed the old sister of the giant, the one who the bride-fee had demanded; She got a strike as her lot for money, and a blow of the hammerfor store of rings. So came the son of Óðin again to his hammer.


32

Old English

Genesis B

370

375

380

385

Wa la, ahte ic minra handa geweald and moste ane tid ute weorðan, wesan ane winterstunde, þonne ic mid þys werode – Ac licgað me ymbe irenbenda, rideð racentan sal. Ic eom rices leas; habbað me swa hearde helle clommas fæste befangen. Her is fyr micel, ufan and neoðone. Ic a ne geseah laðran landscipe. Lig ne aswamað, hat ofer helle. Me habbað hringa gespong, sliðhearda sal siðes amyrred, afyrred me min feðe; fet synt gebundene, handa gehæfte. Synt þissa heldora wegas forworhte, swa ic mid wihte ne mæg of þissum lioðobendum. Licgað me ymbe heardes irenes hate geslægene grindlas greate. Mid þy me god hafað gehæfted be þam healse, swa ic wat he minne hige cuðe; and þæt wiste eac weroda drihten, þæt sceolde unc Adame yfele gewurðan ymb þæt heofonrice, þær ic ahte minra handa geweald.

(Original text taken from George Philip Krapp (ed.), The Junius Manuscript, The Anglo Saxon Poetic Records Vol.1 (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1931) pp 14-15.)


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Genesis B

trans. Gerard Hynes (TCD)

370

375

380

385

Gah! Had I power in my hands and could get out for just an hour, one winter’s hour, with this army I would... but iron chains lie about me, an iron collar yokes me. I have no power, these death-hard bonds own me, hold me fast. Here is great fire above and below. I never knew a more hateful country. The fire never dies, in this sweltering hell. Shackles and chains, cruel cords, trip me up, cripple me. My feet are tied my hands tethered. The way is shut, the hell-door barred so I cannot slip these bonds. They lie around me, great slabs of hard iron, hot-forged, with them God holds me, choked by the neck: I know he understood, he knew my mind, that lord of hosts, that Adam and I should ill agree about heaven’s kingdom... where I had power in my hands.

Translator's Note: In 1875 the twenty-five-year-old philologist Eduard Sievers proposed, purely on stylistic and linguistic grounds, that part (ll. 235-851) ofthe Old English Genesis was older than, and originally separate from, the rest ofthe poem; an Old English translation ofan Old Saxon original. Nineteen years later that Old Saxon original was discovered in a manuscript in the Vatican Library. Such is the romance ofphilology.


34

Old English

Wulf and Eadwacer Leodum is minum swylce him mon lac gife; willað hy hine aþecgan gif he on þreat cymeð. Ungelic is us. Wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen. Sindon wælreowe weras þær on ige willað hy hine aþecgan hif he on þreat cymeð. Ungelice is us. Wulfes ic mines widlastum wenum dogode þonne hit wæs renig weder ond ic reotugu sæt þonne mec se beaducafa bogum bilegde; wæs me wyn to þon, wæs me hwæþre eac lað. Wulf, min Wulf, wena me þine seoce gedydon þine selcymas murnende mod, nales meteliste. Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer? Uncerne earmne hwelp bireð wulf to wuda. Þæt mon eaþe tosliteð þætte næfre gesomnad wæs uncer giedd geador.

(Original text taken from Krapp, George Philip, and Dobbie, Elliot van Kirk, eds. The Exeter Book: The Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records, vol. III. Morningside Heights, NJ: Columbia University Press, 1936, pp. 179-180; and Marsden, Richard, ed. The Cambridge Old English Reader. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. pp.335-338.)


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Wulf and Eadwacer

trans. James Schuller (TCD)

One like him would be their sacrifice; they will kill him if he comes into our company. We are not the same. Wulf is on one isle, and I on the other; that island is closed, cut off with fens and the blood-mantled men on that island will kill him if he comes into their company. We are not the same. My hopes followed in Wulf’s wide track, and I sat weeping under gray skies. Then battle-brave arms embraced me; there was joy in that, but also hate. Wulf, my Wulf! My dreams of you are fever and famine, your absence sharp hunger and sickness. Do you hear, Eadwacer? Our whelp in its jaws, the wolf to the wood is fleeing, and that which never was bound is easily broken our tale together.


36

Old English

Maxims II

5

10

15

20

25 1

Cyning sceal rice healdan. Ceastra beoð feorran gesyne, orðanc enta geweorc, þa þe on þysse eorðan syndon, wrætlic weallstana geweorc. Wind byð on lyfte swiftust, þunar byð þragum hludast. þrymmas syndan Cristes myccle, wyrd byð swiðost. Winter byð cealdost, lencten hrimigost (he byð lengest ceald), sumor sunwlitegost (swegel byð hatost), hærfest hreðeadegost, hæleðum bringeð geres wæstmas, þa þe him god sendeð. Soð bið switolost, sinc byð deorost, gold gumena gehwam, and gomol snoterost, fyrngearum frod, se þe ær feala gebideð. Wea[x] 1 bið wundrum clibbor. Wolcnu scriðað. Geongne æþeling sceolan gode gesiðas byldan to beaduwe and to beahgife. Ellen sceal on eorle, ecg sceal wið hellme hilde gebidan. Hafuc sceal on glofe wilde gewunian, wulf sceal on bearowe, earm anhaga, eofor sceal on holte, toðmægenes trum. Til sceal on eðle domes wyrcean. Daroð sceal on handa, gar golde fah. Gim sceal on hringe standan steap and geap. Stream sceal on yðum mencgan mereflode. Mæst sceal on ceole, segelgyrd seomian. Sweord sceal on bearme,

TN: Reading "Wea" with Sweet, rather than "Weax".


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Maxims II

trans. Bernard William Mackey (TCD)

5

10

15

20

25

A king shall keep a kingdom. Cities appear from afar, Cunning work of giants, which are on this earth, wondrous wall-stone work. Wind is swiftest in air, thunder is at times loudest. Christ’s glories are great. Fate is strongest. Winter is coldest. Spring frostiest— it is the longest cold; summer splendid with sunshine, heaven is hottest; Autumn most glorious: to men it brings the year’s fruits which God sends to them. Truth is trickiest; treasure is most precious, each man’s gold; and elder is wisest, wise with former years, many previously weathered. Woe is wondrously clinging. Clouds wander. A young earl must be encouraged by good companions to battle and bestowing of rings. A nobleman shall be courageous; sword with helmet shall experience battle. A hawk belongs on a glove, remaining wild; a wolf belongs in the wood, bleak and solitary; a boar belongs in the brake strong in tusk-strength. A good man in his native land shall practice judgement. A projectile shall be held in hand, gold stained spear. A gem shall stand on a ring both high and broad. A stream shall travel toward waves mingle with the sea-tide. Mast shall be on ship, abiding in the sail-yard. Sword shall be on lap,


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drihtlic isern. Draca sceal on hlæwe, frod, frætwum wlanc. Fisc sceal on wætere cynren cennan. Cyning sceal on healle beagas dælan. Bera sceal on hæðe, eald and egesfull. Ea of dune sceal flodgræg feran. Fyrd sceal ætsomne, tirfæstra getrum. Treow sceal on eorle, wisdom on were. Wudu sceal on foldan blædum blowan. Beorh sceal on eorþan grene standan. God sceal on heofenum, dæda demend. Duru sceal on healle, rum recedes muð. Rand sceal on scylde, fæst fingra gebeorh. Fugel uppe sceal lacan on lyfte. Leax sceal on wæle mid sceote scriðan. Scur sceal on heofenum, winde geblanden, in þas woruld cuman. þeof sceal gangan þystrum wederum. þyrs sceal on fenne gewunian ana innan lande. Ides sceal dyrne cræfte, fæmne hire freond gesecean, gif heo nelle on folce geþeon þæt hi man beagum gebicge. Brim sceal sealte weallan, lyfthelm and laguflod ymb ealra landa gehwylc, flowan firgenstreamas. Feoh sceal on eorðan tydran and tyman. Tungol sceal on heofenum beorhte scinan, swa him bebead meotud. God sceal wið yfele, geogoð sceal wið yldo, lif sceal wið deaþe, leoht sceal wið þystrum, fyrd wið fyrde, feond wið oðrum, lað wið laþe ymb land sacan, synne stælan. A sceal snotor hycgean ymb þysse worulde gewinn, wearh hangian, fægere ongildan þæt he ær facen dyde


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a most distinguished iron. Dragon shall on mound, be old, proud in ornaments. A fish in water shall spawn. A king in hall shall distribute rings. A bear shall be in heath, aged and terrible. A river shall down-hill sea-grey travel. An army together shall be a famous troop. Faithful shall be a warrior, wise a man. A wood shall in soil bloom with blossoms. The hill on earth stands green. God shall in heaven judge deeds. A door shall be in hall, a spacious building’s mouth. Shield-boss shall on shield protect strong fingers. A fowl shall be up sporting in the air. A salmon shall be in pool wandering with the trout. A storm shall from heaven, muddled with the wind, come into this world. Thief shall go in shadowed weather. Ogre shall in fen abide alone in that land. Woman shall with secret craft, as a maiden seek her lover out— if she is unwilling to succeed with the /community— so that a man must secure her with rings. The salt sea shall surge, mist and waters flow about all the land, with mighty streams. Cattle on earth shall, propagate and produce. A star in heaven shall, shine clearly, as Creator has commanded it. Good companion to evil; youth companion to age; life companion to death; light companion to darkness; army companion to army; enemy companion to another, foe companion to foe, fighting concerning land, accusing the other of offence. Always shall the wise man meditate concerning the conflict in this world; the criminal shall hang and suitably atone for that crime he previously performed


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manna cynne. Meotod ana wat hwyder seo sawul sceal syððan hweorfan, and ealle þa gastas þe for gode hweorfað æfter deaðdæge, domes bidað on fæder fæðme. Is seo forðgesceaft digol and dyrne; drihten ana wat, nergende fæder. Næni eft cymeð hider under hrofas, þe þæt her for soð mannum secge hwylc sy meotodes gesceaft, sigefolca gesetu, þær he sylfa wunað.

(Original text taken from Dobbie, 1942 55-7; Dobbie, E.V.K., The Anglo-Saxon Minor Poems, ASPR 6 (New York))


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against man-kind. The Creator alone knows whither the soul shall journey after life, and all the spirits that to God journey after the day of their death, awaiting judgement in the Father’s embrace. The future is concealed and secret; the Lord alone knows, the saving Father. None return again hither under the heavens, that here truly might tell men, what might be the decree of the Creator; the home of victorious people— there He Himself dwells.


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French

Three Poems Paul Verlaine Cortege

Un singe en veste de brocart Trotte et gambade devant elle Qui froisse un mouchoir de dentelle Dans sa main ganté avec art, Tandis qu'un négrillon tout rouge Maintient à tour de bras les pans De sa lourde robe en suspens, Attentif à tout pli qui bouge; Le singe ne perd pas des yeux La gorge blanche de la dame, Opulent trésor que réclame Le torse nu de l'un des dieux; Le négrillon parfois soulève Plus haut qu'il ne faut, l'airgrefin, Son fardeau somptueux, afin De voir ce dont la nuit il rêve; Elle va pars les escaliers, Et ne paraît pas davantage Sensible à l'insolent souffrage De ses animaux familiers.


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Three Poems Paul Verlaine

trans. Dr. David Scott (TCD)

Cortege

A monkey in a brocade coat Gambols and capers in her path As she crumples her lace kerchief In her hand gloved with art, While a black boy all in red Supports with all his might the skirt Of her heavy gown, always alert To each and every swaying fold; The monkey never loses sight Of the lady's milky bust Fit, opulent treasure chest, To give a marble god delight; The little black boy cheats sometimes And lifts too high the sumptuous load So that he sees beneath the folds That of which at night he dreams; She wanders down the lawn below And does not seem much more aware Of the love and insolent care Domestic pets on her bestow.


French Cythère

Un pavillon à claires-voies Abrite doucement nos joies Qu'éventent des rosiers amis; L'odeur des roses, faible, grâce Au vent léger d'été qui passe, Se mêle aux parfums qu'elle a mis; Comme ses yeux l'avaient promis, Son courage et grand et sa lèvre Communique une exquise fièvre; Et l'Amour comblant tout, hormis La faim, sorbets et confitures Nous préservent des courbatures.

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Cythère

An open-work pavilion Protects our sweet oblivion That friendly rosebushes fan; The faint scent of roses, Wafted by warm breezes, Melds with the one she's put on; Her eyes' say it's the season, Her courage is up, and her smile Expresses a bewitching guile; And Love, bringing satisfaction To all but cramp and hunger, We lunch on sorbets and cucumber.


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French En bateau

L'Etoile du berger tremblote Dans l'eau plus noire et le pilote Cherche un briquet dans sa culotte. C'est l'instant, Messieurs, ou jamais, D'être audacieux, et je mets Mes deux mains partout désormais! Le chevalier Atys, qui gratte Sa guitare, à Chloris l'ingrate Lancé une oeillade scélérate. L'abbé confesse bas Eglé, Et ce vicomte déréglé Des champs donne à son cœur la clé. Cependant la lune se lève Et l'esquif en sa course brève File gaîment sur l'eau qui rêve.

(Original text taken from Verlaine, Paul. Poemes Saturniens/Fetes Galantes. Ed. Martine Bercot. Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1997. Print.)


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On the water

The shepherd's star flickers In the stream as the rower Seeks a light in his trousers. It's the moment, sirs, now or Never to be brave for our Hands now have license to wander. The knightly Atys, at his Guitar, serenades Chloris Archly for all her hubris. The priest absolves Maisie While the earl, in his frenzy, Of his heart gives up the key. So lit up by a moonbeam The skiff takes to the stream As gaily as in a wakening dream.


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Histoire du Juif Errant Antonin Artaud Comme il terminait son récit, le soleil se coucha et une ombre glaciale et triste commença à baigner la rue. Je regardai mes mains que la lumière faisait toutes blanches et d’où je sentais que la vie, lentement, se retirait, lorsqu’une exclamation joyeuse de mon page me fit tout à coup lever la tête. — Oh ! oh ! s’écria-t-il, en sautant à terre, voici le Grand Mogol ! — Qui ? lui dis-je. — Oh ! rien : un homme qui me poursuit depuis Munich et se prétend chargé d’un message important pour vous. — Pour moi ? — Oui, pour vous. Comme j’errais dans Munich, un peu désemparé, et désespérant de jamais retrouver vos traces, je me trouvai tout à coup devant l’auberge du « Roi des Romains ». Nul ne put me renseigner sur votre compte, mais en revanche, j’aperçus dans la cour, au milieu du plus singulier appareil, un homme très grand et horriblement décharné qui marchait avec solennité. Il avait le buste nu ; son œil était masqué d’un bandeau noir et une énorme épée lui battait les jambes. Il passa une ou deux fois devant moi en marmottant d’étranges paroles dont je compris à la longue qu’elles vous concernaient, et, quand j’y pense, elles constituaient un message assez pressé, quoique d’une nature si folle qu’il ne valait pas la peine qu’on s’y arrêtât. » Je me renseignai sur lui. On le supposait étranger sans que personne pût dire au juste d’où il venait ; il allait ainsi, l’œil bandé, dépoitraillé, squelettique, la taille ceinte dans une sorte de pagne qui lui retombait sur les pieds. » Il ne parlait à personne ; et nul ne pouvait se vanter de l’avoir jamais vu rire ; il couchait dans un grenier sur la paille et mangeait comme les bêtes. Pourtant, il semblait avoir la bourse pleine, et bien des malheureux de la ville n’eurent qu’à se louer de ses prodigalités. On le redoutait partout comme un sorcier, et je ne serais pas éloigné de voir en lui quelque incarnation du docteur Faust en train


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The Tale of the Wandering Jew Antonin Artaud trans. Stephen Stacey (TCD)

As he was drawing his tale to a close, the sun set, and a shadow, icy and mournful, began to wash over the streets. I looked at my hands, made pallid by the light, from which I could feel the life slowly slipping away, when my servant’s delighted cry caused me to raise my head with a start. ‘Ah ha!’, he cried, leaping to his feet, ‘It’s the Great Mogul!’ ‘Who?’, I asked. ‘Oh, no one! A fellow who’s been following me since Munich and claims to have an important message for you’ ‘For me?’ ‘Yes, for you. As I was wandering through Munich, feeling rather lost, and despairing of ever finding any trace of you again, I suddenly found myself in front of a certain inn, the ‘King of the Romans’. While there was no word whatsoever to be had of you, I did spy the most singular-looking fellow in the courtyard; a very tall, horribly emaciated man walking about with a grave step. He was bare-chested, one eye was hidden by a band of black fabric, and an enormous sword was slapping against his leg. He passed before me once or twice, muttering curious words which I eventually understood to concern you and which – now that I think about it – amounted to a rather urgent message, albeit of such a bizarre sort as to have scarcely been worth dwelling upon. ‘I made enquiries about him. He was thought to be a foreigner – though no one could tell precisely from whence he came. Apparently, it was his way to go about like that: one eye covered, chest bared, skeletally thin, and with a sort of loincloth around his waist which fell to his feet. ‘He spoke to no one, and not a single person could boast of having ever seen him laugh. He slept in a hayloft, on straw, and ate like an animal. Nonetheless, his purse seemed well-filled, and many of the city’s unfortunates had nothing but the highest praise for his feats of generosity. He was widely feared as a sorcerer – and


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d’accomplir sur la terre un nouveau voyage d’expiation ; mais l’aubergiste m’assura que c’était le Grand Mogol lui-même, qui voyageait incognito. » Tandis que Théodore me parlait, j’étais sur des charbons ardents. Une instinctive attraction me poussait vers cet homme ; et j’avais hâte que mon page me redît le message dont il l’avait chargé. Je l’interrompis au milieu de ses descriptions, pour lui rappeler qu’il avait quelque chose à me dire. Il se gratta la tête un moment, sans comprendre, puis sourit. — Ah ! oui, me dit-il. Mais les paroles du sorcier me semblent si peu en rapport avec tout ce qui vous intéresse que je les avais presque complètement oubliées. Les voici néanmoins. » Comme je le regardais tout ahuri de son air et de ses attitudes, il s’approcha de moi et, me fixant d’un regard plein de flammes, il me dit sentencieusement : « L’homme que vous cherchez a rencontré ce qu’il voudrait bien perdre. Une seule main, désormais, peut étancher le sang et c’est la mienne. Que votre maître pense à moi chaque fois que l’heure sonnera. » Presque hébété de l’étrange correspondance de ces paroles avec tout ce qui me préoccupait, je me jetai à bas de mon lit, et prenant Théodore par les épaules, je le poussai dehors en lui enjoignant de me retrouver coûte que coûte l’étranger et de me le ramener immédiatement. – Puis je regagnai mon fauteuil. Un temps assez long s’écoula. La nuit s’était complètement faite, et je m’assoupissais comme d’habitude, lorsque Théodore me frappa à l’épaule. L’étrange personne était devant moi. Il se tenait dans un rayon venu de la rue, et je le regardai d’abord sans mot dire, admirant la force et la profondeur de ses traits, mais, peu à peu, un quelque chose de subtil, de maléfique qui s’exhalait de lui, me mit mal à l’aise. J’attendais tout de lui, et pourtant, à la longue, sa présence me gêna. Il me regardait avec douceur et compassion, et je ne pus m’empêcher de reconnaître la puissance qui sortait de ses yeux, mais je me sentais oppressé comme au fond d’un mauvais rêve et je voulus le presser de remuer ou de parler, lorsqu’il fit signe à Théodore d’avoir à quitter la chambre. Puis, s’approchant de moi, il me prit la main et me dit : — Je n’ignore rien de ce qui vous concerne, et, seul, j’ai le pouvoir de chasser le spectre qui vous importune. Toutefois, patientez jusqu’à dimanche ; à l’heure où


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I myself wouldn’t be far from seeing in him some manner of Doctor Faustus, wandering the earth on another penitential journey – but the innkeeper assured me that it was the Great Mogul himself, travelling incognito.’ I was on tenterhooks while Theodore spoke. An instinctive attraction drew me towards this man, and I was impatient for my servant to communicate the message with which he had been entrusted. I interrupted his protracted narration to remind him that he had something to tell me. He scratched his head for a moment, not understanding what I meant, then smiled. ‘Yes, of course!’, he said. ‘The sorcerer’s words just seem so removed from your concerns that I almost forgot to mention them at all. Here’s what he said, in any event. ‘While I was looking at him, quite astounded by his appearance and his manner, he came towards me and, fixing me with a fiery gaze, solemnly said: “The man you seek has met with that which he would dearly lose. Henceforth, one hand alone can stem the blood, and that is mine. Let your Master think of me each time the bell tolls one.” ’ Just about dumbfound at the strange congruity between these words and all that which lay so heavy upon me, I threw myself from my bed and, taking Theodore by the shoulders, I drove him out, commanding him to find this strange fellow at any cost and bring him to me immediately. Then, I returned to my armchair. Hours passed. The night had drawn in and I was dozing off, as was my wont, when Theodore tapped me on the shoulder. The strange fellow was there before me. He was standing in a shaft of light coming in from the street; at first, I merely look at him, not saying a word, admiring the strength and mystery of his features. Gradually, however, some subtle malevolence which he exuded set me ill at ease. I saw in him my saviour and yet, after a time, his presence unsettled me. He looked upon me with kindness and compassion – I couldn’t help but recognise the power which streamed from his eyes – but I felt oppressed, as if I were in the depths of some nightmare, and I wanted to beseech him to move or speak when he gestured that Theodore should leave the bedroom. Then, drawing towards me, he


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commence le jour du repos, l’influence des morts s’épuise. Je serai près de vous à ce moment-là, et après samedi, je vous le promets, la NONNE ne vous visitera plus. Il fit mine de se retirer, mais je le retins. — Par quel moyen, lui dis-je, êtes-vous en possession d’un secret que j’ai si soigneusement caché à tout le monde ? — Et comment, me répondit-il, ignorerais-je la cause de vos souffrances lorsque je LA vois, flottante, à côté de vous ? Je sursautai et regardai autour de moi, essayant de percer les ténèbres, mais il me glissa : — Bien que vous ne la voyiez qu’une heure sur vingt-quatre, elle ne vous quitte en réalité ni nuit ni jour et elle ne vous quittera que lorsque vous aurez exécuté ses volontés. — Mais, comment le ferais-je ? j’ignore absolument ce qu’elle me veut. — C’est à elle à vous l’expliquer ; attendez la nuit de samedi à dimanche ; à ce moment-là, tout s’éclaircira. Et il ne s’en alla pas tout de suite. Il s’assit près de moi et continua à me parler ; mais j’ai gardé un souvenir si fabuleux de sa présence, ce soir-là, à mes côtés, et des certitudes qu’il me donna sur toutes sortes de personnages et d’événements déjà momifiés et emportés par les siècles, que j’ose à peine croire que je n’aie pas rêvé. Il ne revint que trois jours après. Pour donner le change, je m’étais couché et avais renvoyé mes domestiques, mais aux approches de minuit je me rhabillai et attendis avec impatience le retour du Grand Mogol. Il apparut comme minuit sonnait. Je crus d’abord que c’était la NONNE, mais mon propre calme me rassura. Il s’approcha et me salua sans parler. Il portait dans la main un coffret de bois noir qu’il déposa près du poêle. Puis, s’orientant, il fit quelques pas jusque vers le milieu de la chambre. Ses gestes étaient rapides et précis ; il écarta un guéridon qui le gênait, puis rejetant dans un coin le tapis qui recouvrait le plancher, il s’agenouilla sur le sol et tournant lentement sur lui-même, il traça une sorte de cercle invisible dont il recouvrit les bords d’une multitude de croix. Puis, se relevant, il alla chercher le coffret qu’il avait laissé sur le poêle, l’ouvrit et en tira


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took my hand and said: ‘Nothing of your predicament escapes me and I, I alone, have the power to banish the ghost who torments you. You must wait until Sunday, however; at the hour when the Day of Rest begins, the power of the dead ebbs. I will be with you at that moment and after Saturday, I promise you, the NUN shall visit you no more.’ He made as if to leave but I detained him. ‘How’, I asked, ‘How did you come to know a secret which I have so carefully hidden from everyone?’ ‘And how’, replied he, ‘could I be unaware of the cause of your suffering when I see HER, floating, by your side?’ I leapt to my feet and looked frantically about, striving to pierce the gloom, but he informed me in a low voice: ‘Though you only see her one hour in twenty four, in truth she never leaves your side, neither day nor night, and she will never leave you until you have done her will.’ ‘But how can I? I haven’t the faintest idea what she wants from me’ ‘That is up to her to explain. Wait until the night between Saturday and Sunday. All will become clear then.’ He did not leave immediately. He sat close by me and continued to speak to me, but the memory which I have kept of his presence by my side that evening, and of the assurances he gave regarding all manner of persons and events long since mummified and carried off by the centuries, is so fantastic that I can scarcely believe it wasn’t a dream. It was three days before he returned. The better to avoid arousing suspicion, I had retired to bed and dismissed my servants. But, as midnight approached, I got dressed and eagerly awaited the return of the Great Mogul. He appeared as the clock struck midnight. I initially thought it was the NUN but my own sense of calm reassured me. He approached and greeted me silently. He carried in his hand a small, black-wooden chest which he set down by the stove. Then, taking his bearings, he took a few steps towards the middle of the bedroom. His movements were quick and precise; he set aside a small table which was in his


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un crucifix, une bible, et enfin une ampoule pleine d’un liquide opaque et gluant. Il plaça à terre, au milieu du cercle, un crâne minuscule et disposa autour un certain nombre d’ossements humains. Alors, trempant le crucifix dans l’ampoule, il aspergea le plancher de la liqueur qu’elle contenait, puis, se jetant de nouveau à terre et s’animant à mesure, il se mit à tourner une seconde fois sur lui-même, et le christ laissait sur les bords du cercle fictif une épaisse traînée de sang. Il y eut bientôt sur le plancher un immense cercle rouge admirablement tracé ; les bords en étaient coupés de cases inégales, et dans chacune brillait une croix d’ossements. Quand il eut fini, il se mit debout et me pria de venir le rejoindre. Pénétré d’une sorte de terreur sacrée, je lui obéis sans mot dire. L’ombre, autour de nous, semblait pleine de mouvements. Je crus comprendre qu’il me priait de me taire, et il me recommanda en outre de ne plus chercher à sortir du cercle à partir du moment où il commencerait ses incantations, et ce, me dit-il, SOUS PEINE DE MORT Et que je ne m’avise pas non plus de le regarder au visage, car, alors, il ne pourrait rien pour moi. Ayant dit, il ouvrit sa bible et s’absorba dans sa lecture au point que j’eus le sentiment qu’il se retirait de là, et pourtant, je le sentais toujours contre moi, mais d’une présence de cadavre Transi de froid, muet, le cœur suspendu, la respiration prise, je n’osais bouger ; tout cela était bizarre et affreux. Enfin, une heure sonna. J’entendis le pas habituel de la NONNE, mais il avait quelque chose d’anodin et de familier qui me rassura presque et me donna envie d’avoir pitié de mon spectre. Il pénétra dans la chambre, et s’approcha du cercle, qui semblait exercer sur lui une résistance inaccoutumée. Je le regardai ; il était là, les mains écartées, la bouche ouverte, comme médusé d’étonnement. L’exorciseur le fixait d’un air à la fois malin et courroucé ; ils semblaient deux guerriers en train de se mesurer et se narguer du haut de leur forteresse surnaturelle. Mais, dressant le crucifix derrière lui avec un mouvement d’une souveraine autorité :


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way and then, throwing into a corner the rug which covered the floorboards, he knelt down and turned about himself in such a fashion as to describe an invisible circle, over the circumference of which he made many signs of the cross. At this point he got to his feet and returned to the little chest which he had set upon the stove. Opening it, he took out a crucifix, a Bible and, finally, an ampulla full of an opaque and viscous liquid. On the floor, in the centre of the circle, he placed a tiny skull about which he set a certain number of human bones. Then, dipping the crucifix in the ampulla, he sprinkled the floorboards with the liquid held therein. Here he threw himself again upon the floor and, with an ever increasing fervour, began again to describe that same circle. The figure of Christ left a thick trail of blood along the circumference of this imagined circle. Before long, a great red circle had been traced impressively upon the floorboards. The rim of this circle was broken into uneven sections, each of which gleamed with its own cross of bones. When he had finished, he stood up and asked me to join him. I obeyed wordlessly, gripped by a sort of holy terror. The shadows about us seemed to be full of movement. I had the impression that he wanted me to be quiet, and he further advised me not to attempt leaving the circle once he began his incantations. I was to remain in the circle, he told me, ON PAIN OF DEATH I was also under no circumstances to consider looking him in the face because if I were to do so there would be nothing he could do for me. Having said this, he opened his Bible and became so deeply absorbed in his reading that I had the impression he was leaving the room. Though I still felt him beside me, it was as if I stood next to a corpse. Paralysed with fear, silent, my heart not beating, my breath held, I didn’t dare move; the entire experience was fantastic and fearful. Finally, the clock struck one. I heard the familiar step of the NUN, but it had something innocuous about it, something familiar, which almost soothed me


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— Béatrice ! Béatrice ! que nous veux-tu ? Je te l’ordonne, parle. Quelle cause trouble ton sommeil ? Pourquoi persécuter ce malheureux jeune homme ? clama-t-il d’une voix solennelle et sur un ton aigu et transperçant. Elle émit un long soupir, mais ne fit aucune réponse. — Béatrice ! Béatrice ! reprit-il sur un ton d’une acuité insoutenable et dont la force semblait le faire sortir de lui. Et il n’eût pas plus tôt jeté son hurlement qu’il laissa tomber le crucifix et, rejetant la bible en arrière, il arracha le bandeau qui lui cernait le front. Immédiatement, j’eus l’impression de tomber, et je vis le spectre devant moi devenir lamentable et croiser les mains en signe de supplication. Je me sentais aspiré de toute part par un vertige qui m’enjoignait de fermer les yeux ; je voulus me raccrocher à mon guide, et, soit curiosité absurde, soit reflexe, je jetai un instant les yeux sur lui. Alors, ce fut atroce, et je compris l’expression pitoyable et tremblante du fantôme. Un feu malicieux et féroce bondit sur moi comme si toute la méchanceté des abîmes célestes avait pris pour me frapper la pénétration même de la lumière. Mon esprit, mon âme, mes facultés, tout ce qui me donnait la sensation d’être là, de tremper dans quelque chose, de me suspendre, d’aller, de venir, de résister, tout était coupé en forme de croix ; c’était un écartèlement ardent et qui m’inspirait comme une folie de me dissoudre, sans que l’éternité elle-même fût assez longue pour me permettre d’y parvenir ; — et cette éternité dura l’espace d’un clignement de paupières, et quand je rouvris les yeux, le sorcier me soutenait la tête de son poing fermé et la NONNE s’apprêtait à quitter la pièce. Le sorcier avait repris son crucifix. Le jour se levait. Un coq, au loin, chanta. Le fantôme fixa le ciel d’un regard plein d’une sombre désolation et, dans la chambre close, ces paroles m’arrivèrent avec le vent frais du matin. — Grâce ! grâce ! disait la voix de l’ombre. Vous êtes le plus fort, et je me soumets ; mais, cependant, prenez pitié de ma dépouille, et sachez que mes os pourrissent dans un recoin perdu du Trou de Lindenberg, et c’est à ce jeune homme ici présent qu’il incombe d’en ordonner la sépulture ; c’est lui qu’à travers les siècles j’ai recherché, il est à moi, et ses lèvres me l’ont juré, et jamais je lui rendrai sa promesse. Je continuerai à peupler ses nuits de cauchemars et de frayeurs tant qu’il ne m’aura pas ensevelie.


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and made me want to pity my phantom. She entered the bedroom and drew near the circle, which seemed to offer her an unexpected resistance. I gazed upon her: there she stood, hands outstretched, mouth open, as if petrified with astonishment. The eyes of the exorcist held her with a gaze at once cunning and wrathful. They might have been two warriors, each taking the other’s measure, each high in their supernatural fortress and scornful of the other. And then, drawing the crucifix above his head with a gesture of absolute authority: ‘Beatrice! Beatrice! What do you seek here? I command you, Speak! What troubles your sleep? Why do you torment this unfortunate young man?’, he declaimed in a solemn voice which rang out, crystalline and piercing. She heaved a long sigh but made no answer. ‘Beatrice! Beatrice!’, he repeated in a tone so acute as to be unbearable and the force of which seemed to draw him out of his own body. No sooner had he bellowed his cry than he let fall his crucifix and, throwing the Bible aside, he tore off the band of black which encircled his forehead. I suddenly felt as if I were falling and I saw the phantom before me become pathetic, joining her hands by way of entreaty. I felt my whole being drawn up to a dizzying height which compelled me to close my eyes. I wanted to cling to my guide and – perhaps mad curiosity, perhaps mere reflex – I now cast my eyes upon him for a moment. It was unspeakable. At that moment, I understood the pitiful and trembling countenance of the spectre. A baleful and fearsome fire leapt upon me with a force so great that it was as if all the wickedness of the heavenly abyss had assumed the piercing force of light itself to strike me. My mind, my soul, my faculties, everything which assured me that I was there, that I inhabited something, that I was held aloft, that I came and went, that I resisted, everything was undone, recut in the shape of the cross. What I experienced in that moment was a searing, incandescent agony which made me yearn desperately for my own dissolution, for a dissolution so utter that not even eternity itself would have allowed me to achieve it. This eternity lasted the span of a blink, and when I opened my eyes again my head was being supported by the sorcerer’s clenched fist and the NUN was on the point of leaving the room. The sorcerer had retrieved his crucifix. The sun was rising. In the


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» Je lui commande qu’ayant recueilli mes os qui tombent depuis si longtemps en poudre, il les transporte dans le caveau de famille de son château d’Andalousie. Ensuite, ayant fait dire trente messe pour le repos de mon âme, il peut espérer que je le laisserai tranquille et que je ne reviendrai plus importuner les vivants. Maintenant, laissez-moi partir, car ces flammes sont dévorantes. Le sorcier abaissa le crucifix dont les branches semblaient aimanter le spectre, et l’apparition, inclinant la tête en signe d’assentiment, se dissipa par degrés dans l’air. L’exorciseur me souleva par la taille comme à bout de bras, et me déposa hors du cercle. Puis, replaçant le crucifix dans sa boîte, il me dit à peu près ceci : — Vous n’ignorez plus rien, maintenant, du devoir qui vous incombe. Quant à moi, il me reste à vous donner les raisons qui motivèrent la course errante de ce double à travers le temps et les espaces, et son retour à époques fixes. » Sachez donc que Béatrice da Las Cisternas (et en entendant ce nom, je le regardai, muet de stupeur) était la grand’tante de votre grand-père. Elle prit le voile de fort bonne heure, non de son plein gré, mais sur l’ordre exprès de son père. Elle était trop jeune, certes, pour se faire une idée de l’état de servage tant moral que physique auquel elle se condamnait. Mais, un jour, la nature reprit le dessus et elle s’abandonna sans vergogne à toute la frénésie de ses passions. Elle connut, on ne sait comment, le baron de Lindenberg dont elle devint la maîtresse et qui l’emmena en Allemagne après un mémorable enlèvement. Arrivée là, ses désordres ne connurent plus de frein ; ce n’était toutes les nuits que fêtes luxurieuses, démonstrations sacrilèges, débauches et dilapidations effrénées. Habillée en religieuse, elle sermonnait ses convives, singeait les cérémonies sacrées qu’elle transformait en rites obscènes. L’argent de la baronnie coulait à flots, les libertins se multiplièrent, mais le scandale de cette sœur défroquée et qui, non contente de prostituer ses vœux, faisait profession d’incrédulité et appelait toutes les nuits les foudres de Dieu sur sa tête, déborda, et de loin, le fief de Lindenberg. Un vent de lubricité gratuite, de basse sorcellerie, souffla de là sur l’Allemagne, à tel point qu’on s’en émut en Cour de Rome, et la légende raconte qu’un projet singulier germa dans les têtes retorses des vieux inquisiteurs ; je ne soutiendrai pas, d’ailleurs, qu’il ne s’y mêlât en parts égales, autant que la volonté


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distance, a cock crowed. The ghost fixed the sky with a gaze full of sombre desolation and, in this sealed room, these words were carried to me on cool morning air. ‘Pity! Have pity!’, the spectre’s voice was saying. ‘You are the stronger and I submit – but, I beg you, have pity on my earthly remains. Know that my bones now moulder in a forgotten corner of Lindenberg Hole and that the task of laying them to rest falls to this young man here present. He is the one I have sought through the centuries. He is mine; his lips have sworn it to me, and I will never free him from his promise. I will continue to fill his nights with nightmares and terrors so long as I remain unburied. ‘I order him to retrieve my bones, crumbling to dust for many long years, and to bear them to the family crypt of his castle in Andalusia. Then, having ensured that thirty masses are said for the repose of my soul, he may be assured that I shall leave him in peace, never again returning to intrude upon the living. Now, let me leave – these flames consume me.’ The sorcerer lowered the crucifix, the arms of which seemed to hold the spectre transfixed, and, bowing her head as a sign of acceptance, the apparition gradually melted away into the air. The exorcist picked me up by the waist with apparent difficulty and set me down outside the circle. Then, once again settling the crucifix in its chest, he told me something like the following. ‘The task which falls to you is now clear. As for me, my final duty is to explain to you what lies behind this shade’s wanderings through time and space, and what fixes the rhythm of her returns. ‘Know this: Beatrice de Las Cisternas (upon hearing this name I could only look at him, dumbstruck) was the great-aunt of your grandfather. She took the veil when very young and not entirely of her own choosing, but rather on the express orders of her father. She was, undoubtedly, too young to comprehend that servitude, as much moral as sensuous, to which she was condemning herself. One day, however, nature regained the upper hand and she shamelessly gave herself over to the madness of her desires. Somehow she came to know Baron Lindenberg, whose lover she became, and who, following a particularly memorable abduction, brought her to Germany. Once there, her excesses knew no bounds. Her nights


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avouée d’empêcher plus longtemps de se perdre les âmes que la pécheresse livrait chaque nuit aux prestiges de Satan, une sorte de volupté de l’esprit, tout aussi coupable que l’autre, et à laquelle leurs âmes de prêtres ne manquèrent pas de se livrer avec un total consentement. Avec le tempérament qu’on lui connaissait, les amants se succédaient dans la couche de la fausse baronne avec une prodigieuse rapidité ; le baron était depuis longtemps cocu, mais il n’en était pas à une lâcheté près pour garder auprès de lui le corps, à défaut du cœur, de la pernicieuse enchanteresse. Celle-ci s’avisa un jour que le baron, son amant, avait un fils d’un premier lit qui devait être alors à la fleur de l’âge, et elle résolut de ne pas se priver plus longtemps de la satisfaction de se donner à lui. Or, ce fils, à ce moment-là, était mourant. Consumé d’une maladie mystérieuse, il ne quittait plus guère son lit et passait son temps, enfermé dans sa chambre, à écouter les bruits pas très éloignés des luxures nocturnes dont les images venaient troubler ses angoisses de moribond. On ne sait à la suite de la délation de quel confesseur le monstrueux désir de la NONNE parvint aux oreilles des inquisiteurs. Il n’y avait pas de loi terrestre qui permît d’arrêter les débordements de cette fille de Satan. D’autre part, il ne fallait guère songer à sauver son âme, à elle, car, qui aurait répondu de toutes celles qu’elle avait amenées à leur perte ? La sauver eût été aussi immoral qu’inhumain, diamétralement opposé à l’ordre de Dieu sur terre ; il fallait lui enlever tout moyen de salut et, pour que sa perte fût complète provoquer d’une manière ou de l’autre, mais toujours indirectement, sa mort dans l’impénitence, et faire de cette mort un exemple de terreur pour les libertins, un enseignement et une leçon pour les hésitants et les faibles, mais surtout une image de réconfort pour les autres : les justes, les prédestinés ! » Je ne vous garantis pas l’authenticité de la légende, pas plus que je ne vous garantis le romantisme un peu excessif et puéril de toute cette histoire, mais voici à peu près comment les choses se sont passées : » Le prêtre qui servait aux messes noires de la baronne, et qui n’en avait pas pour cela rompu avec l’Eglise (dont il n’était d’ailleurs que l’envoyé très fidèle et très secret), sut inspirer au baron la terreur salutaire d’un trépas peut-être proche, et il parvint à le mettre de moitié dans ses projets. Il le décida à interdire à quiconque d’approcher son fils mourant, puis, quand celui-ci eut trépassé, il


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were a succession of licentious feasts, acts of sacrilege, debauchery and wild excesses. Clad in her nun’s habit, she preached to the assembled guests, and aped the sacred rituals which she transformed into obscene rites. The barony’s wealth was squandered, libertines flocked to her in ever great numbers. Yet the scandal of this heretical nun – who, not content with prostituting her vows, declared herself an atheist and would each night call the Lord’s wrath down upon her head – spread far beyond the fiefdom of Lindenberg. Thence did the winds of wanton lascivity, of base sorcery, blow so fiercely across Germany that the Holy See itself grew anxious. The story goes that an extraordinary plot was hatched by the cunning minds of the old inquisitors and, for my part, I will not deny that behind this plot there lay, in equal measure, both an avowed desire to prevent the loss of any more of those souls which, each night, that harlot gave over to Satan’s empty promises, and a sort of spiritual ecstasy, every bit as despicable as that of the flesh, to which these priestly souls did not hesitate to give themselves over wholly and completely. As befitted her temperament, an unending cavalcade of lovers were welcomed into the bed of the false Baroness. (The Baron had long known of his mistress’ infidelity, but cowardice preserved him from being so far cuckolded as to cling to the body of that wicked enchantress whose heart he had lost.) One day she learned that her lover the Baron had a son, born of an earlier union, who was in the flower of his youth, and she resolved to delay no longer the pleasure of giving herself to him. Now, at that time, the son lay dying. Stricken by a mysterious illness, he scarcely left his bed and passed his days locked in his room, listening to the none too distant sounds of nocturnal debauchery which brought images to trouble his death throes. No one can tell which confessor broke the sacramental seal to bring word of the NUN’s monstrous desire to the inquisitors. No earthly law, it seemed, might contain the excesses of this daughter of Satan. There could hardly be any question of saving her soul, for then who would answer for the souls which she had led to their perdition? Saving her would have been at once immoral and inhuman, directly contrary to God’s law on earth. What was needed was to deny her any means of salvation and, so that her ruin might be complete, to ensure, albeit indirectly, that she died in a state of mortal sin. This death might then be made to serve as a terrible example to the libertines, an


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annonça sa prochaine guérison. Cependant, dans les couvents de l’Europe entière, un novice grand et fort, portant beau et aussi ressemblant que possible avec le mort, fut patiemment cherché. Le pape le délia de ses vœux et, lui enjoignant de pécher pour le bien de l’Eglise et le salut des justes, il lui rendit sa liberté. ` » On lui fit gagner nuitamment le château de Lindenberg, puis, à quelque temps de là, au milieu d’une orgie nocturne, le baron le présenta à ses convives comme son fils, non pas guéri, mais, pour ainsi dire, ressuscité. Ce qui était prévu arriva, la baronne s’enflamma tout de suite, et la chose se fit sans plus de façon. » Mais le faux baronnet, l’ancien novice, un instant affolé par la débandade brusque de ses sens, se ressaisit ; il maintint aussi longtemps qu’il le fallut sa complice dans un état d’affolement favorable à ses projets : la baronne, au milieu de l’étalage d’un luxe qui ne lui appartenait pas, n’était en somme qu’une concubine et elle brûlait de légitimer sa situation au milieu du fief de Lindenberg. Quant au baronnet, il avait fini par prendre son rôle au sérieux, il se croyait maintenant vraiment le fils du baron, mais il n’était rien tant que son père vivait, et tout son art, à partir de cet instant, consista à faire croire à la baronne que l’idée du crime nécessaire pour les affermir l’un et l’autre dans la possession des biens de son père avait germé en même temps dans leurs deux cerveaux. » Il lui donna rendez-vous pour le 5 mai de cette année-là, à minuit, au lieu dit Trou de Lindenberg ; il serait là avec quelques amis armés ; elle aurait pour mission d’y amener son amant que l’on poignarderait et dont on ferait disparaître le cadavre, puis tous, revenant en armes et masqués, se présenteraient brusquement dans la salle du festin, terroriseraient les convives, et à quelques temps de là, une fois calmée l’émotion du massacre et son souvenir suffisamment effacé, la baronne et lui, devenus les héritiers légaux de son père et les maîtres de son titre, s’installeraient solennellement comme époux dans la baronnie de Lindenberg. » Habillée en nonne, armée d’un poignard et portant de la main gauche une lanterne qu’elle élevait au-dessus de sa tête pour éclairer sa route, Béatrice pénétra à l’heure dite dans la caverne où les spadassins étaient postés. » Elle poussait devant elle son malheureux époux à qui je ne sais trop quel mélange avait enlevé tout conscience de lui-même ; il pénétra dans la caverne


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instructive lesson for the weak and uncertain, and, above all, a comfort for the others: the just, the saved! ‘By no means do I guarantee the authenticity of this particular story, no more than I guarantee the somewhat puerile and excessive romanticism of this tale as a whole, but here, more or less, is what happened: ‘The priest who said the Baroness’ black masses – who, despite this, had not broken with the Church but was, on the contrary its trusted and secret agent – knew how to instil in the Baron the righteous fear of what might well be an imminent passing, and succeeded in drawing him partway into his schemes. The priest convinced him to forbid anyone coming near his dying son and then, when the boy died, announced his imminent recovery. Meanwhile, the seminaries of Europe were being patiently scoured for a handsome, strapping novice, bearing as marked a resemblance as possible to the Baron’s dead son. The Pope released this novice from his vows and, charging him to sin for the good of the Church and the salvation of the righteous, gave him his freedom. ‘This novice was brought into Lindenberg Castle under cover of dark. Then, sometime later, during the nightly debauch, the Baron presented him to the assembled guests as his son who had not been healed but, so to speak, revived. Everything went according to plan: the Baroness burned with desire and knew swift satisfaction. ‘The false Baronet, the former novice, though briefly succumbing to that excitement brought on by the sudden riot of his senses, regained self-control. His lady, however, he maintained in a state of fervid passion favourable to his ends. The Baroness, even in the midst of that vulgar display of another’s wealth, was really no more than a concubine and she hungered to legitimise her position in the fiefdom of Lindenberg. In the case of the Baronet, he had come to believe in the role he played and now truly thought himself the Baron’s son. While his father lived, however, he was nothing. From this moment on, all his cunning was devoted to convincing the Baroness that the crime necessary to guarantee their possession of his father’s wealth was an idea which had taken root in both their minds simultaneously. ‘He arranged to meet her at midnight on May 5th of that year, in the place known


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comme un automate, et l’on ne sait quelle impulsion absurde le poussa tout à coup à rire à gore déployée. La réaction fut immédiate : la baronne, qui le suivait, fut pareillement secouée par ce rire, et, d’un coup rude et comme mécanique, elle lui plongea par trois fois le poignard dans le cœur. Il s’écroula le sourire à la bouche. La NONNE n’avait pas bougé de sa place ; et elle fixait sans trouble son nouvel amant qui, sans hésitation, et comme s’il exécutait les gestes d’un rôle depuis longtemps appris, arracha le poignard des mains de la nonne et le lui plongea à son tour, et par trois fois, dans le cœur. Puis il le jeta au loin et, s’essuyant sur la coiffe blanche de la religieuse, il s’enfuit sans tourner les yeux. » Comme l’exorciseur achevait son récit, les premiers rayons du soleil levant inondèrent la chambre.

(Original text taken from Antonin Artaud, Le moine (de Lewis) (Paris: Gallimard, 1966 [Collection Folio, 1975]) – pp. 164-77)


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as Lindenberg Hole. He and some armed friends would be waiting there; it would be her task to bring her lover, who would be stabbed and whose corpse would be disposed of. Then, armed and in disguise, they would all return to the castle and burst suddenly into the banqueting hall, terrorising the assembled guests. Some time after that, once the emotion occasioned by the massacre had subsided and its memory been sufficiently forgotten, he and the Baroness, by now his father’s legal heirs and masters of his title, would take their rightful place as man and wife in the barony of Lindenberg. ‘Wearing her habit, armed with a dagger and carrying in her left hand a lantern which she raised above her head to light her way, Beatrice entered at the appointed hour the cavern where the swordsmen were posted. ‘Before her she was pushing her unfortunate husband, who had been deprived of his right mind by some unknown concoction. He entered the cavern like an automaton, and who can say what mad impulse drove him suddenly to cackle wildly. The reaction was immediate: the baroness, following behind him, was overcome in her turn by this laughter and, with a brutal and somehow mechanical motion, thrice plunged the dagger into the Baron’s heart. He fell, a smile on his face. The NUN had not moved; her eyes had no trouble in finding her new lover who, without hesitation, and as if he were performing a long-practised role, snatched the dagger from the nun’s hands and stabbed her in her turn, three times, in the heart. He then tossed the dagger away and, wiping his forehead on the holy sister’s white veil, he fled without a backward glance.’ As the exorcist was drawing his tale to a close, the first rays of the rising sun flooded the bedroom.


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French

The Cat Charles Baudelaire Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux; Retiens les griffes de ta patte, Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux, Mêlés de métal et d'agate. Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir Ta tête et ton dos élastique, Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir De palper ton corps électrique, Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard, Comme le tien, aimable bête Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard, Et, des pieds jusques à la tête, Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum Nagent autour de son corps brun.

(Original text taken from fleursdumal.org)


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The Cat Charles Baudelaire

trans. Niall McCabe (TCD)

To my beautiful cat, love of my heart; hold your foot claws in, and let me dive into your beautiful eyes, mixed metal and ruby red. When my fingers leisurely caress your head and your elastic back, and when my hand tingles with pleasure while feeling your electric body, I see my wife. His eyes, like yours, amiable beast deep and cold, cut and cleave like a dart, And, feet to head, air craft, dangerous incense swims around his body brown.


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French

Lune de Miel T.S. Eliot Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute; Mais une nuit d’été, les voici à Ravenne, A l’aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises; La sueur aestivale, et une forte odeur de chienne. Ils restent sur le dos écartant les genoux De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures. On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner. Moins d’une lieue d’ici est Saint Apollinaire In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs De chapitaux d’acanthe que tournoie le vent. Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan Ou se trouvent la Cène, et un restaurant pas cher. Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan. Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France. Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique, Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance.


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Honeymoon T. S. Eliot

trans. Ronan Murphy (TCD) & Claudio Sansone (TCD)

They have seen the Low Countries, and return to Terre Haute. But on a Summer's evening at Ravenna, at ease Between the sheets, among two hundred mites, The sweat of Summer, and the stink of a bitch in heat, They lie upon their backs and spread the knees Of four limp legs all swollen up with bites. They scratch and toss the covers. Within a league stands Saint Appolinaire In Classe, basilica known to lovers Of acanthus capitals, whirled amid the wind. They will take the eight o'clock train, Prolong their miseries from Padua to Milan To find the Last Supper, and a cheap restaurant. He'll add the tip and tally his accounts. They will have seen Switzerland and crossed through France And Saint Appolinaire, staunch and ascetic, God's old abandoned factory, still holds In its crumbling stones the exact form of Byzantium.


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German

Die tägliche Zumutung Gabriele Wohmann Lesen geht kaum noch. Emma Kahn müht sich trotzdem mit der Lupe von Wort zu Wort: eine Geduldsprobe. Ihr Zeitungsabonnement will sie nicht kündigen, das wäre wie ein Bruch mit ihrer Identität, und treulos gegenüber den Jahrzehnten ihrer Ehe fände es ihre verwitwete Schwester Otti, mit der sie zusammenlebt. Das Fernsehen, wenn sie sehr nah vor den Bildsschirm rücken, ist ihnen geblieben. Leider kennen sie mittlerweile sämtliche Tiere von der Raubkatze bis zur Heuschrecke, auch die Unterwasserwelt, den größten Fisch, die winzigste Alge, und wissen alles über sie auswendig, fremde Gegenden ebenfalls, nirgendwo waren sie noch nicht. Emma schimpft: Wir kommen nicht vor. An uns ist nicht gedacht. Und Otti, auch nicht viel jünger als das Jahrhundert, macht es mur schlimmer, wenn sie beschwichtigt: Aber für Senioren gibt es viele Sendungen. An diesem Widerspruch reizen Emma unkritisches Einverständnis und Sprachgebrauch: Nimm bloß den Wetterbericht, Otti. Die junge Moderatorin und der ältliche Meteorologe, beide chronisch putzmunter, sie schwärmen diese idiotische trockene Hitze an, grinsen uns zu: Genießen Sie das Badewetter. Otti kapiert nicht oder tut so. Otti! Gehst du baden? Was genießt du? Otti genießt, dass sie … Und weiß nicht weiter, startet matt: Viele tun es, Sonne genießen und so weiter, und wir solltenn vielleicht auch … ich meine, vielleicht machen wir was verkehrt. Die kliene Schwester mit dem tapferen Willen, Schritt zu halten, wirt belehrt: Versuchs nicht mit Anpasserei und denke an das, was dir gefällt, frag deinen Kreislauf. Der Wetterbericht ist für Leute under sechzig da, die dauernd eine Menge Zeit haben und Gärten, aber vorher in den Nachrichten soll ich über diese verdammten Rowdies. Und hinterher ist plötzlich das Wichtigste, dass bloß de Sonne scheint. Mogelpackung. Otti hat gennug vom Wetterthema und verweist noch mal auf die Programme für Alte (wieder sagt sie Senioren!): Die Nachbarn lassen sich zu Studienreisen anregen, die ein Sender vermittelt und die auf ihren Jahrgang zugeschnitten sind, und mir hat Frau Bilz gesagt: Sie beide kapseln sich


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The Daily Affront Gabriele Wohmann

trans. Rachel McNicholl (TCD)

Reading is almost out of the question. Emma Kahn persists nonetheless, crawling from word to word with her magnifying glass: a true test of patience. She is loathe to cancel her newspaper subscription – that would almost be a break with her identity; and her widowed sister Otti, with whom Emma lives, would consider it disloyal to the decades of her marriage. Television is still an option, if they push their chairs right up to the screen. Except at this stage they’ve seen all the animals, from big cats to grasshoppers, and all the submarine life, from the largest fish to the tiniest algae, and they know everything there is to know about them; the same applies to exotic destinations – there’s nowhere they haven’t been. Emma grumbles: We don’t feature at all. No one caters for us. And Otti, who isn’t much under a century either, only makes matters worse when she tries to placate her: But there are lots of programmes for senior citizens. Emma is irritated by this counter-argument, not least by the choice of words and lack of critical analysis: Take the weather forecast, Otti. The young presenter (a woman) and the somewhat older meteorologist (a man) – relentlessly cheery, the pair of them – enthusing about this ridiculous warm, dry spell we’re having and grinning at us: Great weather for the beach – enjoy it! Otti doesn’t follow, or pretends not to. Otti! Do you go to the beach? What is it you enjoy doing? Otti likes to… She doesn’t get any further, starts again half-heartedly: Lots of people do, you know, enjoy the sun and all that, and maybe we could too…I mean, maybe we’re the ones getting something wrong. The little sister with her plucky wish to keep up is put in her place: Don’t even attempt that fitting-in nonsense; think about what you like, consult your blood pressure. The weather forecast is for people under 60 with endless amounts of time and gardens; but before it, in the News, I’m supposed to be moved to tears by the deluxe edition of the New Poor, the youth of today with no future, failed by the political system – bloody hooligans. The next minute, nothing is more important than whether the sun’s going to shine. It’s all a sham.


German

72

ab, und dass das ein schwerer Fehler wäre. Die Nachbarn machen auch die Seniorengymnastik mit. Emma stöhnt: Lieber Himmel! Und den Seniorensex, he? Und parallel zu den munteren Greisen serviert man uns Elendsgestalten in Pflegeheimen, die beim Gefüttertwerden sabbern. Nein danke. Otti wird logisch: Wenn Emma beim Wetter schon auf Realismus bestehe, müsse ihr Alzheimer und dergleichen doch gerade recht sein. Mit der ja nur scheinheilig zufriedenen Otti weiterzuhadern, hat Emma keine Lust mehr. In Wahrheit geht es ihnen beiden gleich. Bei jeder Pornostelle, mit der jeder neuere Spielfilm durchwachsen ist, geniert jede sich vor der anderen und Otti darüber hinaus auch noch vor ihrem toten Ehemann. Die gleiche Scham beim verkommenen Talkshowgequassel mit dem Kicherglucksergetue der Moderatoren und der Gäaste immer dann, wenn es schlüpfrig wird, oft ordinär; dass sie überhaupt zuschaut, legitimiert Emma etwa so: Wie würde Goethe darüber urteilen, oh, oh! Und Otti: So albern wie die waren wir mit siebzehn, bloß nicht so geschmacklos. Und Emma: Jetzt entrüstet sich noch alles über Kinderschänder, aber nicht mehr lang, und so einer wird al Stargast die Talkrunde krönen, und man wird ihn auf seine Weise liebenswert und vor allem interessant finden, gaschaffen für Indiskretionen. Otti stimmt diesmal zu: Nichtperverse Verbrecher hatten wir schon öfter mal. Sie stößt einen Früherwar-alles-besser-Seufzer aus. Nicht alles, korrigiert Emma. Aber das Fernsehen, das schon. Früher empfand Emma Sympathie, so etwas wie eine Beziehung zu den Leuten von der Regionalschau; und Otti zog, nach dem telephonischen Abendbummel mit ihren Kindern, ihre Bildschirmfreunde sogar diesen Blutsverwandten vor. Verloren, vorbei. Alle verjüngt, bloß die Schwestern nicht. Das-Leben-ist-toll-Motto ringsum. Weil Samstag ist, würde Otti aufgestetzt salopp vorschlagen: Action order Volksmusik? Fußball oder Horror? Ein Themenabend über diese Männerpaare, du weißt schon, grässlich, warum nennen sie sich nicht lateinisch, lieber, du weißt schon. Schwul. Emma bringt das Wort heraus. Du solltest nicht so zimperlich sein, wenn du mir schon diesen Vorschlag machst. Einen Videopparat wollten sie nicht, obwohl er gut wäre, zur Unzeit gab es noch Verlockendes auch für sie, und der Nachbar hatte sich angeboten, ihre Perlen aufzunehmen. Aber sie könnten mit dem Ding nicht umgehen. Schon die Fernbedienung macht ihren Augen Probleme, auf der engen Tastatur drücken sie


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Otti has had enough of the weather argument and switches back to the matter of programmes for old people (she says ‘senior citizens’ again!): Our neighbours go on cultural trips promoted by one of the TV channels, geared toward their age group, and Mrs Bilz said to me: You two cut yourselves off too much, that’s a big mistake. The neighbours go to keep-fit classes for senior citizens too. Emma groans: For heaven’s sake! Sex for senior citizens as well, ha? Along with the sprightly old-timers, you get miserable wretches in nursing homes slobbering while they’re fed. No thank you. Otti tries the logical approach: If Emma insists on realistic weather forecasts, she really can’t object to Alzheimer’s and the like. But Emma doesn’t feel like arguing with Otti any more, that smug satisfaction of hers is only put on anyway. The truth is, they both feel the same way. Every time there’s a sex scene in a movie – and what movie isn’t full of them these days – they are embarrassed, one in front of the other, and Otti in front of her dead husband to boot. It’s just as bad during those tacky chat shows, the hosts and guests all tittering and chortling whenever the talk turns risqué, or plain vulgar half the time. Emma justifies watching it along the lines: What on earth would Goethe have made of it?! And Otti: We were as silly as that lot at seventeen, just not as crude. And Emma: Right now everyone’s still incensed about child molesters, but just you wait, it won’t be long before one of them is the star guest on some talkshow, and people will think he’s very nice in his own way and, most importantly, interesting, made for indiscretions. This time Otti agrees: We’ve certainly had plenty of the non-pervert type of criminal. She lets out one of those everything-was-better-before sighs. Not everything, Emma points out, though television definitely was. Emma used to like the presenters on the regional news round-up – she had a relationship of sorts with them; and Otti, after the evening round of phone calls with her children, even preferred her TV friends to the blood relations. All lost, all gone now. Everyone’s grown younger, except the two sisters. Eternal optimism is the order of the day. It being a Saturday, Otti will present their options in a mock casual air: Action movie or folk music? Football or horror film? Or a themed evening about those male couples, you know, dreadful, why don’t they use the Latin, you know what I mean, it’d be preferable. Gay. It’s Emma who says it. You really shouldn’t be so prissy when you’re the one suggesting we watch


German

74

oft den falschen von den vielen kleinen Knöpfen. Otti findet nicht einmal die OffTaste. Emma gibt es nicht zu, doch die niedrigere Schwelle zu Stolz und Widerstand bei Otti (sie hat die einst gemeinsamme TV-Gier in die Ära des Exhibitionismus gerettet) versteht sie … leider … leider nur allzu gut. Und wenn Otti sich verteidigt: Was bleibt uns denn sonst?, kleine Blindmaus wie sie selber, denkt Emma leider genauso. Sie organisiert per Nachnahme Spielkarten mit übergroßenn Karos, Buben und so weiter, hat aber nie wirklich Lust zu fragen: Wie wärs mit Rommée? Sechsundsechzig? Zankpatience? – Oh, Glücksfund Ottis: Um zwanzig Uhr fünfzehn würde Miss Marple ihre häusliche Bequemlichkeit einer kriminalistischen Recherchestrapaze opfern! Emma sieht sich im Voraus dicht vorm Fernseher, labt sich am Blumenbouquet im körbchenförmigen Ausschnitt der alten Dame, an ihren shawls, skurrilen Hüten, hinderlichen Capes, am wundervoll komischen Vorstülpen des kleinen Munds, der englischen Haltungs-Noblesse samt den vortrefflichen Umgangsformen – und vor allem andern am ungeschönten Verquersein ihres hohen Alters mit all seiner Würde und dem Respekt vor den lieben gute unentbehrlichen altmodischen Tugenden. Der Abend ist gerettet, auch vorm schlechten Gewissen, weil sie 90 Minuten lang nicht in Sex-Revolver-Muntermacher-Müllhaufen herumstochern würden: sehr wohltuend – aber wie weiter?

(Original text taken from Gabriele Wohmann, Wann kommt die Liebe / / ‘When Does Love Come Along?’. Aufbau Verlag, Berlin, 2010)


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it. They did not want a video recorder, though it would be handy; at the most ungodly hours there was still the odd programme that would tempt them, and their neighbour had offered to record these gems. But they just wouldn’t be able to operate the thing. With their eyes, even the TV remote presented enough challenges: all those tiny buttons, their fingers often hitting the wrong keys. Otti can’t even find the Off button. Emma won’t admit it, but – sadly – she understands only too well how Otti can lower the threshold of her pride, her will to resist (and thus let their shared craving for TV survive into the era of exhibitionism). And if Otti, as blind a little mouse as Emma, tries to defend herself with: What else are we to do?, it is a sorry echo of Emma’s own thoughts. She organises some mail-order playing cards with extra-large diamonds, Jacks and so on, but she never really feels like asking: How about a game of rummy? Sixty-six? Russian bank? – But oh! Otti has struck gold: At quarter past eight Miss Marple is going to abandon cosy domesticity for the rigours of sleuthing. Emma can already see herself up close to the TV set, feasting her eyes on the flowers in the old lady’s draped neckline, her shawls, bizarre hats and cumbersome capes, the comical pucker of her lips, her quintessential English air and excellent manners; and best of all, the undisguised oddity of her great age, with all its dignity and respect for good, old-fashioned, indispensable virtues. Their evening is saved, their guilty consciences too, because for ninety whole minutes they won’t have to rummage in the slagheap of sex, guns and inane chatter that is otherwise on offer. But then what?


76

German

Zwei Lieder (Op.2) Franz Schreker 1.

Sommerfäden (Dora Leen)

Wenn die Sommerzeiten enden, wandelt licht im Abendschein, Herbstagssegen in den Händen, still Frau Holde durch den Hain. Und mit leisen Liebesreden Streut als lieblich holde Spur... Weisse, weiche Sommerfäden weithin sie durch die Natur. Sommerfäden zieh’n durch’s Land, leise nah’n sie und verschweben, fromme Wünsche, still gesandt, mögen ihnen Weisung geben: „Sommerfäden, schwebt dahin, grüsst mir nah’ und grüsst mir ferne liebe, treue Augensterne; Sommerfäden, schwebt dahin.“ Und frau Holde lächelt leise, und die Sommerfäden zieh’n ihre rätselvolle Reise schimmernd zu dem Liebsten hin.


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Two Songs Franz Schreker

trans. Una Mary Kelly (TCD)

1.

Summer Threads (Dora Leen)

When summertime ends, Light changes to twilight, Autumn day blessings at hand, Mrs Holde stops by the grove. And with hushed love speeches, Scatters as lovely charming traces.. White, soft summer threads all the way through Nature. Summer threads move through the country, They softly draw near and move, Idle wishes, quietly sent, Would give them this command: “Summer threads, floating there, Greet me near and greet me afar, Dear, true bright eyes; summer threads, floating there.� And Mrs Holde smiled gently, And summer threads go on their mysterious journey Shimmering to loved ones.


German 2.

78

Stimmen des Tages (Ferdinand Von Saar)

Lang war die Nacht; wie auf stygischem Nachen hab’ich schlaflos gerungen, gebüsst... Sied jetzt, um mich her im ersten Erwachen, seid mir ihr Stimmen des Tages, gegrüsst! Seid mir gegrüsst, früh rasselnde Wagen, emsige Schritte die Gasse entlang. Du übertönst jetzt des Holzwurm’s Nagen, weckender Morgenglockenklang. Schon mit dem dämmernden Stral vor dem Fenster zwitschert der Sperling fröhlichen Blufs, Sonne, du nah’st, verscheuchend Gespenster, heilige Quelle des Licht’s und des Mut’s! Lang war die Nacht; wie auf stygischem Nachen hab’ ich in schweigenden Dunkel gebüsst... Seid jetzt, um mich her im ersten Erwachen, seid mir, ihr Stimmen des Tages, gegrüsst!


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2.

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Voices of day (Ferdinand von Saar)

Night was long; As on a hellish ship I struggled sleeplessly, threatened And now, on first awakening, I greet you, voices of day. I greet early rattling carriages, Bustling steps along the street. You now drown out the woodworm’s gnawing Awakening morning bell. With the dawning ray at the window the sparrow chirps Cheerful songs, Sun, you approach, frightening away ghosts, Holy source of light and courage. Night was long; As on a hellish ship I struggled in the silent dark, And now, on first awakening, I greet you, voices of day.


80

Italian

from Canto X, Inferno Dante Alighieri 115 E già 'l maestro mio mi richiamava; per ch'i' pregai lo spirto più avaccio che mi dicesse chi con lu' istava. 118 Dissemi: «Qui con più di mille giaccio: qua dentro è 'l secondo Federico, e 'l Cardinale; e de li altri mi taccio». 121 Indi s'ascose; e io inver' l'antico poeta volsi i passi, ripensando a quel parlar che mi parea nemico. 124 Elli si mosse; e poi, così andando, mi disse: «Perché se' tu sì smarrito?». E io li sodisfeci al suo dimando. 127 «La mente tua conservi quel ch'udito hai contra te», mi comandò quel saggio. «E ora attendi qui», e drizzò 'l dito: 130 «quando sarai dinanzi al dolce raggio di quella il cui bell'occhio tutto vede, da lei saprai di tua vita il viaggio».

(Original text taken from Giorgio Petrocchi, La Commedia secondo l'antica vulgata, Published:1994, Casa Editriee Le Lettere)


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from Canto X, Inferno Dante Alighieri

trans. Andrew Stephens (TCD)

115 My master was already calling me back, and so I quickly implored the spirit to tell me who else was there inside with him. 118 He said: “Here I lie with more than a thousand. Below are Frederick the Second and the Cardinal, and of the others I keep silent.” 121 Then he buried himself. And I turned my steps toward the ancient poet rethinking that speech which seemed so hostile to me. 124 Then he set out, and while walking he said: “Now why have you gone so astray?” And I satisfied his question with my answer. 127 “Let your mind hold what you have heard against you,” that sage commanded me, “and now hear this,” and he raised his finger heavenward: 130 “when you are with the sweet radiance of her whose beautiful eye sees all, through her you will know the journey of your life.”


82

Italian

Ombre Pierluigi Cappello Sono nato al di qua di questi fogli lungo un fiume, porto nelle narici il cuore di resina degli abeti, negli occhi il silenzio di quando nevica, la memoria lunga di chi ha poco da raccontare. Il nord e l'est, le pietre rotte dall'inverno l'ombra delle nuvole sul fondo della valle sono i miei punti cardinali; non conosco la prospettiva senza dimensione del mare e non era l'Italia del settanta Chiusaforte ma una bolla, minuti raddensati in secoli nei gesti di uno stare fermi nel mondo cose che avevano confini piccoli, gli orti poveri, le cataste di ceppi che erano state un'eco di tempo in tempo rincorsa di falda in falda, dentro il buio. E il gatto che si stende in questi posti, sulle lamiere di zinco, alle prime luci di novembre, raccoglie l'aria di tutte le albe del mondo; come i semi dei fiori, portati, come una nevicata leggera ho sognato di raggiungere i miei morti dove sono le cose che non vedo quando si vedono Amerigo devoto a Gina che cantava a voce alta alla messa di Natale, il tabacco comprato da Alfredo e Rino che sapeva di stallatico, uomini, donne scampati al tiro della storia quando i nostri aliti di bambini scaldavano l'inverno e di lĂ dalle montagne azzurrine, di lĂ  dai muri oltre gli sguardi delle guardie confinarie


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Shadows Pierluigi Cappello

trans. Giulia Zuodar (TCD) & Brenda Donohue (TCD)

I was born on this side of the leaf by a river, in my nostrils I carry the resinous core of spruces, in my eyes the silence of when it snows, the long memory of people who have little to tell. The north and the east, the rocks broken by the winter the shadow of clouds at the bottom of the valley are my cardinal points; I do not understand the dimensionless perspective of the sea and Chiusaforte was not the Italy of 1970 but a bubble, minutes thickened into centuries in the gestures of those who stay still in the world things which had small borders, the paltry gardens, the piles of logs which were an echo pursued from one time to another, from one spring to another, inside darkness. And the cat which stretches in these places, on zinc roofs, in the first light of November, gathers the air of every sunrise in the world; like flower seeds, carried, like a light dusting of snow I dreamed of reaching my dead where are the things that I cannot see when they are visible Amerigo devoted to Gina who sang aloud at the Christmas mass, the tobacco bought by Alfredo and Rino who smelt of manure, men, women escaped from history’s assault when our children’s breath was warming up the winter and beyond light blue mountains, beyond walls beyond the gaze of border guards


84

Italian un odore di cipolle e di industria pesante premeva, la parte di un'Europa tenuta insieme da chiodi ritorti e bulloni, martelli e chiavi inglesi. Il futuro non è più quello di una volta, è stato scritto da una mano anonima, geniale su di un muro graffito alla periferia di Udine, il futuro è quello che rimane, ciò che resta delle cose convocate nello scorrere dei volti chiamati, aggiungo io. E qui, mentre intere città si muovono sulle piste ramate degli hardware e il presente irrompe con la violenza di un tavolo rovesciato, mio padre torna per sempre nella sua cerata verde bagnata dalla pioggia e schiude ai figli il suo sorridere come fosse eternamente schiuso. Se siamo ancora cosa siamo stati, io sono lo stare di quell'uomo bagnato dalla pioggia, che portava in casa un odore di traversine e ghisa e, qualche volta, la gola di Chiusaforte allagata dall'ombra si raduna nei miei occhi da occidente a oriente, piano piano a misura del passo del tramonto, bianco; e anche se le voci del mondo si appuntiscono e qualcosa divide l'ombra dall'ombra meno solo mi pare di andare, premendo un piede dopo l'altro, secondo la formula del luogo, dal basso all'alto, seguendo una salita.

(Original text taken from Pierluigi Cappello, “Ombre”, Mandate a dire all’imperatore (Milan: Crocetti, 2010))


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

the smell of onions and industry was pushing in, a part of Europe held together by twisted nails and bolts, hammers and wrenches. The future is no longer what it was: it was written by an anonymous, brilliant hand on a graffitied wall on the outskirts of Udine, the future is what remains, what remains of things remembered, in the flow of called up faces, I would add. And here, while entire cities are moving along the copper paths of computer hardware and the present crashes in with the violence of an upturned table, my father returns forever in his green oilskin wet with rain and he opens his smile for his children as if it were eternally open. If we are still what we once were, I am that man standing soaked by the rain, bringing home the smell of railway sleepers and cast iron and, sometimes, the gorge of Chiusaforte flooded by shadows gathers into my eyes from west to east, slowly following the pace of the sunset, white; and even if the voices of the world become sharp and something divides shadow from shadow I feel that I go on less lonely, pressing down one foot after another, following the way of this place, from the bottom to the top, uphill.


86

Italian

#5 Michelangelo

I’ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento, Come fa l’acqua a’ gatti in Lombardia, O ver d’altro paese che si sia, C’a forza ‘l ventre apicca sotto ‘l mento. La barba al cielo, e-lla memoria sento In sullo scrigno, e ‘l petto fo d’arpia, E ‘l pennel sopra ‘l viso tuttavia Mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento. E lombi entrati mi son nella peccia, E fo del cul per contrapeso groppa, E’ passi senza gli occhi muovo invano. Dinanzi mi s’allunga la corteccia, E per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa, E tendomi com’arco sorïano. Però fallace e strano Surge il iudizio che la mente porta, Ché mal si tra’ per cerbottana torta. La mia pittura morta Difendi orma’, Giovanni, e ‘l mio onore, Non sendo in loco bon, né io pittore. (Original text taken from


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

#5 [To Giovanni of Pistoia, when the author was painting the vault of the Sistine Chapel, 1509] Michelangelo trans. Fionnán O'Connor (TCD)

Already, I’ve been goitered by this torture once before— Like putrid northern fluids in a Lombard cat Or other regions where the rancid water makes their larynx fat And up— their stomachs, into bulges in their necks, are forced. Even thought feels buried in my spinal core Between a skyward beard, a harpy’s chest, and a back That arcs a brush above my cheeks as plaster splats Its droppings down— congealing rich on a facial floor. My loins have sunk inside my belly’s pouch And braced a counterweight against my coiling arse. Any sightless movement’s made in vain. At the back, my shriveled haunch’s knotted in a slouch As, forwards, I stretch my body’s bark; Like a Syrian bow, I’m tightened— strained. And so flow strange The faulty judgments of a brain distorted— Shot off course through a pipe, contorted. Defend my lifeless portraits Please, and explain, Giovanni, the painful grace Of putting me, who’ll never be a painter, in this place.


88

Italian from Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

Cesare Pavese

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi questa morte che ci accompagna dal mattino alla sera, insonne, sorda, come un vecchio rimorso o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi saranno una vana parola, un grido taciuto, un silenzio. Cosí li vedi ogni mattina quando su te sola ti pieghi nello specchio. O cara speranza, quel giorno sapremo anche noi che sei la vita e sei il nulla. Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo. Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi. Sarà come smettere un vizio, come vedere nello specchio riemergere un viso morto, come ascoltare un labbro chiuso. Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.

(Original text taken from http://www.classicitaliani.it)


89

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation from Death will come and it will have your eyes

Cesare Pavese

trans. Claudio Sansone (TCD)

Death will come and it will have your eyes – this death that walks with us from morning into evening, sleepless, deaf, like an old regret or absurd vice. Your eyes will be a word said in vain, a quietened cry, a silence. That is how you see them every morning when you bend back upon yourself in the mirror. O treasured hope; we too will know on that day that you are life and you are nothing. Death has eyes set for everyone. Death will come and it will have your eyes. It will be like breaking from habit, like watching a dead face resurface in the mirror, like listening to closed lips. Mute we will descend into the eddy.


90

Russian

Untitled Sergei Yesenin Поёт зима - аукает, Мохнатый ле с баюкает Стозвоном со сняка. Кругом с то ской глубокою Плывут в страну далекую С едые облака.

А по двору метелица Ковром шелковым стелется, Но больно холодна. В оробышки игривые, Как детки сиротливые, Прижались у окна.

Озябли пташки малые, Голодные, усталые, И жмутся поплотней. А вьюга с ревом бешеным Стучит по ставням свешенным И злится вс е сильней.

И дремлют пташки нежные Под эти вихри снежные У мер злого окна. И снится им прекрасная, В улыбках солнца ясная Крас авица ве сна.

(Original text taken from Сергей Есенин, В этом мире я просто прохожий... (Москва: Эксмо, 2010), 9)


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Untitled Sergei Yesenin

trans. Miles Link (TCD)

The winter sings a halloo, the shaggy forest trills with the ringing of a hundred pines. All around, with profound sadness, grey clouds, as if adrift at sea, wander to a distant land. And in the yard, a snow storm spreads itself like a silky mat— it is painfully cold. Some flittering little sparrows, like lost orphan children, press themselves at the window. The frigid birds, little things, wanting of food, needful of rest, gather thickly together. The snow storm howls with fury and batters at the shutters, feeding upon its anger. The gentle creatures sleep huddled under the eddies of snow upon the frozen window. They spin themselves a dream of a splendid and bright maiden spring, under a smiling sun.


92

Spanish

Herman Melville Jorge Luis Borges

trans. James Hussey (TCD)

He was always encircled by the sea of his forebears, The Saxons, who gave the ocean the name The Whale Road, in which they united Those two behemoths, the whale, And the seas it ploughs without end. The ocean was always his. When his eyes First beheld the great waters of the high seas He had already pined for and possessed it On the other ocean that is Writing, Or in the outline of the archetypes. A man, he bequeathed himself to the world’s oceans, And the days of back-breaking labour And came to know the harpoon reddened By Leviathan and the billowed sand And the smells of nights and mornings And the horizon upon which chance waits And the happiness of courage And the beauty of finally spying Ithaca. Imperator of the ocean, he strode the solid Earth from which grow the mountains And upon which he draws an uncertain course, Still in time, a sleeping compass, In the hereditary shade of gardens Melville crosses the New England evenings, But the sea possesses him. It is the shame Of the Pequod’s disfigured captain, The indecipherable ocean with its raging squalls


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

And the abominable whiteness. It is the great book. This blue Proteus.


94

Spanish

Three Poems Andrés Catalan Si Mientan Las Palabras Si mienten las palabras,

también los cuerpos mienten.

Y la piel también miente, su refugio de sombra que esconde una distancia insalvable, derrotada antes mismo, como frases que nunca aspiran a ser ciertas. Y el deseo, que miente también como la noche, como la transparencia equívoca del vidrio, como el vaso que oculta disuelta entre su luz una luz más oscura. Los nombres del verano tienen cifras desiertas, largas sílabas blancas de lo que no designan, hay un transfondo líquido en todos los espejos, un prolongado hueco submarino en el gesto de besar otros labios, de rozar otra espalda,

de tomar otros muslos:

la misma sima abierta que existe entre los trazos fingidos de este arte y la belleza.

(Original text first published in Composiciones de Lugar, Universidad Popular, San Sebastián de los Reyes, 2010)


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Three Poems Andrés Catalan

trans. Keith Payne (TCD)

IfWords Lie If words lie

then so does the flesh.

And the skin, it lies too, hiding the impassable distance in its shadow, shattered before itself like a sentence that doesn’t even try to be true. And desire, that lies too like the night, like the false transparency of a glass, like the hidden tumbler dissolving between it’s own and a darker light. All summer names are empty figures, big white syllables with nothing to say, liquid behind each of the mirrors, and a great breach when you pause to kiss another’s lips, rub another back,

grab a hold of someone’s thighs:

the same chasm that opens between the feigned lines of this art and beauty.


96

Spanish Como Pintar en el Inferno

Why, this is hell, nor am I out ofit. - C. Marlowe

dice en una entrevista Antonio López que Madrid si le gusta le preguntan que cómo vive la ciudad es a propósito del cuadro que pintó de la Gran Vía ya han pasado cuarenta y pico años dice que Madrid es algo equivocado algo muy agrio que es un infierno pero qué interesante es como pintar en el infierno

(Original text first published in fronterad revista digital, March, 2013)


97

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Like Painting in Hell

Why, this is hell, nor am I out ofit. - C. Marlowe

in an interview Antonio López says that sure he likes Madrid they ask him how’s the city treating you is it anything like your painting of The Gran Vía sure that was forty odd years ago he says Madrid is not what it used to be there’s something just not quite right to tell the truth it’s hellish but oh how amusing it is like painting in hell.


98

Spanish Los Retratos Exigen Estar Quietos

Para poder nombrarte he de estar quieto: que en torno todo siga pero nada mueva en esta habitación. Que el cortacésped avance en el jardin, que una radio se encienda, que se entornen las puertas y los insectos salgan en busca de las lámparas pero tú te detengas, que los dos detengamos un momento las cosas a pesar de las cosas. Que el mundo gire aún, que la vecina grite la cena está ya lista, que la vida prosiga, torpe, infiel, que los años golpeen en los cristales pero nada supongan. Que nada me interrumpa, que no importee se ruido. Un retrato es un gesto que dócil se nos une, la detenida mano que al mismo tiempo otorga la salvación del darse y su condena.

(Original text first published in fronterad revista digital, March, 2013)


99

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Portraits Demand Stillness

In order to capture you I had to be still: with everything spinning around me but nothing really moving in this room. The lawnmower advances up the garden, a radio switches on, the doors open ajar and the insects fly out after the yard light but you stop, we both stop for a moment all these things in spite of themselves. The world still turns, the neighbour shouts come in your dinner’s ready, life stumbles on, clumsy, fickle, the years beat against the windows but they don’t trouble us. Nothing troubles me, this noise is nothing. A portrait is a gesture that, yielding, absorbs us, a detained hand that at one and the same time grants the salvation of devotion and its sentence.


100

Spanish

El Que Jadea Juan José Millas Descolgué el teléfono y escuché un jadeo venéreo otro lado de la línea. –¿Quién es? –pregunté. –Yo soy el que jadea –respondió una voz neutra, quizá algo cansada. Colgué, perplejo, y apareció mi mujer en la puerta del salón. –¿Quién era? –El que jadea –dije. –Habérmelo pasado. –¿Para qué? –No sé, me da pena. Para que se aliviara un poco. Continué leyendo el periódico y al poco volvió a sonar el aparato. Dejé que mi mujer se adelantara y sin despegar los ojos de las noticias de internacional, como si estuviera interesado en la alta política, la oí hablar con el psicópata. –No te importe –decía–, resopla todo lo que quieras, hijo. A mi no me das miedo. Si la gente fuera como tú, el mundo iría mejor. Al fin y al cabo, no matas, no atracas, no desfalcas. Y encima le das a ganar unas pesetas a la Telefónica. Otra cosa es que jadearas a costa del receptor. La semana pasada telefoneó un jadeador desde Nueva York a cobro revertido. Le dije que a cobro revertido le jadeara a su madre, hasta ahí podíamos llegar. Por cierto, que Madrid ya no tiene nada que envidiar a las grandes capitales del mundo en cuestión de jadeadores. Tú mismo eres tan profesional como uno americano. Enhorabuena, hijo. A continuación escuchó un poco sofocada dos o tres tandas de jadeos, y colgó con naturalidad. Yo intenté reprimirme, creo que cada uno puede hacer lo que le dé la gana, pero no pude. Me salió la bestia autoritaria que llevo dentro. –No me parece muy edificante la conversación que has tenido con ese degenerado, la verdad. Ella se asomó a la página de mi periódico y al ver las fotos de las amantes de Clinton por orden alfabético respondió que un lector de pornografía barata no era


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

The Heavy Breather Juan José Millás

trans. Ursula Meany Scott (TCD)

I picked up the phone and listened to depraved breathing on the other end of the line. “Who is it?” I asked. “I am the heavy breather,” replied a voice that was neutral, maybe a little tired. I hung up, bewildered, and my wife appeared in the living room doorway. “Who was it?’ “The heavy breather,” I answered. “You should have handed him to me.” “Why?” “I don’t know, I feel sorry for him. So he could feel a bit better.” I carried on reading the paper and after a little while the phone rang again. I let my wife go ahead and take it, and without lifting my eyes from the international news, as if I was interested in high-level politics, I heard her speaking with the psychopath. “Don’t worry about it,” she was saying, “breathe away to your heart’s content, son. It doesn’t scare me at all. If more people were like you, the world would be better off. After all, you’re not committing murder, robbery or embezzlement. And besides, you’re throwing a few bob at the telephone company. It would be another matter if you were breathing at the listener’s expense. Last week a heavy breather called collect from New York. I told him if he was going to reverse charges he could breathe heavily at his mother, that’s the stage we were getting to. Of course, Madrid still has no cause to envy the big capitals of the world when it comes to heavy breathers. In your case you’re as professional as an American. Congratulations, son.” After that she listened, slightly embarrassed, to two or three rounds of panting, then hung up casually. I tried to contain myself - I believe we should live and let live - but I couldn’t. I released the authoritarian beast that lives within me.


Spanish

102

quién para meterse con un pobre jadeador que vivía con su madre paralítica, y cuyo único desahogo sexual era el jadeo telefónico. Me mordí la lengua para no discutir, porque era sábado y quería empezar bien el fin de semana. Pero el domingo, mientras mi mujer estaba en misa, telefoneó de nuevo el jadeador y le mandé a la mierda. –Se lo voy a contar a tu mujer –respondió en tono de amenaza–. Le voy a decir cómo tratas tú a la gente educada y te vas a enterar de lo que vale un peine. –Tampoco es para ponerse así –dije dando marcha atrás, no tenía ganas de líos domésticos–. Es que me has cogido en un mal momento. Discúlpame. –Está bien, está bien. ¿Y tu mujer? –Se ha ido a misa. –Dile que luego la llamo. Me quedé un rato pensativo. Desde pequeño, siempre había deseado jadear por teléfono, pero mis padres decían que era una cosa de enfermos mentales. Me he perdido lo mejor de la vida por escrúpulos morales, o por prejuicios culturales, no sé. Pero al ver aquella relación tan sana entre mi mujer y el jadeador pensé que no podía ser malo. Así que marqué un número al azar y me puse a jadear como un loco, intentando recuperar los años perdidos. –¿Quién es? –preguntó con cierta alarma una mujer cuya voz me resultó familiar. –Soy el jadeador –dije con naturalidad. –Espere, que le paso a mi marido. El marido resultó ser mi padre, nos reconocimos enseguida: inconscientemente, había marcado su número. Me dijo que ya sabían los dos que acabaría así y colgó. Luego llamaron a mi mujer y le contaron todo. Ella dice que quiere abandonarme, por psicópata, y me ha pedido que le firme unos papeles. –Jadear a tu propia madre. ¿Dónde se ha visto eso? Nunca acierto, sobre todo cuando imito a los demás para ponerme al día. Total, que ahora ya no puedo dejar de jadear, pero de angustia, aunque mis padres creen que lo hago por vicio. (Original text first published in The Barcelona Review, Issue 36, www.barcelonareview.com)


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

“The conversation you’ve just had with that degenerate didn’t seem very edifying to me, to tell the truth.” She peered over the page of my newspaper, and on seeing the photos of Clinton’s lovers laid out alphabetically, replied that a reader of cheap pornography was not one to be picking on a poor heavy breather living with his disabled mother, whose only sexual release was panting over the phone. I bit my tongue so as not to argue, because it was Saturday and I wanted the weekend to start well. But on Sunday, while my wife was at mass, the heavy breather called again and I told him to go to hell. “I’m going to tell your wife,” he replied in a menacing tone. “I’m going to tell her how you treat well-brought-up people and you’re going to get it.” “No need to get like that,” I said, taking a step back, I had no desire for domestic trouble. “You’ve just caught me at a bad time. I’m sorry.” “That’s ok, it’s fine. And your wife?” “She’s gone to mass.” “Tell her I’ll call her later.” I stayed there a while thinking. Since I was little, I’d always wanted to breathe heavily over the phone, but my parents said that only people who were mentally ill did that kind of thing. I had wasted most of my life due to moral scruples, or cultural prejudice, I don’t know which. But seeing the perfectly wholesome relationship between my wife and the heavy breather, I decided it couldn’t be a bad thing. So I dialled a random number and applied myself to panting like a lunatic, trying to make up for the lost years. “Who is it?” asked a woman whose alarmed voice sounded familiar to me. “I am the heavy breather” I said casually. “Wait, let me pass you to my husband.” The husband turned out to be my father, we recognised one another immediately: unconsciously I had dialled their number. I told myself that they already knew I’d end up like this and hung up. Afterwards I called my wife and told her everything. She says she wants to leave me, as I’m a psychopath, and has asked me to sign some papers.


Spanish

104


105

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

“Breathing like that at your own mother. It’s unheard of.” I never get it right, especially when I copy others to get ahead. And so now I can’t stop breathing heavily, but out of anxiety, although my parents think I do it out of habit.


106

Spanish

El pasajero de al lado Santiago Roncagliolo Fue sólo un susto. El frenazo y el golpe. Los golpes. Estás un poco aturdido, pero puedes moverte. Abres la portezuela y te bajas sin mirar al taxista. No te duele nada. Eres un turista. Tu única obligación es pasarlo bien. Para tu suerte, un autobús frena en la plaza. Te subes sin ver a dónde va. Caminas hacia al fondo. Aparte del mendigo que duerme, no hay nadie más ahí. Te sientas. Miras por la ventanilla. La ciudad y la mañana se extienden ante tus ojos. Respiras hondo. Te relajas. En la primera parada, sube una chica. Tiene unos veinte años y es muy atractiva. Rubia. Todos aquí son rubios. Es la chica que siempre has querido que se siente a tu costado. Va vestida informalmente, con jeans ajustados y zapatillas. Su abrigo está cerrado, pero sugiere su rebosante camiseta blanca. Se sienta a tu lado. No puedes evitar mirarla. Notas que te mira. Al principio es imperceptible. Pero lo notas. Voltea a verte rápidamente con el rabillo del ojo, durante sólo un instante. Cuando le devuelves la mirada, vuelve a bajar los ojos. Se ruboriza. Trata de disimular una sonrisa. Finalmente, como venciendo la timidez, dice coqueta: -¿Qué estás mirando? ¡No me mires! Vuelve a apartar la vista de ti, pero ahora no puede dejar de sonreír. Hace un


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

The Passenger Next to Me Santiago Roncagliolo

trans. Ursula Meany Scott (TCD)

It was just a scare. The slamming of the brakes and the crash. Crashes. You’re a little stunned, but you can move. You open the car door and get out without looking at the taxi driver. You’re not hurting anywhere. You’re a tourist. Your only obligation is to have a good time. Luckily for you, a bus stops at the square. You get on without checking where it’s going. You walk to the back. Apart from the sleeping beggar, there’s nobody there. You sit down. You look through the window. The city and the morning are spread out before your eyes. You breathe deeply. You relax. At the first stop, a girl gets on. She’s around twenty and very good looking. Blond. They’re all blond here. She’s the girl you’ve always wanted to sit next to you. She’s casually dressed, wearing tight jeans and trainers. Her coat is closed, but a hint of her white blouse peeks over it. She sits beside you. You can’t help looking at her. You can tell she’s looking at you. Initially it’s imperceptible. But you can tell. She turns swiftly to look at you from the corner of her eye, for just a split second. When you turn to look at her, she drops her eyes again. She blushes. She tries to hide it with a smile. At last, as though overcoming shyness, she says flirtatiously: “What are you looking at? Don’t look at me!” She looks away from you again, but now she can’t stop smiling. She gestures, as though giving in to her impulse: “Why do you keep looking at me? Well? I know already,” now she becomes sad. “You can tell, can’t you? You can tell? I didn’t think you could,” she smiles mischievously. “Shall I show it to you? If you can tell, I don’t have to hide it anymore. You want to see it?” She becomes very aloof, assumes a conspiratorial expression and speaks in a low voice, as though passing on a secret. “It’s ok, look.”


Spanish

108

gesto, como cediendo a su impulso: -¿Por qué me miras tanto? ¿Ah? Ya sé -Ahora se entristece-. Se me nota ¿No? ¿Se me nota? Pensaba que no -Sonríe pícara-. ¿Te la enseño? Si se me nota, ya no tengo que esconderla. ¿Quieres verla? -Se da aires de interesante, pone una mirada cómplice y habla en voz baja, como si transmitiese un secreto-. Está bien, mira. Se abre el abrigo y deja ver una enorme herida de bala en su corazón. El resto del pecho está bañado en sangre. Ríe pícaramente y se pone repentinamente seria para anunciar: -¿Ves? Estoy muerta. ¿Verdad que no se nota a primera vista? Nunca se nota a primera vista. No lo noté ni yo. Será porque es la primera vez que muero. No estoy acostumbrada a ese cambio. En un momento estás ahí y lo de siempre: una bala perdida, un asalto, quizá un tiroteo entre policías y narcos, pasa todos los días. Y luego ya no estás. Sabes a qué me refiero ¿Verdad? A mí, además, me dispararon por ser demasiado sensible. De verdad. Por solidarizarme. Íbamos Niki y yo a una pelea de perros. Niki es mi novio y es héroe de guerra. Sí. De una guerra que hubo hace poco… No. No recuerdo dónde. Niki tiene un perrito que se llama Buba y una pistola que se llama Umarex CPSport. Pero al que más quiere es a Buba. Es un perro muy profesional. Ya ha despedazado a otros tres perros y a un gato. No deja ni los pellejos. Increíble. A Niki le encanta. Es su mejor amigo, de hecho. Entonces, íbamos en el auto, y Niki y Buba iban delante. Yo iba en el asiento trasero. A Niki le gusta que nos sentemos así, dice que es el orden natural de las cosas. Niki es muy ordenado con sus cosas. Y muy natural.


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

She opens her coat and lets you see an enormous bullet wound in her heart. The rest of her chest is soaked in blood. She laughs devilishly and turns suddenly serious before announcing: “So you see? I’m dead. “You can’t tell straight away, can you? You can never tell straight away. Even I didn’t realise. That’s ’cause it’s the first time I’ve died. I’m not used to this change. One moment you’re there and the same old story: a stray bullet, an assault, maybe a shooting between cops and drug traffickers, happens every day of the week. And then you’re not there anymore. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? “Then in my case, I was shot for being too sensitive. It’s true. For being supportive. Niki and I were going to a dog fight. Niki is my boyfriend and he’s a war hero. Yep. Of a war that happened not too long ago...No, I don’t remember where. Niki has a pup called Buba and a gun called Umarex CPSport. But Buba is the one he loves most. He’s a very professional dog. He’s already torn apart three other dogs and a cat. He doesn’t even leave the skin behind. Incredible. Niki loves him. He’s his best friend, no kidding. So, we were on our way in the car, and Niki and Buba were up front. I was in the back seat. Niki likes us to sit like that, he says it’s the natural order of things. Niki likes his things ordered. And very natural. “Heading out of the city towards the...dog track? No, that’s for races. What do you call the place you go for dog fights? Well, we were on our way there and we stop at a petrol station so Niki can go to the toilet. Apart from a gun and a dog, Niki also has incontinence issues, but never say that to him out loud, really, for your own good. So Buba and I are left alone in the car. Sorry for stopping, but please don’t look at my wound so much. I hate men who can’t look up from a girl’s chest. And women too. If I wasn’t dead, I’d call Niki so he could teach you some manners, ok? Ok. “Anyway, I’ll carry on: we’re in the car, right? Buba and I. And Buba gets that little look on his face that means he needs to go to the toilet. I mean, not to the toilet, ’cause he’s an animal, you know? But go to whatever the closest thing to a toilet is for him, ok? And he’s looking at me to take him. You really wouldn’t


Spanish

110

Saliendo de la ciudad hacia el… ¿Perródromo? No, eso es para carreras ¿Cómo se llama donde hay peleas de perros? Bueno, íbamos para allá y paramos en una gasolinera para que Niki fuese al baño. Aparte de una pistola y un perro, Niki tiene problemas de incontinencia, pero no se lo digas nunca en voz alta, de verdad, por tu bien. O sea que Buba y yo nos quedamos a solas en el auto. Perdona que me interrumpa, pero no me mires demasiado la herida, por favor. Odio a los hombres que no pueden levantar la vista del pecho de una. Y a las mujeres también. Si no estuviera muerta, llamaría a Niki para que me haga respetar. ¿O.K? O.K. Bueno, sigo: estamos en el auto ¿No? Buba y yo. Y Buba me empieza a mirar con esa carita de que quiere ir al baño. O sea, no al baño, porque es un animal ¿No? Pero a lo más cercano a un baño que pueda ir ¿O.K.? Y me mira para que lo lleve. De verdad, no creerías que es un perro asesino si vieras la cara que pone cuando quiere ir al baño. Se le chorrean los mofletes, se le caen los ojos y hace gemiditos liiindis. Así que lo miro con carita de pena, lo comprendo ¿me entiendes? y le abro la puerta para que pueda desahogarse. Buba baja y yo lo acompaño unos pasos, pero luego veo que en la tienda de la gasolinera hay una oferta de acondicionadores Revlon, así que me detengo porque es algo importante y él sigue. Y entonces, aparece el otro perro. O sea, una mierda de perro, perdón por la palabra ¿No? un chucho callejero y chusco con la cola sin cortar y las orejas caídas ¿Has visto a los perros sin corte de orejas y cola? Aj, horribles. Pues peor. Bueno, te imaginarás ¿No? El chusco se pone a ladrar, Buba se pone a ladrar, se caldean los ánimos, los acondicionadores Revlon sólo están de oferta si te llevas un champú, Niki no termina nunca de hacer pila y, de repente, la persecución de Buba al otro, los ladridos, los mordiscos. Lo de siempre, excepto el camión. Lo del camión si que no había cómo preverlo porque, o sea, no es que una pueda adivinar el futuro. Sabes a qué me refiero ¿Verdad? Yo llegué a escuchar el frenazo y el quejido perruno.


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Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

believe he’s a killer dog if you saw the face he pulls when he needs to go the toilet. His jowls drool, his eyes droop and he makes the cutest little wailing sounds. So I look at him pitifully, I understand him, you get me? And I open the door so he can relieve himself. “Buba jumps out and I take a few steps with him, but then I notice there’s an offer on for Revlon conditioners in the station shop, so I stop ’cause this is important, and he carries on. And that’s when the other dog appears. Or should I say, a shit of a dog, sorry for the language, ok? A filthy stray mongrel with his tail undocked and ears hanging down. Have you seen dogs whose tails and ears aren’t cut? Yuck, horrible. Then it got worse. “So, you can imagine, can’t you? The mutt starts barking, Buba starts barking, they get all wound up, the Revlon conditioners are only on offer if you buy shampoo as well, Niki is never going to finish taking a dump and, suddenly, there’s Buba chasing the other dog, the barking, the biting. Same as always, except for the truck. Of course I couldn’t have foreseen the truck being there ’cause, I mean, it’s not like I can tell the future. You know what I’m talking about, right? I heard the squealing of the brakes and the dog’s whine. “Honestly, judging by that weird whine, I thought he’d destroyed the mutt. “But it wasn’t like that. “When Niki came out of the toilet and saw his dog, I was already trying to find sun cream. Niki knelt down beside Buba, kissed his wounds, stood up and came straight over to me. I welcomed him with a smile, thinking, look, we’re lucky, you know? We’re alive, I mean, it could have been worse. And he welcomed me with four shots from the Umarex CPSport. It’s yellow, the Umarex CPSport. Have you ever seen a yellow gun? Niki has one. “Everything else about being dead is mundane. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s boring, ’cause nobody who’s alive listens to you anymore. Mind you, they come for you and put you on a stretcher, so even though you’re already dead, they put you on a stretcher and into an ambulance anyway. Unbelievable, isn’t it? As if you were alive. It makes you feel good, doesn’t it?


Spanish

112

Francamente, por esa mariconada de quejido, yo pensé que había chancado al chusco. Pero no fue así. Cuando Niki salió del baño y vio a su perro, yo ya estaba buscando protectores solares. Niki se arrodilló junto a Buba, le besó las heridas, se puso de pie y vino directamente hacia mí. Yo lo recibí con una sonrisa, pensando, mira, qué bien ¿No? Nosotros estamos vivos, o sea, ha podido ser peor. Y él me recibió con cuatro disparos de la Umarex CPSport. Es amarilla la Umarex CPSport ¿Algunas ves has visto una pistola amarilla? Niki tiene una. Lo demás de estar muerto es rutinario. Sabes a qué me refiero ¿Verdad? Es aburrido, porque ya nadie que esté vivo te escucha. Eso sí, vienen por ti, te llevan en una camilla, o sea, ya estás muerta pero igual te llevan en una camilla y en una ambulancia. Qué fuerte ¿No? Como si estuvieras viva. Eso te hace sentir bien ¿No?. Valorada. Te llevan a una clínica privada, llenan unos papeles y ahí te guardan. Hace frío ahí. Hace mucho frío. Ya ahí conoces otros cadáveres, te comparas con ellos, te das cuenta de que estás mucho mejor que ellos, o sea, te ves bien a pesar de las dificultades ¿No? Y eso es importante para sentirte bien contigo misma. Claro, la herida no ayuda, pero no te imaginas cómo está la gente ahí ¿Ah? O sea, no se cuidan nada. Y eso que son gente bien ¿Ah? No creas que a cualquier muerto lo llevan a una clínica de esas. Al principio sobre todo te sientes bien insegura. Es como si te diera la regla pero sin parar y por el pecho. Entonces, es bien incómodo. Pero luego llega un doctor guapísimo, de verdad. Sabes a lo que me refiero ¿No? Entonces están tú y él


113

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Valued. They bring you to a private clinic, fill out some papers and keep you there. It’s cold there. “It’s really cold. “Then you meet other corpses there, you compare yourself with them, you realise that you’re much better than they are, I mean, you look good in spite of the difficulties, right? And that’s important when it comes to being comfortable with yourself. Of course, the wound doesn’t help, but you have no idea what state people are in there. I mean, they don’t look after themselves at all. And these are well off people, get it? Don’t for a second think they bring any old dead person to that kind of clinic. “In the beginning what you really feel is insecure. It’s like you get your period except an endless one and through your chest. Then it’s really uncomfortable. But then a hot doctor, and I mean really hot, comes in. You know what I’m talking about, right? Then you and he are alone, but not like with Buba in the car, it’s different, ’cause you’re dead and he isn’t a dog, it’s more, like, intimate, you know? And he starts touching you, caressing you, massaging you, running his hands all over your body. And his hands are warm. Most living things are warm. And then he slits you open to look for things inside. And you know what? You feel...I don’t know...you feel it’s the first time a man has taken any interest in what’s inside you. I don’t know. It’s, like, really personal. But you let yourself go, you allow his hands go all over your anatomy, it seems nobody has ever properly touched you before. And you kind of feel it’s a pity really. There are things I didn’t know I had, that my whole life I never knew about, like the duodenum, the aorta, the sternocleidomastoid, you know? The triceps I’d heard of, ’cause of the gym. And you say to yourself, damn, I’d like to have known I had all this ’cause, I don’t know, you know? It’s part of you and you have to live with it and this man discovered it all for you. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s something totally totally personal. If I’d had fluids, I think I might even have come. And do you know why the forensic surgeon did that? Why he did it to me with such affection? I don’t know, I’ve thought about it loads, you wouldn’t believe it, and...I think he did it ’cause you can’t tell in my case. Of course, if you


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a solas, pero no como con Buba en el auto, sino distinto, porque tú estás muerta y él no es un perro, es como más íntimo ¿no? Y él empieza a tocarte, a acariciarte, masajearte, pasa sus manos por tu cuerpo. Y están calientes sus manos. La mayoría de las cosas vivas están calientes. Y luego te abre en canal para buscar cosas en tu interior. Y ¿Sabes qué? Sientes… no sé… sientes que es la primera vez que un hombre tiene interés en tu interior. No sé. Es como muy personal. Pero te dejas, permites que sus manos recorran tu anatomía, te parece que nadie te había tocado antes en serio. Y te da un poco de penita, de verdad. Hay cosas que yo no sabía que tenía, que en toda mi vida nunca lo supe, como el duodeno, la aorta, el esternocleidomastoideo ¿No? El tríceps si sabía, por el gimnasio. Y te dices, pucha, me habría gustado saber que tenía todo esto porque, no sé ¿No? Es parte de ti y tienes que vivir con eso y éste hombre las descubre para ti. No sé cómo explicarlo. Es algo supersuperpersonal. De haber tenido fluidos, creo que hasta habría tenido un orgasmo. ¿Y sabes por qué hace eso el forense? ¿Por qué me lo hizo a mí con ese cariño? No sé, lo he estado pensando un montón, no creas, y… creo que lo hace porque a mí no se me nota. Claro, si me miras bien, sí. Pero a primera vista no se me nota lo muerta. Yo creo que al forense le gustan las muertas poco ostentosas. Yo soy muy sencilla. Y tú también, de verdad. Si no hubiera visto tu accidente en el taxi, hasta pensaría que estás vivo. Uno te tiene que mirar bien para darse cuenta, pero al final, un ojo con experiencia puede percibirlo. Es por tu mirada, creo. Tienes ojos de muerto.

(Original text first published in The Barcelona Review, Issue 38, www.barcelonareview.com)


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look at me closely, sure. But at first glance you don’t realise I’m dead. I think the forensic surgeon likes unostentatious corpses. I am very modest. And so are you, really. If I hadn’t seen your accident in the taxi, I’d nearly think you were alive. You have to look really closely to realise, but in the end, an experienced eye can spot it. “It’s the look in your eyes, I think. “You have a dead man’s eyes.


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Spanish

La Vida es Sueño Calderón de la Barca Es verdad; pues reprimamos esta fiera condición, esta furia, esta ambición, por si alguna vez soñamos; y sí haremos, pues estamos en mundo tan singular, que el vivir sólo es soñar; y la experiencia me enseña que el hombre que vive, sueña lo que es, hasta despertar. Sueña el rey que es rey, y vive con este engaño mandando, disponiendo y gobernando; y este aplauso, que recibe prestado, en el viento escribe, y en cenizas le convierte la muerte, ¡desdicha fuerte! ¡Que hay quien intente reinar, viendo que ha de despertar en el sueño de la muerte! Sueña el rico en su riqueza, que más cuidados le ofrece; sueña el pobre que padece su miseria y su pobreza; sueña el que a medrar empieza, sueña el que afana y pretende, sueña el que agravia y ofende,


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Life is a Dream Calderón de la Barca

trans. Patricia González Bermúdez (TCD)

‘Tis true; let us then repress This furious condition, This fury, this ambition, In case that we may once dream; And indeed we will, since this World’s so singular a scene Where living is just dreaming; And experience shows to me That any man who lives, dreams what he is, till his eyes may see. Dreams the king that he’s a king And in deceit lives ruling, Demanding and commanding; And the applause he receives, Borrowed, he writes in the wind, And to ashes then by death He is turned, almighty Fate! Alas, who is then to reign Knowing that he must awake To enter the dream of death! And the rich man dreams of wealth, And all which wealth bestows; And the poor man dreams of pain And its misery and blows; Dreams he who works out his bliss, Dreams he who feigns and pretends, Dreams he who hurts and offends,


118

Spanish y en el mundo, en conclusión, todos sueñan lo que son, aunque ninguno lo entiende. Yo sueño que estoy aquí de estas prisiones cargado, y soñé que en otro estado más lisonjero me vi. ¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí. ¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión, una sombra, una ficción, y el mayor bien es pequeño; que toda la vida es sueño, y los sueños, sueños son.

(Original text first published in Calderón de la Barca, La Vida es Sueño (Life is a Dream). Excerpt from Segismundo’s monologue, Act II (1635))


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And in the world, as conclusion, All dream their own confusion, Though none the truth comprehends. And me, I dream that I’m here Heav’ly by fortune burdened, While once in a different dream Close to Fortune I wandered. What is life? A frenzy. What is life? An illusion, A shadow, a fiction, And the greatest good is small; For all life is but a dream, And dreams are dreams, after all.


Japanese

120


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Three Poems Michizo Tachihara

trans. Hitomi Nakamura (TCD)

In the room at dusk

In the room at dusk, my pencil hurt me. On a faded paper, I was writing poetry In revenge for my perturbed heart. On such a day I could write a poem, peace stopped me. Weakness prompts you to write. Be stronger, it said. On such a day I could not, words disturbed me. You are not there. Go to town, they said. The sun is vanished in the window. Now I would ask nine stars about life, and to sing in it. “There is sea in a glass of water� (Untitled) There is sea in a glass of water Maidens are swimming in it Sea-breeze, clouds, and a sensu fan, To be surprised is to stop.


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123

Song of a Swallow

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation Looks like spring has come, oh spring, Though white snow still lies. ― at bivouac

Oh distant village, Hanging in my dreams, gray and lonely. At that time fragile flowers of plantain lily and carex were in bloom, Goats bleated and days passed one by one. It was filled with graceful mornings― Listen, at hills in the spring sky, Are burning clouds unfamiliar to you, Bright, and then vanishing. Oh distant village. I have been waiting, unchanged, Believing that then, and even today, over there Someone must be waiting like I do. A summer day which you never know would come back sometime, And I would visit your dreams, my eaves, And that pensive sea again. Hopes and dreams were all blue and illimitable.


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(Original text first published in Michizo, Tachihara. The Complete Poems ofMichizo Tachihara. Tokyo: Kadokawa, 1971)


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Summer Journey IV: Relaxation ― a Personal Letter to I. T.

Long ago when I believed dreams would be beautiful, there was nothing more beautiful than a dream on earth. But how happy am I today, to be surrounded by something even more beautiful? Here at the Shinano plateau, I see flowers of buckwheat blossoming in a fresh air and susuki grasses bending in the breeze. I can count the wrinkles of the surface of far mountains, and in the thoroughly blue sky, there appear incredibly white and beautiful clouds. Listening to the subtle sound of the wind, I find it whispering the right language of the world. And then, I no longer think of trying to delineate how I feel in my own words. What do I speak for, and why do I inquire? Is there any reason why I must think of that such hard? Dear T, I feel amazing to be here. The sky is immeasurably high. I am such small, but I am big as this.


Chinese

126


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School Ding Dang

trans. Aaron Carr (SOAS)

The teacher stands the students sit the winter leans against the windows the summer hides in the trees Dad’s at the factory, working Mum’s at the shop, napping Grandpa and Grandma are in their graves, not saying a word the tables are wood the chairs are wood the students’ heads are wood the textbooks and blackboard are the teacher’s the teacher’s in love with a woman the woman plays a widow in a film The Widow’s by Lu Xun Lu Xun’s from the ‘30s the ‘30s was the “old China” the “old China”, where we lined the streets begging spitting at Ms. Wealthy’s arse Ms. Wealthy ran off with a soldier to Taiwan and died of homesickness Ms. Wealthy died Grandpa died Grandma died Mum and Dad got married one works at the factory the other naps at the shop


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(Original text first published in Xiao Hai, and Yang Ke. Tamen (Them). Guangxi: Lijiang chuban she (Lijiang publishing house), 1998. PP.33-34)


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and us we all come to school and sit upright on the wood and with our wooden heads aimed at the teacher we nail him onto the blackboard.


130

Portuguese

O Cego Do Harmonium Jose da Cruz e Souza Esse cego do harmonium me atormenta E atormentando me seduz, fascina. A minh’alma para ele vai sedenta Por falar com a sua alma peregrina. O seu cantar nostálgico adormenta Como um luar de mórbida neblina. O harmonium geme certa queixa lenta, Certa esquisita e lânguida surdina. Os seus olhos parecem dois desejos Mortos em flor, dois luminosos beijos Fanados, apagados, esquecidos... Ah! eu não sei o sentimento vário Que prende-me a esse cego solitário, De olhos aflitos como vãos gemidos!

(Original text first published in Cruz e Souza, Jose. Poesia Completa, org. de Zahidé Muzart, Florianópolis: Fundação Catarinense de Cultura / Fundação Banco do Brasil, 1993)


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The Blind with the Harm么nio Jose da Cruz e Souza

trans. Bruno Ochman Lustoza (TCD)

With the harm么nio tormenting is this blind Who fascinates and seduces me, while torturing. Coming to him my earnest soul is inclined To communicate with his wandering being. As a morbid mist in the moonlight enshrined I am made drowsy by his nostalgic singing. A softening sound, languid and one of a kind, The harm么nio utters with slow-moving murmuring. His eyes resemble very closely two wishes Dead in the prime of life, two luminous kisses Left alone, made unknown, devoid of tone... Oh! I do not know this different emotion That binds me to this lorn blind in possession Of distressed eyes just like a meaningless groan!


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Portuguese

A lua Murilo Rubião

“Seja aquela uma noite solitária, e não digna de louvor.” (Jó, III, 7) Nem luz, nem luar. O céu e as ruas permaneciam escuros, prejudicando, de certo modo, os meus desígnios. Sólida, porém, era a minha paciência e eu nada fazia senão vigiar os passos de Cris. Todas as noites, após o jantar, esperava-o encostado ao muro da sua residência, despreocupado em esconder-me ou tomar qualquer precaução para fugir aos seus olhos, pois nunca se inquietava com o que poderia estar se passando em torno dele. A profunda escuridão que nos cercava e a rapidez com que, ao sair de casa, ganhava o passeio jamais me permitiram ver-lhe a fisionomia. Resoluto, avançava pela calçada, como se tivesse um lugar certo para ir. Pouco a pouco, os seus movimentos tornavam-se lentos e indecisos, desmentindo-lhe a determinação anterior. Acompanhava-o com dificuldade. Sombras maliciosas e traiçoeiras vinham a meu encontro, forçando-me a enervantes recuos. O invisível andava pelas minhas mãos, enquanto Cris, sereno e desembaraçado, locomovia-se facilmente. Não parasse ele repetidas vezes, minha impossível seria a minha tarefa. Quando vislumbrava seu vulto, depois de tê-lo perdido por momentos, encontrava-o agachado, enchendo os bolsos internos com coisas impossíveis de serem distinguidas de longe. Bem monótono era segui-lo sempre pelos mesmos caminhos. Principalmente por não o ver entrar em algum edifício, conversar com amigos ou mulheres. Nem ao menos cumprimentava um conhecido. Na volta, de madrugada, Cris ia retirando de dentro do paletó os objetos que


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The Moon Murilo Rubião

trans. Guilherme da Silva Braga (TCD)

Short story published with the kind permission ofSílvia Rubião, whom the translator gratefully acknowledges. “Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.” (Job, III, 7) Neither light nor moonshine. The sky and the street remained dark, somewhat hindering my design. Steadfast, however, was my patience, and I did nothing but follow on Cris's steps. Every night after dinner I would wait for him, leaning against the wall of his residence, never worrying about hiding or taking any other precaution to flee from his sight, for he was never uneasy about what might be happening in his surroundings. The profound darkness which enveloped us and the speed with which he reached the footpath upon leaving the house never allowed me see his features. He walked along the pavement with firmness of purpose, as if having a sure place to go to. Little by little his movements grew slow and hesitant, belying his previous determination. I followed him only with difficulty. Sultry and treacherous shadows came towards me, forcing me to make irritating retreats. The invisible was held in my hands while Cris, serene and unabashed, moved easily. Were he not to stop repeatedly, my task would be impossible. Whenever I glimpsed his silhouette after losing sight of him for a few moments I would find him crouched, stuffing his inside pockets with things that could not be made out from a distance. It was quite monotonous to follow him, always through the same paths. Mostly because I did not see him enter a building, speak to friends or to women. He would not even greet an acquaintance. Upon his return in the small hours, Cris would produce from his jacket all the


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colhera na ida e, um a um, jogava-os fora. Tinha a impressão de que os examinava com ternura antes de livrar-se deles. *** Alguns meses decorridos, os seus passeios obedeciam ainda a uma regularidade constante. Sim, invariável era o trajeto seguido por Cris, não obstante a aparente falta de rumo com que caminhava. Partindo da sua casa, descia dez quarteirões me frente, virando na segunda avenida do percurso. Dali andava pequeno trecho, enveredando imediatamente por uma rua tortuosa e estreita. Quinze minutos depois atingia a zona suburbana da cidade, onde os prédios eram raros e sujos. Somente estacava ao deparar com uma casa de armarinho, em cuja vitrina, forrada de papel crepom, encontrava-se permanentemente exposta uma pobre boneca. Tinha os olhos azuis, um sorriso de massa. *** Uma noite – já me acostumara ao negro da noite – constatei, ligeiramente surpreendido, que os seus passos não nos conduziriam pelo itinerário da véspera. (Havia algo que ainda não amadurecera o suficiente para sofrer tão súbita ruptura.) Nesse dia, o andar firme, seguiu em linha reta, evitando as ruas transversais, pelas quais passava sem se deter. Atravessou o centro urbano, deixou para trás a avenida em que se localizava o comércio atacadista. Apenas se demorou uma vez – assim mesmo momentaneamente – defronte a um cinema, no qual meninos de outros tempos assistiam filmes em série. Fez menção de comprar entrada, o que deveras me alarmou. Contudo, sua indecisão foi breve e prosseguiu a caminhada. Enfiou-se pela rua do meretrício, parando a espaços, diante dos portões, espiando pelas janelas, quase todas muito próximas ao solo. Em frente a uma casa baixa, a única da cidade que aparecia iluminada, estacionou hesitante. Tive a intuição de que aquele seria o instante preciso, pois se Cris


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objects collected along the way, and then throw them away one by one. I had the impression he examined them with affection before getting rid of them. *** Some months later, his walks still kept a constant regularity. Indeed, the route followed by Cris remained unchanged, in spite of his apparent lack of a destination. After leaving the house, he would go down the street for ten blocks, turning onto the second avenue in the itinerary. Then he walked a short stretch and immediately afterwards took a narrow, winding street. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the suburban area of the city, where the buildings were dingy and sparse. He would only come to a halt upon reaching a haberdashery where, in the window lined with crepe paper, a wretched doll was permanently exhibited. It had blue eyes and a clay smile. *** On a certain night – I was already used to the dark of night – I noticed, with a hint of surprise, that his steps would not lead us through the previous route. (Something had not yet been ripe enough to undergo such an unexpected rupture.) On this day, he followed straight ahead with a steady gait, avoiding the side streets, which he left behind without stopping. He crossed the city centre, leaving behind the avenue where the wholesale stores were located. He did not linger except for once – and only momentarily – in front of a movie theatre, where boys from long ago watched movie serials. He made as if he were going to buy a ticket, which rather alarmed me. However, his indecision did not last and he soon resumed the stroll. He wandered into the red-light street, stopping occasionally in front of the gates or peering through the windows, most of which were close to the ground. In front of a low house, the only in the city to be lit, he balked. I had an intuition that that would be the precise moment, for if Cris retreated I would not have


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retrocedesse, não lograria outra oportunidade. Corri para seu lado e, sacando do punhal, mergulhei-o nas suas costas. Sem um gemido e o mais leve estertor, caiu no chão. Do seu corpo magro saiu a lua. Uma meretriz que passava, talvez movida por impensado gesto, agarrou-a nas mãos, enquanto uma garoa de prata cobria as roupas do morto. A mulher, vendo o que sustinha entre os dedos, se desfez num pranto convulsivo. Abandonando a lua, que foi varando o espaço, ela escondeu a face no meu ombro. Afastei-a de mim e, abaixando-me, contemplei o rosto de Cris. Um rosto infantil, os olhos azuis. O sorriso de massa.

(Original text first published in Rubião, Murilo. Contos reunidos. São Paulo: Ática, 1998)


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another opportunity. I ran to his side and, after drawing the dagger, thrust it into his back. Without a groan or the slightest quiver, he collapsed to the ground. From his meagre body the moon emerged. A courtisan who was passing by, perhaps moved by a reflex gesture, took him in her hands, as a silver drizzle sprayed the clothes of the deceased. The woman, seeing what she held in her fingers, burst into convulsive tears. Abandoning the moon, which cut across the space, she buried her face in my shoulder. I turned her away from me and, crouching down, beheld Cris's face. The childish face, the blue eyes. The clay smile.


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Danish

Ottende Kapitel, Midt i en Jazztid Knud Sønderby Skindergade. Tre unge herrer kom gående fra universitetet ned mod Købmagergade. Den ene af dem var Peter Hasvig, de to andre var hans venner Hugo Simonsen og Hjalmar Hviid. Peter var den højeste af dem, de andre var et par tommer mindre vel. Hugo Simonsen var i plus-four-bukser og åbenstående jakke af samme stof. Han gik med hænderne i bukselommerne og den nederste ende af slipset var stukket ind mellem to skjorteknapper. Han var mørk med et kraftigt ansigt, og der kunne være noget hovmodigt over ham, syntes folk, der ikke kendte ham. Over for de folk var han nemlig tilbageholdende. De havde snaket fag, og han havde lige sagt, at en vis professor var idiot. - Å, den idiot! Gud hjælpe mig om jeg kan holde ham ud, - og han havde raslet med et nøgleknippe i lommen. Det var noget, der prægede ham. Et vist på forhånd havende taget stilling til alt of alle. En lidt nonchalant og overlegen stilling. Bortset fra medlemmer af kongehuset var det meget få mennesker, man kunne nævne, uden at han så lidende ud og stønnede, åh, den idiot! Nævnede man medlemmer af kongehuset, nøjedes han med at se lidende ud. Peter havde spist frokost med de og havdeslået følge, de skulle ned til Polyphons udsalg, hvor Hjalmar Hviid skulle købe grammofonplader. Hjalmar Hviid var i gråt tøj med umiskendlige knæ i bukserne, der var noget snusket over hans påklædning. Han gik og nynnede. Han havde en høj, hvælvet hvid pande, kroget næse og vemodig mund. I absolut modsætning til vennen Hugo var han abstract og deduktiv, han vegeterede og betragtede verden og sit indre selv. Han opstillede teorier med en vis konsekvens. Han hævdede for eksempel, at det at gå, foruden at være den ubehagliste, også var den absolute mest unaturlige bevægelsesform. Cyklen derimod var næst efter skohornet jordens genialeste


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Extract from Chapter Eight, During the Jazz Era

Knud Sønderby

trans. Kerstina Mortensen (TCD)

Skindergade. Three young men walked from the university toward Købmagergade. Peter Hasvig and his friends Hugo Simonsen and Hjalmar Hviid. Peter was the tallest; the others were a few inches shorter. Hugo Simonsen wore plus-fours and an open jacket of the same material. He walked with his hands in his trouser pockets, and the end of his tie was stuck in between two shirt buttons. He was dark, with a powerful face. People who did not know him thought he was arrogant. To those people he was, of course, just reserved. They were talking about college, and had just said that a certain professor was an idiot. -That idiot! God help me if I can stand him. He jingled the keys in his pocket. It was something that weighed upon him. A particular, previously held judgement on everything and everyone; a somewhat nonchalant and arrogant attitude. Apart from royalty, there were very few people one could mention to him without him appearing agonised and groaning – Oh, that idiot! If a member of the royal family was mentioned, he was content to just appear agonised. Peter had eaten lunch with them, after which they went to Polyphon’s shop, where Hjalmar Hviid wanted to buy gramophone records. Hjalmar Hviid was in grey clothes with an unmistakeable trouser knee; there was something slovenly about his attire. He hummed. He had a high, white arched forehead, a crooked nose and a sad mouth. In complete contrast to Hugo, he was abstract and deducing; he vegetated and observed the world and his inner self. He advanced theories of a particular consequence. He raised the idea for example,


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opfindelse, og et glimrende befordringsmiddel. Til denne ende havde han én cykel hjemme og én på universitetet, og for ikke at bring uorden i systemet, tog han sig selv med toget. Hans ordenssans grænsede til det sindssyge. I sin portemonnæ havde han et indviklet lånesystem med gældsbeviser fra det ene rum til det andet, sine seksten stykker til frokost spiste han i en rækkefølge, deer tilsyneladende var ligefrem og uforandret – hvad var det nu, jeg kom til? Han kunne tænke sig om et sekund og tælle med højre hånds fingre mod bordet – aha cervelatpølse! I virkligheden var det et såre subtilt system. Engang nægtede han pure at spise noget og pakkede maden resigneret ned i tasken igen. – Tre stykker med ost...på en onsdag...! han rystede på hovedet og grundede. Nej, han havde glemt det, og formlen var derhjemme. Det ville tage ham to timer at regne det ud fra grunden. Når han sad tavs og spiste leverpostejmad, og man bad ham række saltet, kunne han sige: - Tys! ... Jeg er ved at anlægge mit Jeg på et bredere basis! – Og måle ud på dugen, - sådan her. Sin matematiske studentereksamen havde han fået med udmærkelse, og eksamenstiden havde han tilbragt med at gå i biografen og udarbejde geniale systemer, hvorefter han kunne få det hele læst, hvis han begyndte næste dag. Altid næste dag. Den sidste dag begyndte han fra en ende. Han var ikke sportmand. Et par gange om året når Peter strøg op langs kysten i singlesculler, kunne han møde ham i hans blå kano, drivende baglæns med strømmen ned gennem sundet med en pude i ryggen, pagajen og en bog uden for rækkevidde og optaget af at spise marcipanbrød efter et system, så de kunne vare til nærmeste havn. Der gik han så i land og lod kanoen ligge, og hvis det traf sig så heldigt en gang i løbet af sæsonen, at vind og strøm var i den anden retning, en dag han var oplagt, købte han marcipanbrød og gik om bord og drev baglæns op gennem sundet. Og til Peter, der sad halvnøgen med lange årer, som ikke kunne slippes, på sin spinkle, kildne båd, kunne han sige uden at røre sig, at Allah jo i sin store nåde havde indrettet det så viseligt, at han ikke kunne få noget chokolade af ham, hvorpå han et øjeblik efter udsatte sig for at kæntre for at få rakt ham et


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that walking, aside from being the most uncomfortable form of movement was also the most unnatural. The bicycle was therefore the earth’s greatest invention after the shoehorn, and a brilliant means of conveyance. To that end he had a bicycle at home and one at the university, and not to bring disorder to the system, he took the train. His sense of order bordered on illness. He had a complex loan system in his wallet, with I.O.U.’ s from one section to the next. He ate his sixteen slices for lunch in an apparently straightforward and unchanging sequence – where was I now? He would think for a second and count against the table with his right hand’s fingers – aha, cervelat! In reality it was a very subtle system. He once flatly refused to eat anything and resignedly packed his sandwiches back in his bag again. –Three cheese sandwiches...on a Wednesday...! He shook his head and pondered. No, he had forgotten it, the formula was at home. It would take him two hours to work it out from scratch. If one asked him to pass the salt as he sat eating pâté in silence, he might say -Hush! ...I’m about to establish my Self on a higher plane! Measuring it out on the tablecloth, - Just like this. He passed his mathematics exam with a distinction, having spent his exam period in the cinema working out ingenious systems whereby he could get everything done if he started the next day. It was always the next day. On the last day he started from the end. He was not a sportsman. A few times a year when Peter was canoeing up along the coast in a single sculler, he might meet him in his blue canoe drifting backwards with the current down through the sound with a cushion at his back, the paddle and a book out of reach. He was preoccupied with eating marzipan according to a system so that it would keep until the nearest harbour. He then disembarked, and if luck would have it during the season that the wind and current were in the opposite direction when he was so inclined, he would buy marzipan, get on board and travel backwards up through the sound. And to Peter


Danish

142

stykke på spidsen af åren, medens han allerede glædede sig til at udregne systemet for den formindskede beholdning. Sommetider kunne han være alvorlig, og han var meget følsom og kunne gå gennem tykt og tyndt for at gøre nogen, han brød sig for, en tjeneste. I sin ordenssans mødtes han med Hugo Simonsen, og Peter, der havde pengene raslende løst i bukselommen, og som røg talløse cigaretter, og hver gang gennemrodede alle tretten lommer forgæves efter tændstikker, bragte dem til fortvivelse. Og de gav ham ild og skiftedes til at sige med kommandostemme: - Tændstikker i venstre bukselomme, - idiot! - Penge i en portemonnæ, idiot! Og de nikkede forstående til hinanden. Det kunne de være enige om. Og de gik ned ad Skindergade, og de snakkede og den ene nynnede, og de drejede ned ad Købmagergade, og der kom de til at gå bag ved en ung pige, der skridtede af sted i brune sko og strømper, grøn nederdel og med en kort ruskindspjækkert med bælte og en lille filthat af en mørkere grøn farve end nederdelen. Der var sport over den dragt, på den venstre side af den lille, snævre filthat sad nogle små sølvtingester, og hun bar den hat meget rank. Jeg forstå mig ikke på kvinders tøj, men jeg tror at det var fuldkomment. Jeg ville kalde det roligt og dyrt. Det var også smukt at se pjækkertens linjer, fra hvor den sad tæt om hofterne, strammende blidt ind i passende folder af bæltet, og bredte sig ud og lå smukt om de ranke skuldre. Hugo og Hjalmar kendte hende, og Hugo stansede hende, hun hilste og han præsenterede Peter for hende, og hun sagde nåh! – forbavset og åh! – opklarende, - med små fornøjede, kriblende næselyde, til noget, de sagde. Vera Bagge hed hun.

(Original text first published in Sønderby, Knud, Midt i en Jazztid, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2009. p. 58-61)


143

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

who sat half naked, unable to let go of the long oars on the narrow delicate boat, he would say that Allah’s great mercy had arranged it so that he could not get any chocolate from him, whereupon he risked capsizing in order to pass him a piece on the tip of the oar, all the while looking forward to calculating the system for his remaining supply. He was serious sometimes, and very sensitive, he would go through thick and thin to do someone he liked a favour. With his sense of order he met Hugo Simonsen and Peter, whose money rattled in his trouser pocket and smoked countless cigarettes, and brought them to despair each time he rooted through his thirteen pockets in search of matches. The gave him a light and commanded -Matches in the left trouser pocket – idiot! - Money in a wallet, idiot! And they nodded in understanding to each other. That, they could agree on. And they went down Skindergade, and they chatted and one hummed and turning down to Købmagergade they walked behind a young girl, stepping ahead in brown shoes and stockings, a green skirt and a short suede jacket with a belt, and a small felt hat of a darker green than the skirt. There was sportiness about her outfit. She wore a small tight-fitting felt hat upright on her head, with some little silver things on the left side. I don’t understand women’s clothes, but I think it was perfect. I’d call it quiet and expensive. It was pleasant to see the contours of the jacket, how it sat close around her hips, tightening gently in the comfortable folds of the belt, spreading out and lying beautifully around her straight shoulders. Hugo and Hjalmar knew her. Hugo stopped her. She said hello and he introduced Peter. In quiet prickly, nasal sounds she replied I see, and oh and ah to whatever they said. Her name was Vera Bagge.


144

Irish

An Brollach, Cúirt an Mhéan Oíche Brian Merriman Ba gnáth mé ag siúl le ciumhais na h-abhann, Ar bháinseach úr 'san drúcht go trom, In aice na gcoillte i gcoim an tsléibhe, Gan mhairg, gan mhoill le soilse an lae. Do ghealadh mo chroí nuair chínn Loch Gréine, An talamh, an tír, is íor na spéire: Ba thaithneamhach aoibhinn suíomh na sléibhte, Ag bagairt a gcinn thar dhroim a chéile. Do ghealadh an croí a bhí críon le cianta, Caite gan bhrí nó líonta i bpianta; An séithleach searbh gan sealbh gan saibhreas D'fhéachfadh tamall thar bharra na gcoillte An lachain 'na scuainte ar chuan gan ceo, 'S an eala ar a bhfuaid 's í ag gluaiseacht leo, Na h-éisc le meidhir ag éirí in áirde, Péirse im radharc go taibhseach tarrbhreac, Dath an locha agus gorm na dtonn Ag teacht go tolgach, torannach, trom. Bhíodh éanlaith i gcrainn ann go meidhreach mómharach Is léimneach eilite i gcoillte im chóngar, Géimneach adharc 'is radharc ar shlóite, Tréanrith gadhar 'is Reynard rompu. Ar maidin inné bhí an spéir gan cheo, Bhí Cancer ón ngréin 'na caortha teo, Is í gafa chun saothair tar éis na h-oíche Agus obair an lae sin roimpi sínte. Bhí duilliúr craobh ar ghéaga im thimpeall,


145

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

Prologue, The Midnight Court Brian Merriman trans. Fionnán O’Connor (TCD)

I used to walk through water glens Of densing dew and river bends That wound through woods on mountainsides With careless ease at the morning rise. Loch Graney gowned with vaulting hills Would light my heart with vision-thrills— A skyline hooked with lurching peaks That strained the mountains round the creek! And my heart, grown hard with the denseness of grief, Would gladden again with a burst of relief! For even a pauper, grown bitter and frail, Who might look for a while o’er the forested vale, Would be stunned by the sight of the harbor and loch And the swoop of the swan over ducks in a flock And the fish leaping through them in their flapping delight With their speckles and scales in the flickering light! The shade of the lake was heavy with blue— The blue of the ebb of the waves breaking through. And there used to be birds that would chatter in trees As the trumpets of hunters would blast in the breeze And the deer would come leaping at the shock of the sounds As Reynard came running from a bevy of hounds. Yesterday morn, through a sky without cloud, Came the summering sun from the wintering south As it rose after resting for the rest of the night To the business of dawning and spreading the light.


Irish Fiorthann is féar 'ina slaoda taobh liom, Bhí glasra fáis ann, bláth 'is luibheanna. Scaipfeadh chun fáin dá chráiteacht smaointe. Bhí mé cortha 'san codladh im thraochadh, Shín mé tharm ar chothram an fhéir ghlais In aice na gcrann i dteannta trinse, Taca lem cheann 'smo hannlaí sínte. Ar gceangal mo shúl go dlúth le chéile, Greamaithe dúnta in ndubhghlas néalta, 'Is m'aghaidh agam folaithe ó chuilibh go sásta, I dtaidhreamh d'fhulaing mé an chuilithe cráite, A chorraigh go lom, a pholl go h-ae mé, 'S mé im chodladh go trom gan mheabhair, gan éirim. Ba ghairid mo shuan nuair chualas, shíleas, An talamh maguaird ag luascadh im thimpeall, Anfa aduaidh agus fuadach fíochmhar, Agus caladh an chuain ag tuargan tinte. Shiolla dem shúil dar shamhlaíos uaim, Chonaic mé chugam le ciumhais an chuain An mhásach bholgach tholgach thaibhseach Chnámhach cholgach ghoirgeach ghaibhdeach. A h-airde i gceart, mar a mheasaim, díreach. A sé nó seacht de shlata 'is fuíollach. Péirse beacht dá brat léi scaoilte Ina diaidh san tslab le drab is raoibeal. Ba mhór, ba mhiar, ba fhiain le féachaint Suas ina h-éadan créachtach créimeach: Ba anfa a cealltair, 's ba scanradh saolta A draid is a drandal mantach méirscreach. A Rí gach má! ba láidir líofa

146


147

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

But around me lay leafage and foliage-bark That enfolded my moods in the dark of the park And however tormented my thoughts might have been It softened them herbal and shaded them green. And so, being drowsy and ready for sleep, I lay by a bank that was grassy and deep In a bedding of ditch in the shade of a tree With my head fully pillowed and legs spreading free. But I hadn’t slept long when it seemed that I heard A furious storm and a northerly whirl And the roll of an earthquake rumbling the land And the festering of flames by the harbor and sand. A glance of my gaze and I saw coming through The turns of the tumult a slatternly shrew— Frightful and fierce and grown fat round her arse, Bony and bristling and harrowed and harsh. If I’ve reckoned the truth of it more or less right She could spare seven yards from the span of her height! Behind her for yards dragged the drab of her shawl Through the mud and the mire and the bog-laden sprawl. A massive, majestic, and blemishing scowl Made me tremble to stare at her menacing brow— While a horror that left me with senses undone Had been seething through blisters that chapped in her gums. God in the highest! She held in her grasp A powerful tool in the form of a staff With a brass bailiff’s icon she’d spiked on the top As a sign of the power and status she’d got. Then, gruff as her greeting, she gave her decree:


Irish A bíoma láimhe agus lánstaf inti, Comhártha práis in airde ar spíce Agus cumhachta báille ina bharr air scríofa. Agus dúirt go goirgeach d'fhoclaibh dána: ”Múscail! corraigh! a chodlataigh ghránna! Is dubhach an tslí duit sínte id shliasaid; Cúirt ina suí agus na mílte ag triall ann. Ní cúirt gan acht, gan reacht, gan riail, Ná cúirt na gcreach mar do chleacht tú riamh, An chúirt seo ghluais ó shlóite séimhe, Ach cúirt na dtrua, na mbua 'is na mbéithe. Is mór le maíomh i gcríocha Éibhir, Uaisle sí mar shuíodar d'aonghuth. Dhá lá agus oíche ar bhinn an tsléibhe I bpálás líonmhar Bhruíon Mhaigh Gréine. Is daingean a ghoill sé ar uaisle an rí, Ar mhaithe an teaghlaigh taibhsigh sí Is ar uimhir na buíne a bhi ina ndáil, Mar d'imigh gach díth ar chríocha Fáil, Gan seilbh, gan saoirse ag síolrach seanda, Gan cheannas i ndlí, gan chíos, gan cheannphort; Scriosadh an tír agus níl ina ndiaidh ann In ionad na luibheanna ach fliodh 'is fiaile: Na h-uaisle ab fhearr chun fáin mar léadar Agus uachtar lámh ag fáslaigh saibhre, Ag fealladh le fonn agus foghail gan féachaint, D'feannadh na lobhar 'san lom dá léirscrios, Is docharach dubhach mar d'fhúig gach daoirse Go doilbhir dúr i ndubhcheart dlithe: An fann gan feidhm ná faigheann ó aon neach

148


149

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

“Indolent idler! Get up on your feet! The court is in session, the jury’s in place, And you’re slumbering through it? It’s a fucking disgrace! This isn’t some sham full of charlatan knaves Your invaders established to bully their slaves But the court of a crowd of the highest regard With a fairness of rule and a woman in charge. The Gaels of tomorrow can boast of today When their fathers were governed by princes of Fay Who assembled to meet at a fort on the peak Of the mountains of Graney for a third of a week. Our king, may he reign, has been troubled with tears, Along with the nobles he rules and reveres And the rest of his troop and ethereal clan, At the sight of a nation reduced to a sham. The children of heroes, without wisdom or worth, Have been harvesting weeds from the withering earth That was ruined and raped by the landowning frauds Who arrived when your chieftains were scattered abroad. And now that your leaders have cast in their lots, The crooks and the scoundrels have climbed to the top! They plunder your poorest with sniveling glee And swindle your starving with startling ease! It’s darkened depressing, your drudging in dirt Under derelict laws that cripple the earth As the feeble, enfeebled, hold nothing in sight But a frightening future of a desolate blight Full of lies from their lawyers and the rulings of courts That are ruled by the favors and frauds that distort The scales into shackles and truth into mist With burgling and bribes and the rest of their tricks!


Irish Ach clampar domhain agus luí chun léirscrios; Fallsacht fear dlí agus fochnaoid airdnirt; Cam 'is callaois, faillí 'is fábhar; Scamall an dlí agus fíordhath fáincheart; Dalladh le bríb, le fís 'is fallsacht. I bhfarradh gach fíor, fuíoll níor fágadh, Dearbhadh díbligh ar Bhíobla an lá san Cúis, dar ndóigh, ná geobhairse saor tríd: Cnó na h-óige á feo le faolras, Is easnamh daoine suite in Éirinn Mheath led chuimhne an síolrach daona; Is folamh tráite fágadh tíortha; An cogadh 'san bás gan Spás á ndíogadh, Uabhar na ríthe 'is ar imigh thar sáile, An uair ná déanann sibh tuille ina n-áit díobh; Is náire bhur n-iomad gan siorraigh gan síolrach. Agus mná ina muirear ar mhuir 'is ar thíortha, Ciúnsaigh chorpartha agus borracaigh óga, Agus bonnsaigh bhrothallacha fola agus feola, Lóistigh liosta agus liostathaigh sásta, Agus mórgaigh shioscaithe a d'imigh i bhfásach. Is trua gan toircheas tollairí den tsórt-so, Is trua gan tórmach brollach 'is bóta iad. Is minic iad ullamh, an focal da bhfaighidis, Ag titim dá mogall agus molaimse a bhfoighne. Is é cinneadh le saoithe i gcríoch na comhairle I gcoinne na daoirse do h-inseadh dóibh-sin, Duine den bhuíon bhí líonta i gcumhachta, Ar dtitim an dísle do shuíomh i bhFódla. Táirgeann Aoibheall, croí gan aon locht, Grá na Muimhneach, sí-bhean Léith-chraig,

150


151

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

With all things considered and nothing ignored, By an oath on the bible this morning was sworn An obvious case that you cannot debunk: The youth have grown frail and forgotten their spunk! And here lies the lack of the offspring of Ireland: The lilting of younglings across the whole island! The land has been dried to a hollowing waste By the warfare and death and invasions that chased All your boisterous kings to embark on the brine And they’ve not been replaced with more of their kind. It’s depressing to look at your vanishing race With mothers-that-might-be all over this place! Most of them buxom and blooming and spry With blood in their bodies and life in their eyes But you’ve driven them dreary with your fumbling neglect! So, wasted is passion and wasted is pep! It’s a pity they’ll never have milk in their breasts Or a child in their bellies with his dear mother’s zest. Still, eager and willing, they wait only the word, But, as for their patience, it’s past the absurd! At the close of our hearing, the immortals decreed That, to salvage your freedom, a princess of Sídhe From the family of Faerie must deal with this land And the dice of your fates must be flung by her hands! Aoibheal the honorable queen of Craglee, Out of fondness for Munster, then nobly agreed To depart from the spirits, unfettered and sage, And travel to Thomond to unshackle its slaves! Gentle and just, she has given her pledge That she’ll topple the lawyers who’ve lied and misled And she’ll stand with the feeble, the famished, and weak;


Irish Scaradh le saoithe sí na slua-so, 'Is scathamh ag scaoileadh daoirse i dTuain-seo. Do gheall an mhíonla chaointais chóir-seo Fallsacht dlído chloí go cumhachtach, Seasamh i dteannta fann 'is faonlag; Is chaithfeadh an teann bheith ceannsa daonna, Is chaithfeadh an neart don cheart so stríochadh, Agus chaithfeadh an ceart ina cheart bheith suite. Geallaim anois nach clis ná cumhachta, Caradas Miss ná Pimp ná comhalta, A shiúlfaidh tríd an dlí so ghnáth San chúirt ina suifidh an síolrach neamhaí. Atá an chúirt seo seasmhach feasta san bhFiacail, Siúl-se! freagair í! caithfidh tú triall ann, Siúl gan tafann go tapa ar do phriacail, Siúl nó stróicfead san lathaigh im dhiaidh tú!”

152


153

Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation

In the wake of her verdict the strong shall be meek And even the mighty must honor her might As she judges their justice and sets it to right. And I promise She’ll never be swayed by a bribe Or by cronies or whores or a croc full of lies Or even by scoundrels who swagger through court Unaware that their judges are heavenly lords. Her court is in Feakle, the session’s in flow, And they want you to witness! So get up and go! Just answer your summons and follow me quick Or I’ll drag you myself through the mire and shit!”


154

Arabic

A Poem In Advising the Manners Related to Knowledge ‫خ يشلل‬

‫يمك حل ا دم حأ نب ظف ا ح‬

trans. Ifthahar Ahmed (SOAS)

All praise be to God, the Lord of the worlds, for His favours as He owns all praise and blessings, The Possessor of the dominion and kingdoms, the One Self-Subsistent, the Good, the Guardian over all, the Creator of creation from ex nihilo, The One who taught the people what they do not know, taught the art of speech and writing, Then prayers be upon the chosen one (Prophet Muhammad), the most honoured of those who were sent with goodness and guidance to the best of nations, And upon his family, Companions and followers, all with no exception, and those who followed their methodology in excellence, As long as the star shines, the sun rises and the souls still have their breath of life, To proceed, whoever God the Exalted wishes good for He grants him understanding of the correct religion, My Lord pushes and encourages the believers to understand the religion despite the people warning from it, My Lord bestows upon all worshippers and Messengers with knowledge, so remember the greatest of blessings, This will suffice with the first revealed chapter to your Prophet, which is the chapter of ‘The Pen’, Likewise how He has mentioned the number of blessings and presented them in the chapter of ‘Livestock’, God has distinguished His blessings even in our limbs, from which one will realise his (own) desire and oppression, My Lord dispraises those who ignore His blessings, severely, they are lower than animals, There is no unapproved envy in two matters, they are: being good with wealth or in knowledge and judgments,


‫‪155‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫ة يملعل ا ب ادآل او‬

‫يف ة يم يمل ا ةموظنمل ا‬

‫ا ي اصول ا‬

‫خ يشلل‬

‫يمك حل ا دم حأ نب ظف ا ح‬

‫ـ هلل ا هم حر ـ‬

‫ّنل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َ حل ا‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِد‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ْل خل ا‬ ‫ِق‬

‫َقل اب‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُأل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َق ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫يف‬

‫ْوكل ا‬ ‫ِن‬

‫ُمو‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِش‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِمك حل او ‪ِ i i‬م‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِط ان‬ ‫ٌق‬

‫ِهل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ِلو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّظل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ٌ‬

‫ُظو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُط‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫َذ‬ ‫ُو‬ ‫و‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْع ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِه يل إ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِش‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّمذ‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫ْكأ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َبوط‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِهلل‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ام‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َث ار يم‬

‫َعو‬ ‫ن‬

‫ام‬

‫َ خل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِق‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ّو‬ ‫ِة‬ ‫َ‬

‫َمو‬ ‫َز ي‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْا‬ ‫ال‬

‫ّمذو‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِغ‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫َط‬ ‫ٌة‬

‫ْغأ‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْشأ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُف‬

‫ٌرون‬

‫َأ‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ْصأ‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ُ حل او‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ُن‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ُث ار ي‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫ال لب ل‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ُه اد‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ْعأ‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْ يلو‬ ‫َس‬

‫ِص‬ ‫ِت اف‬

‫ُقل ا‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ى‬

‫َض‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِل ا‬

‫ُل يوطل ا‬

‫َي‬ ‫ِفك‬ ‫َك ي‬

‫َ ي اغ‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫ٍبول‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬

‫يف‬

‫ْم او‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َ‬

‫َك اذك‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ٌن ي‬

‫َح‬ ‫ٍة ا ي‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ِلو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْ حأو‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ُرو‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ال ‪i i‬‬

‫ِن ام ي إل ا‬

‫ام‬

‫َبو‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ُد‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ّث‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُهلل ا‬

‫يف‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِفو َنور‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِط اق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ًة‬

‫َك اذ‬

‫َل اعت‬ ‫ى‬

‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َس ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد ا ع‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِد‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْث ا‬ ‫َن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِن‬

‫ِعلل‬ ‫ِد اب‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫امو ٌم‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ّمث‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِلآل او‬

‫َ ح ال‬

‫َح‬ ‫ىت‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ُ ءي‬

‫ْسل ا‬

‫الف‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ِلو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ام‬

‫َو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل اط‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫ُل‬

‫يف‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْس ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ْصأو‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُ ء اي‬

‫َي‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِ ء الآل ا‬

‫ُة الصل ا‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫َلو‬ ‫ى‬

‫يذ‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِع‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ِة‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِه ا جل ا‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫َن ي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َس‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِر ي‬

‫َش‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫الو‬

‫ْحإ‬ ‫ُن اس‬

‫ُس‬ ‫َرو‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫َع‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّصل او‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِب‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ّض‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ِد اب‬

‫ِر او جل ا‬ ‫ِح‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْذأ‬ ‫ٌن‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫َد ا ع‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ٌف‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ِن ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫يف‬

‫ْس اف‬ ‫َع‬ ‫او‬

‫َ جل ا‬ ‫َل ا ه‬ ‫ِة‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ىق‬

‫َشأ‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫َ‬

‫ىت ح‬

‫َم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ىلع‬

‫ُهلل ا‬

‫َن ينمؤمل ا‬

‫ّدق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُمل ا‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ِر ات‬

‫ُم يظعل ا‬

‫ُكو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ال‬

‫ْتأل او‬ ‫ع اب‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫َز‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫اه‬

‫ْعأو‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َب‬

‫ُ جل او‬ ‫ّه‬ ‫ُل ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْمأ‬ ‫ٌت او‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫وأ‬

‫ِل‬

‫ام‬

‫ِكلمل ا‬

‫َس انل ا‬

‫ّضل ا ُسمش‬ ‫ىح‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِذ‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِل امل ا‬

‫ّلل ا‬ ‫َق‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ُهنع‬

‫َي‬ ‫ا‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َف‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫يف‬

‫ِغ‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ط‬

‫َعو‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ُمل ع‬

‫َركأ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َط ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ْي خ‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َن‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْع ي‬ ‫َنومل‬

‫ِط اق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َقو‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْنع‬

‫ْدأ‬ ‫ىن‬

‫َم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْب‬

‫َت‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِعل اب‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫يف‬

‫ٍغ اب‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ام‬

‫ْعأ‬ ‫ين‬

‫ُس‬ ‫َرو‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ِبو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل ا‬

‫ُع‬ ‫ٍثو‬

‫ُي‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ِن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْذ اف‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َروس‬ ‫ة‬

‫َب‬ ‫ِن ا ي‬

‫ْنأ‬ ‫ِس اف‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِ ح اول ا ِتوكلمل او‬ ‫َمصل ا ِد‬ ‫ل ا ‪ِ i i‬د‬

‫ِب اتل او‬ ‫َن ي ع‬

‫يف‬

‫ْعم‬

‫ْكأ‬ ‫َب‬ ‫َر‬

‫ُبل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم ه‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ى‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َب‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ْي خ‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْن إ‬ ‫ِر اذ‬

‫َقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫َه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ِدب‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْنأ‬ ‫َط‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِد‬ ‫ِهن ي‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫َع‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْ يهمل ا‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِن‬

‫ْ ح إب‬ ‫ٍن اس‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْهو‬ ‫َو‬

‫َ خل او‬ ‫ّط‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َضفأ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُلهأ‬

‫ه ئ الآ‬

‫َن يمل اعل ا‬

‫َ حل ا‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ِهلل‬

‫َس‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ال ع‬

‫ال‬

‫َ جل اف‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ِعل او‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ْه جل اب‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِهلل او‬

‫َ خل او‬ ‫ُفو‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬


Arabic

156

And from those who are described with faith are those who have a ravenous appetite for knowledge, such to the extent that they were labeled as the those who were envied for their voracious appetite (for knowledge), Knowledge is the richest and is most sweet as long as the ear lends itself to hear it and is expressed by the tongue of its articulator, Knowledge, its end is most distant and its level is the highest, so strive towards it you who possess such high aspirations, Knowledge is the most noble of sought things, its seeker searches for God who in turn is more honourable than the mere person who walks on his feet, Knowledge is light which the inhabitants of eternal bliss find their way while the ignorant ones find their darkness, Knowledge is the highest form of life for the worshippers just as the ignorant ones are dead due to their ignorance, They do not hear nor see, rather they do not perceive, and in the fire of Hell will every person acknowledge his sins, Thus the root of the creation’s misguidance all together lies in ignorance, and the root of their misery lies in their unjustness, And knowledge is the root of guidance with happiness, so the wise ones do not go astray nor find distress, And Fear comes along with ignorance and so does long sorrow, while this does not occur for the possessors of knowledge, so stand firm! By God! Knowledge is the inheritance of all prophecies, there is simply no inheritance that compares to it, so give glad tidings for those who stay firm, This is because it is an everlasting right of inheritance; anything other than it fades away and becomes non-existent, This includes Solomon’s inheritance of prophecy and the clear virtue of it; he was most deserving of the blessings, Likewise, Zachariah called his Lord for a family guardian, fearing the present guardians in front of him, Knowledge is the scale of God’s legislation whereby it stands straight, without knowledge it would not stand as so,


‫‪157‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫ِ إل ا‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ِءا‬

‫َعل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّنل ا‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِ ئ ار‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْوأ‬ ‫ُه ال‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َغل او‬ ‫َش‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َر ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِة اض‬

‫ّظل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل إو‬ ‫ى‬

‫َمأل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْوف‬ ‫َق‬

‫َر ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْصأ‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِق‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َ ح ‪ِ i i‬م‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْغ ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُع‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ٍد ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِس او‬ ‫ُع‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َح‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ٌب ا‬

‫ْفأ‬ ‫ٌ ح ار‬

‫ْعأ‬ ‫ِم ال‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْعأ ا‬ ‫ِظ‬ ‫ِب ْم‬ ‫ُش‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ًف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬

‫ْضأو‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِت‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َق يرط‬

‫َن‬ ‫َض‬ ‫َر ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ى‬

‫َش ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد ا ه‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْل اب‬

‫َبل اك‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِر‬

‫لا ‪i i‬‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َح‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫َس‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ًع‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّدشأ‬ ‫َع ُ‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْ يأ‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ُر‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫او‬

‫َل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ٍق‬

‫َش‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ًئ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّت ا‬ ‫ُع اب‬ ‫ِ‬

‫امو‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ان‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َقو‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّص خو‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ُأ ْن‬ ‫ِلو‬ ‫ي‬

‫َك‬ ‫ِث‬ ‫ُر ي‬ ‫و‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َع‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫او‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ْع‬

‫َ يو‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ُد ه‬ ‫َنو‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ِد اب‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫َك اذك‬

‫َفك‬ ‫ُه ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫و‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َل اعل ا‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َن اكو‬

‫ُسو ي‬ ‫ُف‬

‫َش‬ ‫َد ا ه‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ّت ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ْنأ‬

‫َءاج‬ ‫ْت‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫و‬

‫َك‬ ‫َك اف‬

‫ْضف‬ ‫ُل‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َب‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َ جل ا‬ ‫َل ا ه‬ ‫ِة‬

‫َ يف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْصمل ا‬ ‫ىفط‬

‫َغ‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َك‬ ‫ِم يل‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِت ال اس‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ِي‬

‫ّسل او‬ ‫ِم ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُع‬

‫ِبأ‬ ‫َن ي‬ ‫ِف ا‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِعل اب‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّن إو‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّسل او‬ ‫ِل ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َنوك‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َم‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َك‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫َك ا‬

‫ِر ا خو‬ ‫ٍج‬

‫ْ جأ‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫َح‬ ‫َة‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْظ‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َو‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ّشل‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِط ا‬ ‫ِن ي‬

‫َك‬ ‫ُش‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِب‬

‫َل إل ا‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْوأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ْ يش‬ ‫ِن اط‬

‫َذ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫َك‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِم ا ح ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َعو‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ّنأل‬ ‫َ‬

‫َقل ا‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫َع ِم ي‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫َل ي‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬

‫ْعأ‬ ‫ِظ‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُتوم‬

‫َ اك‬ ‫َن‬

‫اي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ْهأ ِل‬ ‫ِعل ا ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َر ‪ْ i i‬نأ ِم‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫او‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِفور‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ال‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َ يو‬ ‫ْذ‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ُب‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِغ‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ُر‬

‫ْمأل ا‬ ‫ِك ال‬

‫ْذ إ‬

‫ْمأ‬ ‫ِك ال‬

‫اذ إ‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ُن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُسف‬ ‫َطل‬ ‫ة‬

‫ُسو‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َط‬ ‫ُة‬

‫َص‬ ‫ِحا‬

‫ِط‬ ‫ِب ال‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َف‬ ‫َظ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اذ‬

‫َو‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ٍد‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ِمل‬

‫ُكو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ام‬ ‫َ‬

‫َ يل ا‬ ‫ِد‬

‫ْ حل ا‬ ‫ُن ات ي‬

‫َول او‬ ‫ِع ا‬ ‫ي‬

‫َح‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ْس ا ُث‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ُب ا ج‬ ‫او‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْلأ‬ ‫ف‬

‫ُل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ٍج‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َل اعل‬ ‫َن يم‬

‫َت ج ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫او‬

‫ّدل او‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫اي‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ُذ‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫َر‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ْر‬

‫يف‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ًب‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْمأ‬ ‫ِل اث‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْهأو‬ ‫َ جل ا ُل‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫يف ِل‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َؤ‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ًي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِلذ‬ ‫َك‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُد اق‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِل اط‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫ْ جأ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُ يآل ا‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِ ح اص‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َش‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِع‬

‫ْنمو‬ ‫ه‬

‫َذك‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ُن از ي‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ُن اطل‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ُقل ا‬ ‫ُبول‬

‫ْر إ‬ ‫ُث‬

‫َد‬ ‫اع‬

‫ْبأل اب‬ ‫ِن اد‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِر‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ًم ي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُث ي ح‬

‫يف‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِعل اب‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َسو‬ ‫ٍع ام‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ُط‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ِعل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُلهأ‬

‫ِ جل ا‬ ‫ِن ان‬

‫ال إ‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ْ يل‬ ‫َن ام‬

‫ا يركز‬

‫َذ إ‬ ‫َذ ا‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ْل ا ‪َ i i‬ب‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ِه ا ج‬ ‫ٌد‬

‫ِش ان‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َد‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ٍت ا ج‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُص‬ ‫ِرود‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫يف‬

‫ًق يرط‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ْر إ‬ ‫ُث‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ّو‬ ‫ة‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِص اق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ٌة‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِبل ا‬ ‫ِر ا ح‬

‫ًضر‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َلأل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ّل ا‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َل‬ ‫ه‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِر‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم ي‬

‫َص ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِه يف‬

‫ّي إ‬ ‫ُه ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫َ خل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِق‬

‫ْل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُهل ا‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْل او ‪i i‬‬

‫ُح ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ٍج‬

‫َت‬ ‫ُنوك‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫َو ام‬ ‫ِت ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُ ئر اب‬

‫ِق‬ ‫ُم او‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ال‬

‫ِ ئ اد‬ ‫م‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِعل اف‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َعل اب‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َس‬ ‫ِل يب‬

‫يف‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْوأ‬

‫ّضل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِء‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُص‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َط‬ ‫ُة‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ٌة ا ج‬

‫ّ يأ‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َخ‬ ‫َفو‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ل‬

‫ِلآل ا‬

‫ِبو‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ِنو‬

‫ْرأل او‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫َن ي‬

‫امو‬

‫ُمل ا‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ني‬

‫ِل اومل ا‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْ يأل ا‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َمف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّظل اب‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َل ‪ْ i i‬ن‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِس‬ ‫ُه او‬

‫َبأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫ّنأل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫َعل او‬ ‫ِل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫َنو‬

‫َعو‬ ‫ِل ا‬ ‫ٌم‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ُت‬

‫َم‬ ‫ِف ان‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْو‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُمو‬

‫َت‬ ‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ُمه‬

‫َك‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬


Arabic

158

Every time the proof is mentioned in arguments, then knowledge has no physical power to rule with, For the physical power by the bodies are short-lived, it may be just or unjust and wrong, As for the power of knowledge, it is driven by the hearts towards guidance and to the pleasure of their Lord, The religion and the world departs when the knowledge which rescues the faithful adherent departs also, Knowledge, O friend causes the heavens and the earth to seek forgiveness for its possessor, So too do the fishes in the depths of the sea, in light and darkness, The one who departs in seeking knowledge intently is a warrior in the path of many rewards and opportunities, Indeed the wings of the angels spread to engulf this seeker of knowledge, pleased with what they do and pursue, Those who traverse the path of knowledge, the knowledge leads them to the path of Paradise, and to the Creator of humans, This seeker listens to the knowledge and pays attention to memorise it out of reverence and disseminating it to the nations, So great his radiance if described as such, the (former) call of the best of creation, Suffice to know the virtue of knowledge that they are elevated due to it, degrees above others, And in the past, the virtue of our father (Adam) over the angels with respect to knowledge, due to his Lord’s teaching him, Likewise, Joseph’s virtue was not apparent to the world without knowledge and wisdom, And God’s spoken Prophet (Moses) following Khidr due to the latter’s knowledge, Despite the former’s (Moses) virtue of receiving revealed messages and being described as the spoken one, And the chosen one (Muhammad) greeted the seeker of knowledge graciously, so revere this as such,


‫‪159‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫َب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َنود‬

‫ِ جو‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫َه‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِي‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫َض ْم‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫او‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ٍر ان‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ملعل ا بل اط ة يصو‬

‫ْل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َق‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َر‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫َط‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ى‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫الو‬

‫َق‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َفل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َعل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِئ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ُر‬

‫ْع او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ّص‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬

‫َص‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ٌب‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ُه اد‬

‫الأ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ًم ا‬ ‫ا‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َف‬ ‫ال‬

‫َص‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ٌن‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫الو‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْف ا‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْلب‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ْس او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ىركذ‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْم حرل ا‬ ‫ُن‬

‫َو‬ ‫َكل ا‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُر‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ول‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ام‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ٌر‬

‫ُقو‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِد ا ع‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِل اط ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َس‬ ‫ِل يب‬

‫ِفو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّن إ‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ا‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ْل‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َس‬

‫َل إ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْد او‬ ‫ُع‬

‫َذأو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫الو ‪i i‬‬

‫ِس‬ ‫ىو‬

‫ْ ح اف‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل إل ا‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ال إ‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُع‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َك‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِر‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َك‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َك‬

‫ّصل ا‬ ‫ِط ار‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َد‬ ‫ْع‬

‫َث‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫َ‬

‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َكل او‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ن‬

‫ِ ئ اصو‬ ‫ُن‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِ ح ال‬ ‫ٍق‬

‫ّلكو‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ام‬

‫ِع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ٌم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْعأل اب‬ ‫ِل ام‬

‫ْسمل ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِم ي‬

‫ام‬

‫َق‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُع‬ ‫َبوق‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ّمع‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫ُعل او‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َب‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِعل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْنأ‬

‫ّن إف‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُو‬ ‫ًبو ج‬ ‫ا‬

‫َل اق‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َول ا‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ِي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َك‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ى‬

‫َفل ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِك‬ ‫ُب ات‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِبو‬ ‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُع‬ ‫َمول‬

‫ّدل اف‬ ‫ُن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُمل ا‬ ‫ِن يب‬

‫هب‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ن‬

‫ّي إ‬ ‫َك ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْ ح اف‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َعل ا‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ِت اك ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬

‫اذ‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َكل‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ْب ا‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ْأ‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِب ا ج ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َمو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ِن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْبأ‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫َض‬

‫ُعل ا‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َب‬

‫ّن إ‬ ‫َ‬

‫وأ‬

‫ْ ح او‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ّن إ‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ال‬

‫َثأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ٌر‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫ِن ام‬

‫ّتل اب‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِن ا ي‬

‫ُح‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫اه‬

‫َعل ابو‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِق ي‬

‫َ جل ا‬ ‫ِم ي ح‬

‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َي‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ُن ي‬

‫ْس ا‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َس‬

‫ْل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َن‬ ‫ُ جه‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ِن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ٌف‬

‫ْجا‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْل‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ًب‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّنل او‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َة‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َم ( ِ ه‬ ‫َن اك ن‬ ‫)‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َر ام‬ ‫َة ا‬

‫ْ ج او‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ّنل او‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُح‬

‫ُق‬ ‫ْل‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِغ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َ خل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِق‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫َلو‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫اي‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ِه‬

‫اي‬

‫َقو‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْب اف‬ ‫ُذ‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ُس انل ا‬

‫َروش‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْ جأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْعأ‬ ‫َل ام‬

‫ال‬

‫ِل اط‬ ‫َب‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫َمل‬

‫َق‬ ‫ِو‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ِت أ‬ ‫َك ي‬

‫َف‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َس‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َو‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُن‬ ‫ِرو‬

‫ُط‬ ‫َبو‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْق اف‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ْه‬

‫َل إل ا‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ِ ح اص‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُهل ا‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْل ا‬

‫ال‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ّطل‬ ‫ِب ال‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ُهو‬ ‫ِفو ٍدو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ِمل‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ْف‬

‫ْن ا‬ ‫ِث‬ ‫َن‬ ‫َءا‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َك‬ ‫اذ‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َر‬

‫َصل ا خ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ْ خأ‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َي‬ ‫َمو‬

‫هب‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ّن إ‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْس إ‬ ‫ِ ء ار‬

‫َلأ‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬

‫يف‬

‫ِبل ا‬ ‫َ ء ان‬

‫َت‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ّس‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْقأل او‬ ‫ِم او‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّلل ا‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َفو‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫يف َ ء ا ج ْم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ًب‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِفو‬ ‫ِه ي‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َة اه اب‬

‫يف‬

‫ّطق‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِس انل ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْحا‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ْظ‬

‫ِقل ا‬ ‫َم ا ي‬ ‫ِة‬

‫َرآل او‬ ‫َءا‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ِ جو‬ ‫ِب‬

‫ُهل ا‬ ‫ُة اد‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِغ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُح ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْو‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َس‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّت ا‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُء‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫َظ‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِ خل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ى‬

‫َب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ال‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ّصن‬ ‫ِكل ا ِ‬ ‫ِفو ِب ات‬ ‫ي‬

‫َقل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِنودب‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َ حل‬ ‫ِذ ا‬ ‫ِق‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ِل يب‬ ‫َ‬

‫َقف‬ ‫ْد‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّظ‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫ال‬

‫ْل ا‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َو‬ ‫َ ي اص‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْصأل ا‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِف‬

‫ُل‬

‫َظ‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َت‬

‫ِفل او‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ُأل او‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َذ ات‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْهأو ‪i i‬‬

‫َح‬ ‫ِث يد‬

‫َرو‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْحا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْشأ‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ُر‬

‫َب ادآل او‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َ جل ا‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِ ئ اص ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ٌة‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ال‬

‫يف ةذبن‬

‫ّلل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِح‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْن إ‬ ‫ٍس‬

‫ْنع‬

‫ِن اط يش‬

‫ِ جل ا‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِن‬

‫ّنأل‬ ‫َه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّن إو‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫َمل‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْتأو‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِع‬

‫ْص او‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َل‬ ‫ِ ح او‬ ‫ٌد‬

‫َس‬ ‫َ ء او‬

‫ْس او‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ْك‬


Arabic

160

It suffices them in coming to revelation attentively, and for its verses to come into contact with their chests, God has specially selected them with deep insight for His own reverence, and the intellects of these likes are the most truthful in speech, Although God testifies this for them, their testimony comes by way of their supplications being responded to while the ignorant ones remain dumb, These specially selected testify against the ignorant ones, rather the former are the latter’s guardians on the Day of Judgment, The virtue of the scholars over the average worshippers is like what the full moon is to the shining star, so collect the deserving booty! And the scholar who is God-fearing is more of a threat and danger to Satan than a thousand average worshippers put together, And the death of a large number of people is easier to bear than a learned scholar who dies with a severe inflicting pain, This owes to his immensely vast benefit to humankind and the Devils rejoice at their deaths, By God! Had they known anything they would never rejoice at such, for this in reality is a sign for their own imminent and nearby death, They are truly accursed! Every stealing listener (of the heavens) is witnessed by the shooting star, so appreciate this shooting star! This absolutely pertinent, both races humans and Jinns have devils amongst themselves, The guided ones are on the correct path while the ignorant ones are misguided and led astray by their ignorance, And their virtues have been mentioned within the texts of the Book (the Quran) and the Prophetic traditions, which stands more famous than fire on a flag.

A Section on the Advising the Seeker ofKnowledge: O ardent seeker of knowledge! Do not hope for a substitute for knowledge, for indeed you will be triumphant by the Lord of the Preserved Tablet and the Pen, Respect the knowledge and know its sanctions in speech, actions and etiquettes,


‫‪161‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫ل جو زع هلل ا ب اتكب ة يصول ا‬

‫ّظل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِقأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِسد‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬

‫يف‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْدق‬

‫َب‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫ُم ‪َ i i‬ش‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْ ح او‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ىن‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِغ‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َن‬

‫َكل اب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ِر ي‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر ين‬

‫َلأل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َأل او‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِل اك‬

‫َغل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِف‬

‫وذ‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َس‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْنع‬

‫ِقل ا‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْكأل ا‬ ‫ُن او‬

‫َل‬ ‫اه‬

‫ًمود‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِد اد‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َمأل ا ‪ i i‬ن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ي‬

‫َك‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِل ي‬

‫ٍض ام‬

‫ْنعو‬

‫َع‬ ‫َر إ ‪ْ i i‬نعو ٍد اع ْن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ُم ‪ِ i i‬ر ي‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َع‬ ‫ٍص يو‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ام‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ُن‬ ‫ًرو‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ِط‬ ‫ْع‬

‫ّلض‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِنع‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِد ا ع‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُأ‬ ‫ِلو‬ ‫ي‬

‫َت‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ى‬

‫الو‬

‫َح‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َن ار‬

‫ُه‬ ‫َو‬

‫َي‬ ‫َمو‬

‫ّطل ا‬ ‫َلو‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ّنأ ‪ِ i i‬ن‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ام‬

‫ُغ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْل ا ‪ِ i i‬ف‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ام‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ِغ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ٌر‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ٍأ‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ّصنل ا‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬

‫َمك‬ ‫ا‬

‫َتأ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِفل ا‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِسو‬

‫ُقل اب‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِنآ‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ٌل ي‬

‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َغ‬ ‫َر ي‬

‫ْ حألل‬ ‫ِم اك‬

‫ِت ا يآ‬

‫ّطق‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َك‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ُل اق‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اذ ام‬

‫َل اق‬ ‫ا‬

‫َك‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ى‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ْه‬

‫َع‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫ِص افتل ا‬ ‫ُل ي‬

‫َق‬ ‫ِر او‬ ‫َع‬

‫َقو‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ُ حو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِن ات‬ ‫َ‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫َك‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِد ا ع‬

‫َمف‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِإ‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َرو ْ أ‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫ْر او ْل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِف َق‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ّمأ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّنأو‬ ‫ه‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫ُخ‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َد‬

‫َل يقف‬

‫ِع‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ٍج‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫َه ان ي‬ ‫ا‬

‫الو‬

‫ُه‬ ‫و‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُس‬ ‫ِلوأ ُقو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِط‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫ُه‬ ‫و‬

‫َل‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬

‫َم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َي‬ ‫ِت أ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ًق‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اه‬

‫ْذ إ‬

‫ُك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ْت‬

‫َت‬ ‫ىر‬

‫امو‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ّز‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫َ‬

‫يف‬

‫ْقأ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْأ‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْن او‬ ‫ُظ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َلوق‬

‫ُث‬ ‫ّم‬

‫ْنعو‬

‫َبل ا‬ ‫ِ ئ اص‬ ‫ُر‬

‫ِن ام ي إل ا‬

‫ُ يو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ُس‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َو‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َ‬

‫َم‬ ‫ِه ان‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫ِكل ا‬ ‫ُب ات‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ٍد‬

‫َج‬ ‫ِت ان‬

‫َءاج‬

‫َس‬ ‫ِتأ ي‬ ‫ي‬

‫َق‬ ‫ّص‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِظ‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ٌ‬

‫ّمع‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫َب‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ًن‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِ ح اص‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َم اد‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َركذل او‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِ إل ا‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َل إ ‪ُ i i‬هنع ِض ار‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِل او‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َل‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ا‬

‫َم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َت‬ ‫َب اش‬ ‫َه‬

‫ّق حل ا‬ ‫ِ‬

‫يذل ا‬

‫َمف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ّصل ا َو‬ ‫ُه ُط ار‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْل ا و‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ْل ا ُل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ُه ُن ي‬ ‫ْل ا ‪َ i i‬و‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َ ج ات‬

‫ْب ا‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ام‬

‫َف‬ ‫ّو‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْ يز‬ ‫ٍغ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َت‬

‫ه يف‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ْن‬

‫يذ‬

‫َم‬ ‫ِن ا ع‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫ْط او‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ُه‬ ‫َبل ا و‬ ‫ُه ُن ا ي‬ ‫ّذل ا و‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْل ا ُر‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ُه ُم ي‬ ‫ْتل ا َو‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫او‬

‫َخ‬ ‫َر ي‬

‫ْ يك‬

‫اي‬

‫َع ‪ i i‬وهف هنع‬ ‫ًم‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِر اد‬

‫َول ا‬ ‫ِر اق‬

‫َم اق‬

‫ُهو‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ام‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِل ات‬ ‫ِه ي‬ ‫ام‬

‫ْش اف‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ْ يغ‬ ‫َر‬

‫وه‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ّش‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ٌر‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ِن يب‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم اق‬ ‫ِع‬

‫ِ إل ا‬ ‫ُهل‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ُن از يم‬

‫ِ إل ا‬ ‫ِم ام‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ً جي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫الف ‪i i‬‬

‫ّشل ا وهو‬ ‫ِل ُ ء اف‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ام‬

‫ُه‬ ‫ُه اد‬

‫ّنل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُي ‪i i‬‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ُف‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ُل ي‬

‫َتأ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َهل إل‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُؤ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِع اوم‬ ‫ُظ‬

‫ِف‬ ‫هي‬

‫ِفل ا‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِسو‬

‫ْن إ‬

‫ْق اف‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ْع‬

‫ُبل او‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ىر‬

‫َقل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم ِب‬ ‫َس ‪ i i‬ن‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ِ ح ‪ْ i i‬ن‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُعل او‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ُة‬

‫ّنل اب‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ْ ح اف‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ال‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َك‬ ‫ّن أ‬ ‫ام‬ ‫َ‬

‫َب‬ ‫ِه ار‬ ‫َن ي‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُم ِ ح اص‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ّك‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َط ا خ‬ ‫َب‬

‫ُول ا‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ى‬

‫الو ‪i i‬‬

‫َت‬ ‫ُخ‬ ‫ْض‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ًف‬ ‫ا‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّك‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ّنل ا ِض‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم ِل‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َف ‪ ُ i i‬ه‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ْمأل او‬ ‫ُر‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ّتل او‬ ‫ِتر‬ ‫ِل ي‬

‫ّصل ا‬ ‫الو ‪ ِ i i‬ح ير‬

‫َو‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ُهنم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ٍع‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ّج‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َت‬ ‫ُخ‬ ‫ْض‬

‫َف‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ُض‬ ‫َك‬

‫يف‬

‫ِك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ات‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِو‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َك‬ ‫َ‬

‫الب‬

‫ُم ه يف‬ ‫ِ جو‬ ‫ّنل ا ‪ُ i i‬ب‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِيأ‬ ‫َك‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ِت‬ ‫ِد ادر‬

‫ن يدل ا‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ٌم اوقأ‬

‫ْل اف ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫َه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِس ال‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ام‬ ‫َ‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ْظ‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫َب‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْت ا‬ ‫ُل‬

‫َو‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ّتل ا‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ًن‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِه يف‬

‫ْن اف‬ ‫ُظ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َش ِهب‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ْ حأ َ ح‬ ‫ّشل ا ِم اك‬ ‫َع ير‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْله ‪ ِ i i‬ة‬

‫ْن او‬ ‫ُظ‬ ‫ْر‬


Arabic

162

so stay adhered! Strive with strong zeal as there is no bending its rules, had the person known the extent of knowledge he would never sleep! Let the students of knowledge work their utmost for this advice, taking caution in secret and in open, and respect the teacher! And say ‘welcome!’ to those who come to you seeking knowledge, and memorise the advice of the chosen one (Muhammad) with them, Make your intention solely for God sincerely, for verily the building with out foundation does not stand, And whosoever does this so that the people may say ‘he is a seeker of knowledge’ then he loses everything entirely on the Day of Regret (Judgment), Likewise, whosoever does this hoping for worldly pursuits then he has no share whatsoever in the Hereafter, The Qur’anic chapters: al-Shūrā, Hūd and al-Isrā would suffice to know this, an admonition for the possessor of understanding, Beware and be warned of arguing with the fool, likewise do not be an ostentatious person of knowledge, Indeed the most detested of all creation to God is the one who is most quarrelsome in disputes, And self-astonishment, beware of it! Self-astonishment can certainly sweep away the good deeds of its owner to a long strong stream of water, And with the most important of knowledge should you commence to understand, put forward the text and be suspicious of (mere) opinions, Begin with the obligations in the religious fundamentals, this will make clear the methodology of guidance from the one of misfortune, And for every fracture and shattering of the young person then the religion will hold him together, but for fracture and shattering in the religion is difficult without blame, Leave of plagiarising and copying contemporary scholars, rather stick to the ancients always and stay firm! Knowledge is nothing but God’s Book or a narration from the light of all the


‫‪163‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫َلو‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫َلو ْر‬ ‫َ ي ‪ْ i i‬م‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْله‬ ‫ٍك‬

‫ِم ِضرأل ا ِلهأ َدنع‬ ‫ُن ‪ْ i i‬ن‬ ‫ُظ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َص ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِح ‪i i‬‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ًق‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫مه‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ن‬

‫ْع إو‬ ‫ٍز ا ج‬

‫َعل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّرل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫ُخ‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِن ار‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُذ‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُي ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َه‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِي‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُرمأل ا‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫هل‬

‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َفل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫اذ‬

‫ِش‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ٍه‬

‫َلو‬ ‫ِو‬

‫ْنع‬

‫َت‬ ‫َر يب ع‬

‫ُعل ا‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َب‬ ‫َعل او ‪ِ i i‬ن ا‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّل ج‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُلهأ‬

‫َلف‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ال‬

‫ْعم‬

‫ُم ار‬ ‫او‬

‫امو‬

‫ْذ إ‬

‫نأ‬

‫َم ار‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ام‬

‫ِن امأ‬ ‫ِه ي‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ٍد‬

‫ّمث‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِ ئ اق ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫اوتأ ي‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ّو‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َو‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ًي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْ يه‬ ‫َت ا ه‬

‫َق‬ ‫َت ْد‬ ‫ّد ح‬ ‫ى‬ ‫َ‬

‫َك‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُسن إل او‬

‫الو‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ان‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ُك المأل او‬

‫ْمك‬

‫ْ يكو‬ ‫َف‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ًض‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْنأو‬ ‫َز‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِه اش ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ٌة‬

‫مل‬

‫ْوق‬ ‫ال‬

‫ُهلل او‬

‫َب ا خ‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِبو‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫َعل ا‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِش‬

‫ُهلل ا‬

‫ُب‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّبرو‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْكأ‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ُر‬

‫ُهو ‪ِ i i‬م يدقل ا‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْ ج ا ‪ِ i i‬و‬ ‫اوعمت‬

‫ّرل او‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُل‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِث‬

‫ْكأ‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ُر‬

‫ْعأ‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْمأ‬

‫ُر اب خأ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ام‬

‫َن اك‬

‫ًش يرق‬ ‫يف ا‬

‫َن‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ان‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْدق‬

‫َه اش‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ٍةد ح او ‪i i‬‬

‫ْبس‬ ‫َن ا ح‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْلق‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْؤ‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫ُهو‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬

‫الو‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِظ‬

‫امو‬

‫َي‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ُمو‬ ‫ُهو‬

‫ْن ا‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫او‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َسو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫َن‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْذ إ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر ا ع‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ًة‬

‫َق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫او‬

‫َز‬ ‫َغ ا‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِةغ البل ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َز ا ح‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِع‬ ‫َظ‬ ‫ٌة‬

‫َغ الب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َعف‬ ‫َد ا‬

‫ُق‬ ‫ُبول‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬

‫نع‬

‫َص‬ ‫ٍ ح ال‬

‫َن‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ًر ي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُل اثمأ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫ُ حو‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ُن‬

‫َت‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِد‬

‫ْصأ ْذ إ‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ِل ‪ْ i i‬ت‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ن‬

‫ّذل اب‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َن يب‬

‫ِع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ٌر‬

‫ْن إ‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ِب ي‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْنع‬

‫َ خل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِق‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َد اب‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫او‬

‫َل‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ِه ‪i i‬‬ ‫َ ي اد‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُكو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َب‬ ‫ٍن ا ي‬

‫ُعلل‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِب‬

‫ْمأ‬

‫َج‬ ‫ُع يم‬

‫َع‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ٌب‬

‫ُن‬ ‫ُذ‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َب‬ ‫ُؤ ا‬ ‫او‬

‫ام‬

‫ُب اب‬

‫َل ‪َ i i‬م انأل ا‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َلو‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ْمأ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ُد‬

‫ّن جل ا‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ّنأ‬ ‫ى‬ ‫َ‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ًق‬ ‫ا‬

‫ن اك‬

‫َل اق‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْلب‬

‫ُهلل او‬

‫ةنسل اب ة يصول ا‬

‫ُن ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّرلل‬ ‫ِلوس‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ً ح يرص‬ ‫ا‬

‫يف‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُس‬ ‫ِ حو‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ّشل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْ خأل او‬ ‫ِق ال‬

‫َر‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َل‬ ‫َك‬

‫ْن إ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َم يس‬ ‫ُه ا‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِر يغ‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُن‬ ‫ِرو‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِي‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِقل ا‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُم ه‬

‫دقو‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ِع ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َو‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ًن‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِن يد‬ ‫ِه‬

‫يف‬

‫َ خل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِق‬

‫َج‬ ‫ِع يم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ّشل ا‬ ‫ُسوم‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ِد اب‬

‫ْن إ‬

‫ِهب‬

‫ِش ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر ا ع‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َر‬

‫َم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َق‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫ِرعت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُف‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َح ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َز‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫يف‬

‫ال‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ُف‬ ‫َلو‬

‫ْ يل‬ ‫َس‬

‫َخ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ًف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْس ا‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ْك‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ُز ا ح‬ ‫او‬

‫ِض افأل ا‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ْنكلو‬

‫َر‬ ‫ٌع يف‬

‫ْرأ‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ْح‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ُمه‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِب اه ج‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ُة‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ِن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُ حبصأ‬ ‫او‬

‫َب‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ِم اس‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ُعل ا‬ ‫ُلود‬

‫ْعأل ا‬ ‫ُم ال‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ّف‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َف ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َم‬ ‫َر ان‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫و‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫ُم ا ح‬ ‫َنو‬

‫ُي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َسل‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْوأ‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫َك ِمل‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َو ‪َ i i‬ف‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِلب‬

‫َفل ا‬ ‫ْض‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ُ حل ا‬ ‫َن‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ُمه‬

‫َن يب‬

‫َعل ا‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ّو‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِس‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِق‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ُلو‬ ‫و‬

‫ُأل ا‬ ‫َلو‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِم انأل ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ٍش ي ج‬

‫ُق اف‬ ‫او‬

‫ْ ح او‬ ‫ُط‬ ‫ُط‬

‫ِر اكمل ا‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫ْل ا ُن ي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ُ ح ‪ُ i i‬ف ين‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫َو ‪i i‬‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َن‬ ‫ّص‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫ِب اكأ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫م‬

‫ُ ج ان‬ ‫َنو‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬

‫ُهف‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ِب ا حم ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْ ح او‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ِز الو‬ ‫م‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫َث ي‬

‫َم‬ ‫ِب ان‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْر ا‬ ‫ِو‬

‫ْنأ‬

‫ُمه‬

‫ِص ان‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫و‬

‫ُبل ا‬ ‫ُرود‬

‫َم‬ ‫ٌم اق‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫ّج‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َش‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ًف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُمه‬

‫ْمه‬

‫ُمه‬

‫َل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْبأ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْغ‬

‫ُه افك‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫و‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ُي‬ ‫َنو‬


Arabic

164

Prophets’ guidance, As long as the knowledge is nothing other than the clear revelation and whatever this may extend to, give glad tidings for the collector of its booty, And hiding knowledge, be warned in doing so, for verily hiding it earns the curse of God and all the people, And from his punishment in the Afterlife includes being restrained held down by the fire of Hell, As for the maintainer of knowledge to the one who does not possess it, how does it benefit to conceal this knowledge!? Concealing means to prevent the seeker from attaining knowledge which he has a right to, so understand this and do not be accused of such, And follow up knowledge with good actions and call to the path of your Lord with clarity and wisdom, Persevere with any concomitant trouble and harm, and in the Messengers do we find this as a reminder so follow their example, For just one person to be guided towards God alone is better than attaining tomorrow the best of red camels (i.e. the best properties), And traverse the straight path correctly without turning away, and say ‘My Lord, the Merciful, make me firm and upright!’


‫‪165‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫َقل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّلل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِئ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫َه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّصل اب‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِر‬

‫َغل ا‬ ‫ِو‬ ‫ْي‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِ‬

‫الو‬

‫َن‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْنع‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫الو‬

‫الو‬

‫ُبل او‬ ‫َرش‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫َل‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫َل‬

‫َن اص‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ٍك‬

‫ِفر‬ ‫ًع ي‬ ‫ا‬

‫َو‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫َ‬

‫َف ير‬

‫ْب ا‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ٍع ا ي‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُعم ج‬

‫َف‬ ‫ُخ‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ٌم ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْأ‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫َنو‬

‫ُغل ا‬ ‫ِة ال‬

‫ِر‬ ‫َ ي او‬ ‫َت‬ ‫اه‬

‫َح‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ٍث‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِج ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل‬ ‫اه‬

‫َتو‬ ‫ْأ‬ ‫َل يو‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِل اومأل‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ًظ‬ ‫ا‬

‫الو‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫َم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫و‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َم‬

‫َعم‬

‫ْع اف ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِمف‬

‫ْ ح اف‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ْظ‬

‫الو‬

‫ُر ي خ‬

‫َه اف‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ُم ‪َ i i‬ر ي‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ال‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ال‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َق ْن‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َص ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْدق‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ّشل ا‬ ‫ّك‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُح‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫اه‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َل‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫َكو‬

‫ض ئ ارفل ا‬

‫ِةروس‬

‫ْنع‬

‫يف‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّطق‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ّزل ا‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ُق ي‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ِبف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل ا‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ُد‬

‫َح ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ٌج‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬

‫ْلأ‬ ‫ِب اب‬

‫ّنل او‬ ‫ُرو‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َرأ‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َت‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْسأل‬ ‫ِر ار‬

‫ْر او‬ ‫َض‬

‫ِسفن‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ِ ج از‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ُأل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّج‬ ‫ُة‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ِم الكل ا‬

‫ْهف‬ ‫َي‬

‫ُر ي خ‬

‫َ يهو‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّك‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫ُض‬ ‫ْض‬

‫َب ير‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫ْقأ‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْق او‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْأ‬

‫َو‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ٌي‬

‫َن‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫َك‬ ‫َ‬

‫َع‬ ‫َل‬ ‫اه ي‬

‫يف‬

‫ِك‬ ‫ًب ات‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُن ا يبل ا‬

‫ْن او‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ِن ا جو‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ْع اف‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫َع ْف‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ُد ي‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ْمأل او‬ ‫ُن‬

‫ْن إف‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْس اف‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ْك‬

‫ِر ي خ‬

‫ِب اتكل ا‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ُم ‪َ i i‬‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َث‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫َه‬ ‫اذ‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ْل ا ِ ة‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َر يغ‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُكف‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َفل او‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ُز‬

‫ُقل اك‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِنآ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُف‬ ‫َنو‬

‫ّدأ‬ ‫او‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُه‬ ‫و‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ٍد‬

‫َوقتل ا‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِم انأل ا‬

‫ُس ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُقو‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ّطق‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْص ال ا‬ ‫ِط‬ ‫ُ ح ال‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ٍف‬

‫َب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ا‬

‫َم‬ ‫َع‬

‫َق‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ى‬

‫َك‬ ‫ام‬

‫اهنع‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ُر‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫ِذل ا‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِه اش ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْع إ‬ ‫ِض ار‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َن‬ ‫َو ح‬

‫ْن ا‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫َح‬ ‫َل ا‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ُد ج‬

‫َو‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ٍع ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َ يهو‬

‫ِر ي خ‬

‫ٍل ام‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ٌك‬

‫ال‬

‫ُم يظعل ا‬

‫ُهنع‬

‫َم‬ ‫َل اق‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ِع‬ ‫دن‬

‫َع‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ُف‬ ‫او‬

‫يف‬

‫َ يل ا‬ ‫ِن يق‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫َأل ا‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِن ام‬

‫يف‬

‫ِهب‬

‫الو‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫او‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ِف ي‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ُة‬ ‫َ‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ٍب‬

‫الو‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ًظ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّصل ا‬ ‫ِم َ ح ي ح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْومل ا ن‬ ‫ّسل اب ‪ِ i i‬فوص‬ ‫َق‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِط‬ ‫َن يل‬

‫ُن‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ًح‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُر ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْص او‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْد‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫َت نع ِف‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫ِر ي‬ ‫اه‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُءاح‬

‫َن ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ٌب‬

‫ُرو‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َت‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫َتو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْح‬

‫َخ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫َك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِقل ا‬ ‫َم ا ي‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ِةع يرشل ا‬

‫ّمأل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ّلكو‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ال‬

‫ِد ا حأ‬ ‫َث ي‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُو‬ ‫َنو‬

‫)‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َو‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َمف‬ ‫ا‬

‫َف (‬ ‫ال‬

‫يف‬

‫ّتل او ِةلآل او‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُعل ا َنم ِر يذ‬ ‫ُمل ا ِمول‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫َدت‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْسرل ا‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ِم‬

‫الو‬

‫ُر ي خو‬

‫ُع‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ٍب‬

‫ْغ او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْد ا‬ ‫ُن‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َكل ا ‪َ i i‬ن‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّتل او‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل اب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ى‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ىف‬

‫ّشل ا‬ ‫ّك‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َ ء اب‬

‫ُهل إل ا‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ُر يغ‬

‫ْدق‬

‫ْن إو‬ ‫ًذ اق‬ ‫ا‬

‫َلو‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫َل ال‬ ‫ِة‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َف‬ ‫اه‬

‫ام‬

‫ْوأ‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ى‬

‫َي‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫اه‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َ‬

‫ٍةلآ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫ْنم‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِق ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َت‬ ‫اه‬

‫يفو‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ِهب‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْع ا‬ ‫َك ‪َ i i‬ن‬ ‫ام‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اه‬

‫ْمك‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُهلل ا‬

‫ّت ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َص‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫فصن‬

‫َت‬ ‫َو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ى‬ ‫َ‬

‫َب‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫اه‬

‫َت‬ ‫َتس‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ُن ي‬

‫ْدق‬

‫ّتل او‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ُل ‪ْ i i‬عم ِد يو‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫َمف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ا‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫ِم ال‬

‫ْنز ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫ْق او ‪ِ i i‬هلل ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫او‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ام‬

‫ُح‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْضف‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُهلل ا‬ ‫)‬

‫ِش‬ ‫َت ئ‬

‫اذ إ‬

‫َن ين اوق‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َس‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫َل‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ُي(‬ ‫ُك يصو‬ ‫ُم‬

‫ّصل او‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِف‬

‫ْرأ‬ ‫ِب اب‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ُ ح ات‬

‫نأ‬

‫ِض ئ ارفل ابو‬

‫ُ خو‬ ‫ْذ‬

‫ّنل اك‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِو‬

‫ْ ح او‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ُم اق‬ ‫ُسو‬

‫ُم ار‬ ‫او‬


Arabic

166


‫‪167‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫َعل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ِلو‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫ِلف‬

‫َول ا‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ِم ِ ي‬ ‫ُح ن‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ِل ٍم‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُف ير‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َر ‪i i‬‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َكو‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َر‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِن ار‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫ُنو‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ّتل‬ ‫َص‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ِل ا ع‬ ‫ُج‬

‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َعل ا‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم ي‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َف‬ ‫وه‬

‫ِثأتل او‬ ‫ِر ي‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُن‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َتو‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ًت ي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْمك‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َبل ا‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ا‬

‫اذ‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِم اك‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫ُبل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫َص‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِس انو‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ِئ ا‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِج‬ ‫ًر ا ه‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْلب‬

‫ِد‬ ‫ُر ي‬

‫َطو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْ جأ‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ّرل او‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِع‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْ خأل او‬ ‫ِق ال‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫َ ءور‬ ‫ِة‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِذ‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِق ال خ إل او‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ُد‬ ‫َنو‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّرل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َبل او‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِث‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُخ‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِث‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّضلل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َغل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ام‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِر انل ا‬

‫ال‬

‫ّذل ا‬ ‫ْئ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِب‬

‫َثكأو‬ ‫َر‬

‫يف‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ِإ‬ ‫ِءاخ‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ٌر‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َقل ا‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫مي‬

‫ُص‬ ‫َرو‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫ْس إل ا‬ ‫ِم ال‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ّخ‬ ‫ِت ار‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْهأ‬ ‫ًل‬ ‫ا‬

‫َول او‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ِي‬

‫ِع اف‬ ‫ٌل‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ٍت ا ي ا غ‬

‫َقل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ِقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َ ء اش‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ِقل اب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َق‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫ْوأ‬

‫ُر‬ ‫ُس‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫ْا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َدب‬ ‫َع‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ر‬

‫َس‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َو‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫ُهو‬

‫ِتقو‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫ُق‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ٌنو‬

‫ْع ال او‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِد ام‬

‫ُكل او‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِهلل اب‬

‫َو‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْع ا‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِق ان‬

‫َل‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ٌن‬

‫َب‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َس ‪ٍ i i‬ض‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َس ‪i i‬‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ًه‬ ‫ا‬

‫َح ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ٍث‬

‫َو ا ح‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫او‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ٍم‬

‫ُط وأ‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫َع ٍر‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِلو‬ ‫ّرل‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِنو‬

‫ِلو‬ ‫ّتل‬ ‫َه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِ ح ال‬ ‫ُد ي‬

‫ْوأ‬

‫ْ ح او‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫و‬

‫ّطل ا‬ ‫ّ يع يب‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِت ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّطل ا‬ ‫ُة ا غ‬ ‫ُ‬

‫َك‬ ‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫َن ي‬

‫َف‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِذ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ال‬

‫َمف‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِت اكل او‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫َن ي‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫ٌدو‬

‫َج‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َق‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ٍمو‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ا‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫يف‬

‫ِن‬ ‫ًم اظ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اه‬

‫امك‬

‫ّنل او‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِن‬

‫َت‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ّو‬ ‫َل‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِد ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْندل ا‬ ‫اي‬

‫ّمأ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ي‬

‫َم اق‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِعل ا ُهل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ْل ا َم‬ ‫ِد ج‬ ‫َب َد ي‬ ‫ْل ا ‪ِ i i‬ل‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْنأ‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُمو‬

‫اه يف‬

‫ْمأل او‬ ‫ِك ال‬

‫ْ يل‬ ‫َس‬

‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ٍن ا‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ى‬

‫َ خل او‬ ‫َع ال‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ْعم‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ّتل‬ ‫ِب ار‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ِر ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َذو‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْسأل ا‬ ‫ِب اب‬

‫َك‬ ‫اذ‬

‫ُد انس إ‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ا‬

‫َم‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ُس ِت ا‬ ‫يف ٍ ءو‬

‫ُزو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫اه‬

‫ْعم ‪i i‬‬

‫امو‬

‫يف‬

‫ّدل او‬ ‫ِن ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َبأ‬ ‫ى‬

‫َف‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ٌن‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ٌس‬

‫اذك‬

‫َقو‬ ‫ْد‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫َن ا ه‬ ‫ُة‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ِك ا ي‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِع‬ ‫َد اب‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫اه‬

‫ْعم‬

‫َك اذ‬

‫ّمأ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْل ا ِتن اك ْول‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َت ُ‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْ يغ‬ ‫َر‬

‫ِف ‪i i‬‬ ‫ي‬

‫َت‬ ‫ُعد‬ ‫و‬

‫ُهلل ا‬

‫َكلذو‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُن ‪ i i‬ا‬ ‫ِش‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِعل او‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َ ي حل اك‬ ‫ِن او‬

‫َغل ا‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ام َب‬

‫ِكل ا‬ ‫ُب ات‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ُب‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َغ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِب‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْق‬

‫َق ‪i i‬‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ا‬

‫َك‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْب إ‬ ‫َس يل‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ّسل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬

‫يف‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ال إ‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِو‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ِو‬

‫َكو‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ًف‬ ‫ا‬

‫ٌد ا حآ‬

‫ْنأو‬

‫ِد ا حأل ا‬ ‫ُث ي‬

‫ّتل او‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ُم ي‬

‫ُرو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫و‬

‫ام‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ْن إ‬

‫ُت‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّك‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫اه‬

‫َ حف‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫َر‬

‫ّلل ا‬ ‫ِن ي ع‬ ‫َ‬

‫َل‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫َث‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ًم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْ يل‬ ‫َس‬

‫ام‬

‫ُي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َد‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ًر‬ ‫ا‬

‫َعل ا‬ ‫ِز يز‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ّن إ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َك‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّشلل‬ ‫ِط ا ي‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِن ي‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِغ‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫ُذ‬ ‫ُبو‬

‫َس ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْ يلو‬ ‫س‬

‫َخ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫او‬

‫َبل ا‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫َبل او ِ‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫ْ يسل ا ُث ي ح ِر‬ ‫ِف ُر‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّنلل‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َط‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْذ إ‬

‫َول ا‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِن‬

‫َم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِض او‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ُب‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُن ا ه‬

‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ْكأ‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ُب‬

‫ْ خمل او‬ ‫ُقول‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َس ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ام‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫ْ يل‬ ‫َس‬

‫ّق ح‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫َع‬ ‫َب‬ ‫َث‬ ‫ا‬

‫ًف انصأ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْس ال ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِع ا‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّظل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫الو‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ِلوق‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫َل ْذ إ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِف َس‬ ‫ي‬

‫َن‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫او‬

‫ِس انل اب‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َأل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َع‬ ‫امه يل‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ُز‬ ‫َك‬

‫ْصف‬ ‫ٌل‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ًئ‬ ‫ا‬

‫َت‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِن‬

‫َي‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َك‬

‫َت‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ّس‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُهو‬

‫َم‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫َ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُع‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِن او‬

‫ِ ء امل ا‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ًح‬ ‫ا‬

‫َس‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُكو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ام‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ُث يب‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ْب‬

‫يف‬

‫ّنل اك‬ ‫ِر ا‬

‫َب‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ُض‬


Arabic

168


‫‪169‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫يف ةمت ا خ‬

‫َث ِل يص حت‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِعل ا ِت ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِف انل ا ِم‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِة‬

‫ْ ج او‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ُق ِ ء ان‬ ‫ِفوط‬ ‫ّدل ا ِ ه‬ ‫ِن ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِن ا يل ا ِ ة‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ة‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْس او‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َق ا‬

‫َكل اب‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ْ يشل ا‬ ‫ِب‬

‫ْل اك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْسأل ا‬ ‫َر اف‬

‫ُمو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِظ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫ْل اف ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّلك‬ ‫َ‬

‫َقل اب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫َغ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َر‬

‫َسقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنظل ا‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ّتل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّظل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُت ‪i i‬‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َلو‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ِم‬

‫الو‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُه اض‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ه‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُح‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َت‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َعم‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِ جوم‬ ‫ِب‬

‫ْس اف ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َول ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِخ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّشل اب‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِن ار‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫َد‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫ِع‬ ‫ِب اق‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْق او‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ْه‬

‫َذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫َو‬

‫ْله‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ِذ ا‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ُش‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫َط‬ ‫ْت‬

‫َف‬ ‫َع‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِنو‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َة‬

‫ْثأ‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ى‬

‫ُهلل ا‬

‫َتو‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ُج‬ ‫و‬

‫ُنذل ا‬ ‫َبو‬

‫َت‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َش‬ ‫ى‬

‫َأل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َث‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِ إل ا‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ُذ‬ ‫او‬

‫َع‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫مه‬

‫الو‬

‫ْجا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْله‬

‫ِرمأل ا‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫َط‬ ‫ّه‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫اه‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َو ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِب‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِز اع‬ ‫ًم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْن إو ‪i i‬‬

‫يتل ا‬

‫َبأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫َهو‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِد‬ ‫ِن ي‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْق‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْع اف‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ْن اف‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ُك‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّشلل‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِع‬

‫ْل ابو‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِد اق‬ ‫ِر ي‬

‫ّ ي إو‬ ‫ُه ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّي إ‬ ‫ُه ا‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْع اف‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫ْد‬

‫َل اب‬ ‫ْس ا‬ ‫ِب اب‬

‫ِز‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ُ خو‬ ‫ْذ‬

‫ّشل اب‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِع‬

‫ُق‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْص او‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ْق‬

‫َدنع‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َن اك‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫َوق‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْن إف‬

‫ْن إو‬

‫َم‬ ‫ِز ا خ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫َج‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُث ي حو‬

‫َز‬ ‫َك‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ِلوأ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْن او‬ ‫ُظ‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ِص‬ ‫ِت اف‬

‫َن يبو‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ال‬

‫َو‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِف‬

‫َع‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ْت‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫َن ي ئ ي‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِف‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َج‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْفنل ا‬ ‫َس‬

‫ْ ح اف‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِد‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِة اض‬

‫ْ خأ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِي‬

‫ْع اف‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫اه‬

‫َن يذل ا‬

‫ِهلل‬

‫ُي‬ ‫َب ح‬ ‫ُط‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْ خأ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ْص او ُ ه‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ِصأ ْق‬ ‫ْه او ْب‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫َف ْم‬ ‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِصأو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ّنل او‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫ِي‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ّذ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫اه‬

‫َه‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َت‬

‫يف‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْس ا‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ام‬

‫ْشأ‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْوأ‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْس او‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ْمأ‬ ‫ٍر‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫َ‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َسو‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْلب‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ْعت‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ف‬

‫ْع ا‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ْف‬

‫َو‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫الو‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْش‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ة‬

‫ِل ا‬ ‫ْحا‬ ‫َس‬ ‫َن ا‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫اه‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َز‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َت‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ُو‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫َدو‬

‫ُذ‬ ‫ًبون‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْن إف‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َقل‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ِءا‬

‫َف‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِص‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َط ا‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْنذل ا‬ ‫ِب‬

‫َن‬ ‫َز‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْت‬

‫َت‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ِبن ا ج‬

‫َل إ‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ِل ا‬ ‫ِك‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ِثو‬ ‫ْق‬

‫ِل اص‬ ‫ِح‬

‫ْه او‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُهنم‬

‫َلو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِب اعو‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫َب‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّسل ا‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِي‬

‫ْس او‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ْر‬

‫نع‬

‫ُت‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ِص ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِل اص‬ ‫ًح‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّنل ا‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫َس‬

‫ال‬

‫َ جأ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫ْد او‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ْسأو‬ ‫َع‬ ‫َد‬

‫ْرأو‬ ‫لس‬

‫ّدل ا‬ ‫َر ا‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِن‬

‫الو‬

‫الو‬

‫َهلل ا‬

‫ِعل او‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫َن ا ي‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّط‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٍد‬

‫ْع او‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ْل‬

‫ْ يل إ‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ِمآ‬ ‫ار‬

‫َو‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َم ا‬ ‫ة‬

‫يف‬

‫ُقو‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ّصو‬ ‫ى‬ ‫َ‬

‫َت‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ًر ا‬ ‫ا‬

‫َو‬ ‫َذ‬ ‫َك ا‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِكل‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْلو‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْذ‬ ‫ُك‬ ‫ْر‬

‫َضأ‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َ‬

‫َي ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ُظ‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َم‬

‫ُد‬ ‫َنو‬ ‫اه‬

‫ْقتل او‬ ‫ِص‬ ‫ِر ي‬

‫َه ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْذ إ‬

‫ِس‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ً‬

‫َل‬ ‫ا‬

‫َص‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َر‬

‫ينع ي‬

‫ِفو‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ِب جو‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َنو ‪i i‬‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ى‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِه‬

‫ًب ئ اد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ام‬

‫ٍت اد اهش‬

‫َع ‪i i‬‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ٍن‬

‫ْدأ‬ ‫ىن‬

‫ُم‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ًص‬ ‫ا‬

‫ال إو‬

‫ْوأ‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َه‬ ‫َج‬

‫نع‬

‫ُذ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب اؤ‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫اه‬

‫ُت‬ ‫َ خر‬ ‫ى‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫َ‬

‫َي‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َش‬ ‫ى‬

‫ُس‬ ‫َ ءو‬

‫َمو‬ ‫ا‬

‫َأ‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ًي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ْه‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫ْع اف‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْبأو‬ ‫َع‬ ‫َد‬

‫َح‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْح‬

‫َط‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫ِب‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ّنل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ال‬

‫ْقأ‬ ‫ِد‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َت ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َف‬ ‫ْس ا‬ ‫ُل‬ ‫ْك‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّق‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْل اك‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ِد‬

‫ِقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َ يه‬

‫ِع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬

‫الو‬

‫َش‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َك‬ ‫ال‬

‫ُفل ا‬ ‫ْت‬ ‫َي‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َج‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ع‬

‫َنو ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ُز‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ِف‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْعم‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ٌر‬

‫الو‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُم‬

‫َش‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ًع‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُس‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫ٍط‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه ي‬

‫َت‬ ‫َص‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ًع‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ا‬

‫َقل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َك‬ ‫ِم ا‬ ‫َل‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َكل ا‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫دق‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َل‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َح‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َكل‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َو‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِ خو‬ ‫ب اض‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ن‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ّط‬ ‫َ‬

‫َس‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َع‬ ‫َك‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِو‬ ‫ِد ي‬ ‫َك‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِن‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْل اب ‪i i‬‬ ‫َك‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َف‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ِغ‬

‫ّصل ا‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِت ا‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْ حأ‬ ‫ُر‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫َه‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُأ‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫م‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫َظ‬ ‫َك‬

‫َو‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ِص ا‬ ‫ُل‬

‫َ حو‬ ‫ّث‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْق او‬ ‫ُن‬ ‫ْت‬

‫َوقتل ا‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْوأ‬ ‫َر‬ ‫َث‬

‫ام‬

‫ُفو خل اف‬


Arabic

170


‫‪171‬‬

‫‪Trinity Journal ofLiterary Translation‬‬ ‫َعل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِظ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل اب‬ ‫َج‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ا‬

‫ّنل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْك‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ْس اف ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِق‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُدو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّسل اب‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْخ‬ ‫َت‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َأل‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِن‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ُن‬

‫ِص اق‬ ‫ًد‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُح‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫َن‬

‫ّلل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِعل ا‬ ‫ْص‬ ‫ِن ا ي‬

‫ُن ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُح‬ ‫ِرو‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِقل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّنل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َق‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ُك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ٍل‬

‫ْصأ‬ ‫َد‬ ‫ِق‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ّنل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ّبر‬ ‫ان‬ ‫َ‬

‫َك‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫َد‬

‫ِق‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ْن‬

‫اي‬

‫َو‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َخ‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ِر‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫ِد‬

‫ِذ ا خ ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َمك‬ ‫ا‬

‫َن‬ ‫ْظ‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْق او‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ِه‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِح‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫َب‬

‫َخ ‪i i‬‬ ‫َط‬ ‫ٍأ‬

‫َتو‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫َ‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ِق‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِموص‬

‫َل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ِر اقو‬ ‫ْب‬

‫ام‬

‫اي‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ان‬ ‫َ‬

‫َن يعب اتل ا‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ْض او‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ْع‬

‫َر‬ ‫ّب‬ ‫ِ‬

‫اي‬

‫ْم او‬ ‫ُن‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َأو‬ ‫ْع‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِسق او‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ْش او‬ ‫ُد‬ ‫ْد‬

‫ْ ج او‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُه‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫و‬

‫ّصل ا‬ ‫ُة ال‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّمث‬ ‫َ‬

‫ُدو‬ ‫ْم‬

‫ىل إ‬

‫َن يد‬ ‫َك‬

‫َع‬ ‫ْ يل‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ْم‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫َس‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َع‬ ‫َل‬ ‫ّي‬ ‫َ‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ْأ‬ ‫ِس‬ ‫َك‬

‫َف‬ ‫ال‬

‫ِمف‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫ل‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ّي ح‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ْل او‬ ‫َخ‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ُف‬

‫ُت‬ ‫َف‬ ‫ّر‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫ِ‬

‫ْن او‬ ‫ُص‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ِب‬ ‫ِز‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َز‬ ‫ٍل ا‬

‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫َظ‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ْن‬

‫يف‬

‫اي‬

‫ْن إ‬

‫َبل ا‬ ‫ِق ا‬ ‫ِت ا ي‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْر‬ ‫َك يض‬

‫ِص ان‬ ‫ِه ير‬

‫َدو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْم‬ ‫َد‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ٍة‬

‫ِعو‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ُم‬ ‫َح‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ٍد‬ ‫َ‬

‫ّتل ا‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫ِق ي‬

‫ُمو يق‬

‫الو‬

‫َأو‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫ِش‬ ‫ْر‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫َج‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬

‫َد از‬

‫َخ‬ ‫َن ا‬ ‫ِت‬

‫ّصل ا‬ ‫ِل ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِت ا ح‬

‫َم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْغ‬ ‫ِف‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ًة‬

‫ِم‬ ‫ِن‬

‫ُرو‬ ‫ّد‬ ‫َ‬

‫َ حو ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْو‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْفأ‬ ‫َض‬ ‫ى‬

‫ْسكل ا‬ ‫َن ال‬

‫ُم ‪i i‬‬ ‫ْب‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِه‬ ‫ًل‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِل‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َف‬ ‫َع‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫َت‬

‫َش‬ ‫َد يد‬

‫ِهلل ا‬

‫ِب ‪i i‬‬ ‫ُغ‬ ‫ْود‬

‫ُكو‬ ‫ْن‬

‫َع‬ ‫ىل‬

‫ُت‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫ْط‬

‫ْس او‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ِع‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِه ‪i i‬‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫ُت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُه‬

‫َف‬ ‫وه‬

‫ْع ا‬ ‫ِت‬ ‫ٍد اق‬

‫ْهأب‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ُر‬ ‫ْس‬ ‫ِل‬

‫ِذ‬ ‫ي‬

‫ْس او‬ ‫َأ‬ ‫ِل‬

‫َج‬ ‫َن‬ ‫ْي‬ ‫ُت‬

‫ِد اعأل ا‬ ‫ي‬

‫َبل ا‬ ‫ْط‬ ‫ِش‬

‫ٍو‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ِج‬ ‫ُب ي‬

‫ِم‬ ‫َن‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ِح‬ ‫ْج‬ ‫ِر‬

‫َو‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ْث‬ ‫َل‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ِ حي‬ ‫ّث‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِل‬ ‫ْل‬ ‫ُق‬ ‫ُن‬ ‫ِطو‬

‫َو ‪i i‬‬ ‫َس‬ ‫ًط‬ ‫ا‬

‫َف‬ ‫َط‬ ‫َل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫َهلل ا‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ِف‬ ‫ي‬

‫ُي‬ ‫ْف‬ ‫ِض‬ ‫ي‬

‫َم‬ ‫ا‬

‫ُح‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫َم‬

‫ْهأو‬ ‫ُل‬

‫ِد‬ ‫ٍق ي‬

‫ّرل او‬ ‫ِ ح او‬

‫ِر‬ ‫ْز‬ ‫ًق‬ ‫ا‬

‫ْل او ‪i i‬‬ ‫َك‬ ‫َر‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َكل ا ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫َمأ‬ ‫َر‬

‫َأو‬ ‫ْد‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ْج‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ّن‬ ‫ِ‬

‫َك ‪i i‬‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ِم‬

‫ّرل ا‬ ‫ُءاج‬ ‫َ‬

‫ْل ا‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ْن‬ ‫َب‬ ‫ّت‬ ‫ُ‬

‫ِمو‬ ‫ْن‬

‫ِب‬ ‫َم‬ ‫ْو‬ ‫ِدو ع‬

‫ِل ‪i i‬‬ ‫َت‬ ‫ْص‬

‫اذه‬

‫ام‬

‫َك‬ ‫اذ‬

‫مث‬

‫ّصل او‬ ‫ْح‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِب‬

‫ِلآل او‬


172

Yiddish

Yiddish Perez Hirschbein

trans. Jessica Kirzane (Columbia, NY)

Last summer, on a sultry afternoon, I walked with my friend among the wealthy, non-Jewish summer residences by the sea. We stood for a while on a street corner and considered the houses around us, and spoke to each other about the restfulness and quiet that reigned there. Suddenly, I don’t know from where or when, a little girl, who looked to be about eight years old, appeared before us. She was dressed in an old, worn out, toosmall, checkered dress, and her strong, rosy legs were visible up to the knees. Her bare legs were dirty, as though from climbing a tree, and her full, round, red cheeks were also dirty. Her eyes, so bright and joyful, laughed in our faces. She began to giggle to us like a young kitten, and waited for us to say something to her. She couldn’t wait, and in a hurry she began in English: “Maybe you are looking for the Green Hotel? I can show you where it is.” “No, child, we are not looking for the hotel,” I answered. “You aren’t looking for it… are you Jews though?” “Yes, child, we are Jews.” “I am also Jewish,” and she blushed. “What’s your name?” “Rosie is my name. My mother has a grocery store here.” “Why are you by yourself? Don’t you want to play with the children over there?” And I pointed to a group of children who were playing in the shade, across the street. She suddenly became sad, considered the children and answered quietly, “No, I don’t play with them. I have hit all of them.” “You hit them?” “Yes, I did. I am stronger than all of them. They call me “kike” and I hit them. I hate them.” “Can you speak Yiddish?”


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Yiddish

174

“My Mother speaks, but I don’t answer.” “Why not? You can’t speak Yiddish?” “I can, but – I don’t want to.” “Why, child, don’t you want to speak Yiddish?” “I don’t know why. I just don’t want to.” “Do you want to become a Christian?” “huh?” “Yes, maybe you want to become a Christian, like the other children are?” She suddenly grew pale, scared of what I said, and she glanced back and forth between me and my friend, as if trying to figure out if I was being serious. Suddenly she asked me again, “Are you really Jews?” “Yes, child, we are Jews. I am asking you, if you would like to become a Christian like all of the other children here. It would be good for you if the children played with you and liked you…” “No, no..” she began to cry, “I don’t want to be a Christian. They are bad people. Very bad people, and I’m afraid of them.” “You can really hit them? You are really stronger than them?” “No, I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I am scared,” she repeated with fear in her eyes. I told her that I was just joking, and that we are also Jews. But she was afraid of us. We parted with her, shook her hand, but the fear in her eyes didn’t go away. When I had already walked far away, I looked behind me. She was still standing as though frozen and looked after us, amazed. *** Just about in the same week I visited one of my friends, a Russian-English Jew who spent the past few years in Palestine. We left his hotel not far from Riverside Drive and took seats on a bus heading toward Fifth Avenue. Not having had, it seems, for a long time, the opportunity to speak Yiddish, with a kind of hunger and in a loud voice he rushed into Yiddish, although English and Russian were mixed in like broken glass under his tongue. Almost yelling, he told me about his


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Yiddish

176

life in Palestine, about the Jewish colonists and the Yemenite Jews and about the Jewish young men and women there. When we arrived at 32nd Street, we had to get off and wait for the next bus that was heading in our direction. My friend didn’t stop talking and, with a ringing voice he told me his story about Palestine. “Please, I would prefer if you didn’t speak Yiddish here,” we heard from behind us from a reconciliatory voice in Yiddish. I glanced behind me; it was a man with a medallion on his hat who was standing on the sidewalk giving out bus transfers to all of those who needed to change busses, and from whom we had just taken a ticket. He looked to be in his thirties with a mild voice, black eyes, and brown, lean cheeks. He worked for the bus company. He looked into both of our astonished eyes and repeated his words in Yiddish: “It would be better not to speak Yiddish, it is really not good.” “Why not?” “Just so. They don’t want to deal with it.” “Who doesn’t want to deal with it? What do you mean ‘they’?” “They…those people” and he pointed with his hand to the stream of people who crowd around here in the thousands, far and wide, in the afternoon hours - who doesn’t know how busy it gets by 5th Avenue and 32nd Street in New York? “They don’t want to deal with it…” And that ‘they’ – oh my God – there were more Jews than non-Jews there! *** In the neighborhood where it seems sometimes as though the streets are paved with Jews, down on Grand Street, the rich 5th Avenue Jews built a small, pretty little theater for the poor Jews of the East Side, in order to make the taste of our people more genteel… One day I sat there in the weakly-lit hall, with my eyes closed and such a bitter sorrow went through my heart. Such a sorrow… They were singing Yiddish folksongs there. The songs were sung before the audience by the lovely Constantina Gideon, a Christian of Scottish descent who has became captivated by Yiddish folk songs. She collects them with so much love and with even more love she sings them


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Yiddish

178

before the audience. Her voice is made to sound Yiddish, but the words come out of her as though they belonged to a people that has long been dead. Before she began to sing a song, she explained it first in English. She translated the substance and translated the Jewish life where the song was born. And I sat and listened. And the pain in my heart gnawed and gnawed in me, it seemed to me: A part of our Jewish life is dead, the Yiddish word is dead: it died for our sins. It is as though this child of the Scottish people isn’t singing Yiddish folk songs before an audience, but instead she sings the soul of a young Jewish mother, lost and desperately seeking her purpose. The Jewish mother – she has been sentenced to go down among the old graves and lay down before the tombstone of the old Yiddish word and sing to it…sing… “Sleep my child, my crown, my treasure…” Her motherly voice wavers, and it seems to me that the cradle has long been empty. “Let’s all be happy…” she sings. And the Yiddish, the real Jewish joy…where is it?... - Does she even know, that lovely child of a foreign people, that Scotish woman who has almost entirely made herself Jewish – does she know what a deep wound she touches in the heart of one of our people by singing for us our own folk songs? *** I started to think about all of this this because of a small thing that I heard on my travels not long ago - - It was in Jacksonville, Florida. I was staying in a Jewish boarding house run by respectable people, who have been living there already for over twenty years. Their children have been born there, and they’ve married off children there. I sat at a table in the dining room and ate my breakfast. There were also young people sitting at the table who live there at the boarding house. And an old Jew was sitting across from them, not far from me. He was already grey haired, and looked to be about sixty years old. He had a trimmed beard and was dressed very


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Yiddish

180

nicely. He looked like a familiar old maskil. The boarding house owner’s youngest daughter entered the dining room. She is graceful with black hair and looks to be about fourteen years old. She sat down between the guests and waited for her breakfast. “Today is Sunday, tell me, what are you doing today?” asked the person across from her, “what do you do all day on a Sunday?” “I’m going to school soon.” “What kind of school do you have on a Sunday?” “A Jewish one.” “What?” “I go there every Sunday to learn Yiddish.” “So, you mean, you learn Hebrew?” “No, Yiddish” “You’ve made a mistake. You must have meant to say Hebrew.” “No, I mean Yiddish, what we speak.” “You’re throwing away your time, my child.” “Why? Because I won’t be able to learn it?” she asked, naively. “Because… It’s hard to say why. You are a child. I’ll tell you what. You go the mirror…stand like this in front of the mirror and pay attention to how pretty your face is when you speak English and how hateful it looks when you speak Yiddish. Yes, yes, go to the mirror.” She blushed, and looked around at the other people, trying to tell what kind of an impression this made on the other people. But they were with him. He himself was amazed at his own speech and threw glances at the group. I heard him a while later speaking Yiddish with the housekeeper. With a Kovno accent. They spoke about nice weather, about hard times, about the war that’s happening in the world and about bad food. It all sounds like a joke, like a joke, like a jest – not even like a sad joke… *** I lived for two winters in the east side of the Bronx in New York. Every day I spent hours walking around in the narrow Jewish streets. Children, no evil eye, as


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Yiddish

182

plentiful as poppy seeds. And not once during the entire time did I hear a child shouting to another child in the language of his parents. I met, here and there, a young man, a university student, born here in this country, who broke his teeth explaining to me his love of Yiddish and how badly, how very poorly his parents did in forgetting to give their child his own language…. And whoever is distressed that Yiddish is declining here in this country and can sympathize with that man’s sorrow – I can tell them this: The children who come from proud German parents are also embarrassed to speak the language of their Fatherland in the streets. And if they are still looking for reasons to be sad, then they should be sad about this: it is not only languages alone that fall into decline in the race to make a living…

(Original text taken from Hirschbein, Peretz. Iber Amerike. New York: Literarisher Ferlag, 1918. pp. 90-97)


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184


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Articles & Essays


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Articles & Essays

Two Translations of "O beatrice", Giovanni Guidici with Translator's Note Emer Delaney (TCD)

I offer two English translations of the poem ‘O beatrice’, drawn from Giovanni Giudici’s 1972 collection of the same name. The original Italian poem is presented in a central column. To the right is my preferred translation (‘Poetic translation’), in which I sought to remain close to the literal and allegorical senses of the original poem, while drawing on stylistic techniques, whether similar or different to those used by Giudici, in order to achieve equivalent poetic effects. To the left, and in italics, is a translation that privileges semantic and syntactic fidelity (‘Literal translation’). By flanking the original with these two differently-strategised English versions, I hope to invite readers to respond to the divergences between them, and to the processes of compromise laid bare by these. Predictably, the poetic translation proved both more challenging and more interesting to complete; I will allude briefly to some particular difficulties it presented. The first of these concerned the poet’s repeated use of the lower case for ‘beatrice’. In Italian, although the context ensures that Dante’s Beatrice remains the primary association, this strategy reminds the reader of the word’s more generic meanings, including ‘she who blesses’ and, following Dante, a poet’s muse or inspiration. I retained this usage in English, despite its increased strangeness in a language in which ‘Beatrice’ functions as a proper name and nothing else; I took this decision on the basis that the use of the lower case would still communicate the fact that


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the poem’s addressee signifies a particular category of being, as well as a particular individual. As for specific Dantean echoes in the poem, the use of ‘beatrice’ in conjunction with words such as ‘manto’, ‘cielo’, and ‘canto’ is likely to instantly conjure up particular passages from the Commedia for the Italian reader. Given the many and varied English translations of Dante, there is no certain way of replicating this effect, but I have tried to use a lexicon that might nudge readers in a Dantean direction (“unmantled”; “star-flaring”; “breath-voice/ of him nailed to the cross”, etc.). Most problematically, it proved impossible to replicate Giudici’s pattern of (predominantly) rhyming couplets in English without a greater loss of semantic fidelity than I was prepared to allow. What, then, was the chief effect of the rhyme scheme in Italian, and might an equivalent be found for it? After some thought, I deemed that its purpose was less to underline links between particular words than to impart a sing-song, almost jingle-like quality that enhanced the poem’s frustrated, tormented mood. It accomplished this latter, I thought, by embodying in prosody the core idea of an archetypal tradition, personified by ‘beatrice’, as being at once constraining (a rhyming couplet closes in on itself) and liberating (a rhyme can set off rich chains of association that bypass logical progression in favour of evocative resonances). On that basis, I decided that an alternate English rhyme scheme might provide a partial solution, so long as it produced an effect which was both aurally euphonious (perhaps exaggeratedly so) and associatively potent. Following some experimentation, I rejected strict methodologies of rhyme in favour of shameless opportunism. This has resulted in a range of rhyme types, most of them imperfect or slant: end rhyme (e.g. ‘unsonged’ (l.2)/ ‘long’ (l.4)); internal rhyme (e.g. ‘unmantled’ (l.1)/ ‘embattled’ (l. 4)); chains of assonance (e.g. ‘designer’ (l. 5)/ ‘fire’ (l. 8)/ ‘abiding’ (l. 9)); and mosaic rhyme (e.g. ‘beast-crawler’ (l. 20)/ ‘they’ve


188

Articles & Essays

caught her’ (l. 22)/ ‘mater’ (l. 24)). (Occasionally, a perfect rhyming couplet presented itself as a possible translation (for instance, l. 7-8 could have been rendered as ‘Beatrice last game./ Beatrice leap into flame’). For the sake of consistency, I resisted these, although not without considerable gnashing of teeth). Towards the end of the translation, the pattern is loosened to allow for rhymes reaching across up to six lines (e.g. ‘forgiving (l. 23)/ living’ (l. 28)). This loosening could be argued to reflect, albeit in an amplified fashion, Giudici’s own shift from rhyming couplets to an abcb quattrain (‘O beatrice di lacrime...’ ) as the poem builds in tension. The unavoidable limitations of producing any single translation are frequently lamented in translators’ notes. By presenting two contrasting translations, which seek to serve diverse aims, I sought actively to expose some limitations of each – yet also to invite readers to reflect on the spaces between the versions, and so, perhaps, to move beyond the confines inherent in each discrete attempt. If poetic inspiration, for Giudici, formed a ‘beatrice’ who was at once elusive, infuriating and ‘infinita’, the poetic translator’s ‘beatrice’ is the dream of bringing a subjective experience of reading an original poem into a new language. While this latter ‘beatrice’ is as maddening and unrealisable as the first, I hope that my pair of translations can render her somewhat ‘viva’ – if also ‘apprensiva’.

O beatrice

O beatrice

O beatrice

O beatrice without cloak without heaven or song.

O beatrice senza manto senza cielo né canto.

O beatrice unmantled unheavened unsonged.

Beatrice all of earth versed in war.

Beatrice tutta di terra attraversata in guerra.

Beatrice earthen embattled long.

Beatrice constructress

Beatrice costruttrice

Beatrice designer

[literal translation]

[poetic translation]


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of my happy destruction.

della mia distruzione felice.

of my glad ruin.

Beatrice last game. Beatrice leap into fire.

Beatrice ultimo gioco. Beatrice salto nel fuoco.

Beatrice last game. Beatrice leap into fire.

Beatrice born beyond time. Beatrice leading star.

Beatrice da sempre nata. Beatrice abiding.

Beatrice breath and voice of the one nailed on the cross.

Beatrice fiato e voce dell'inchiodato in croce.

Beatrice breath-voice of him nailed on the cross.

Beatrice of fears. Beatrice of fates.

Beatrice delle paure. Beatrice delle venture.

Beatrice of fears. Beatrice of dares.

O Beatrice without saints without veils or devotees.

O beatrice senza santi senza veli nĂŠ oranti.

O beatrice unpilgrimed unveiled unsainted.

Beatrice all frenzy all fever and trembling.

Beatrice tutta di furore di febbre e di tremore.

Beatrice all frenzy all fever all flailing.

O beatrice of tears. Beatrice skulking animal. O beatrice infinite. Beatrice in the trap.

O beatrice di lacrime. Beatrice furtiva bestiola. O beatrice infinita. Beatrice nella tagliola.

O beatrice of tears. Beatrice beast-crawler. O beatrice infinite. Beatrice they've caught her.

Beatrice merciful. filia et mater mea

Beatrice pietosa filia et mater mea

Beatrice forgiving my great filia et mater.

Beatrice stella designata. Beatrice star-flaring.


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Articles & Essays gloriosa.

gloriosa.

Beatrice who breaks from too much tenderness.

Beatrice che si spezza per troppo di tenerezza.

Beatrice breaking under too much tenderness.

O my beatrice apprehensive. O beatrice alive.

O beatrice mia apprensiva. O beatrice viva.

O my beatrice quaking. O beatrice living.

Giovanni Giudici, O Beatrice (Milan: Mondadori, 1972); poem reprinted in Giovanni Giudici, Poesie scelte (1957-1974), a cura di Fernando Bandini (Cles: Mondadori, 1975).


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A Translation of "Trip1", Pier Vittorio Tondelli with Translator's Notes Lucy O'Sullivan (TCD)

Background: Pier Vittorio Tondelli (September 14, 1955 - December 16, 1991) was an Italian writer born in the Emilia-Romagna region. The short story Viaggio was included in his first book Altri Libertini (1980). Strategies: The challenges faced by the translator in transcending linguistic boundaries become particularly apparent when confronted with the unique narrative voice of Pier Vittorio Tondelli. In the following excerpt taken from the short story Viaggio, Tondelli pushes the limitations of language to highlight the at times inexpressible and indefinable nature of human experience. Much like Peruvian poet César Vallejo or Irish playwright Samuel Beckett, Tondelli’s use of language reveals its failings as a tool of expression and its potential for manipulation. Tondelli’s experimental approach to grammar and syntax poses a number of difficulties to the translator. In the selected passage, the author employs an intentionally ungrammatical stream of consciousness style composed of lengthy unpunctuated sentences to evoke his psychological state while under the influence of drugs. As the notion of wandering, both literally through the countryside and metaphorically in thought, is central to the text it should be reflected in the syntax of the TT. By using the present continuous as the main verb tense in the English translation, I have tried to faithfully capture this sense of fluidity and constant As the passage describes the author's experience whilst under the influence of drugs 'Trip' as opposed to 'voyage' or 'journey' seemed the obvious translation for 'viaggio'. 1


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Articles & Essays movement.

Tondelli’s idiosyncratic use of language constitutes another distinctive feature of the ST, as the distorted impressions of the narrator are reflected in the linguistic contortions of the text. As traditional language fails to accurately convey his current condition, a combination of physical and mental restlessness, the narrator resorts to the construction of neologisms such as ‘pensierare’. Given that Tondelli’s text openly transgresses the conventions of language, the ST may be equally free and imaginative in its approach. In terms of cultural contextualisation, the use of words such as ‘piazza’ or ‘via’ in the ST also raises issues regarding foreignization and domesticization. I chose to conserve these terms in the original Italian as I feel they are easily recognisable to an English readership and highlight the local flavour and cultural specificity of the ST.

Trip Pier Vittorio Tondelli

trans. Lucy O'Sullivan (TCD)

The runaway night flees through the streets of Emilia2, screaming out everything inside me. In the solitary, nomadic night3 my thoughts can wander4 and as I drive towards the meadow5 I let the stories fill my head so it can rest, like watching passersby6 in the piazza7 chatting as they look up, so many fantasies piled Instead of translating this as ‘the wandering runaway night launches itself/flies quickly through the streets of Emilia’, I changed the adjective ‘fuggitiva’ into the main verb of the sentence as I felt this was a more concise way of phrasing the sentence in English while still conveying the ideas of speed and escape. 3 Given the use of ‘raminga’ in the first sentence it is likely this should be translated as ‘nomadic’ as opposed to ‘idle’. 2


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tirelessly8 one on top of the other. Faster9 now, the car is moving of its own accord10, veering up and down via11 Emilia towards the hills and the mountains and the rivers and the water treatment plants and the reed groves 12. Then somewhere between Reggio and Parma I let go of that feeling pulling at my head13 and try to guess the number of bars, including the ones inside the discos and the clubs 14 that have moved outside now that its august and have started to use the veranda so that they can relish the mosquitoes and the stench of manure from the fat countryside. Along via Emilia I come across the blinking illuminated signs, big car parks and finally the cement structures of neon violet and the orange ads and iodine torches 15 that rise up straight and sway back and forward so that the cones of light intertwine high in the sky, like in Broadway or Sunset Boulevard on some night filled with divas and idols and fat cat producers 16. I guess twenty one but before I reach Parma I’m already at thirty three and the bet goes to shit17. But I translated the neologism ‘pensierare’ as ‘my thoughts rambling’ as it echoes the description of the nomadic night. This also contributes to the sense of aimlessness and futility that pervades the text. 5 The connotations associated with ‘prairie’ and ‘grassland’ were too specific in this case so meadow seemed the safest and most neutral option. 6 ‘passersby’ was a more a elegant solution than ‘the people who walk by’ 7 There was no need to translate this as ‘square’ as ‘piazza’ is frequently used in English and merely signals the cultural location of the ST to an English readership. 8 I substituted the verb for an adverb here as I felt ‘tirelessly’ was a better solution to ‘and nothing gets tired’ 9 I translated the infinitive here as an adjective as I felt this was more in keeping with the descriptive tone of the passage 10 I preferred this translation to the slightly clumsy ‘goes where it wants’. 11 As with ‘piazza’, I decided to maintain ‘via’ as ‘Emilia street’ or ‘avenue’ would be too a radical domesticization of the original and would sound ridiculous. 12 I omitted ‘oppure’ here as I felt the repetition of ‘and’ already created enough emphasis. 13 I was uncertain how to translate ‘tiramento di testa’as a noun so instead turned it into a separate phrase. 4


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Viaggio Pier Vittorio Tondelli Notte raminga e fuggitiva lanciata veloce lungo le strade d’Emilia a spolmonare quel che ho dentro, notte solitaria e vagabonda a pensierare in auto verso la prateria, lasciare che le storie riempiano la testa che cosi poi si riposa, come stare sulle piazze a spiare la gante che passeggia e fa salotto e guarda in aria, tante fantasie una spora e sotto all’altra, però non s’affatica nulla. Correre allora, la macchina va dove vuole, svota su e giù dalla via Emilia incontro alle colline e alle montagne oppure verso I fiumi e le bonifiche e I canneti. Poi tra Reggio e Parma lasciare andare il tiramento di testa e provare a indovinare il numero dei bar, compresi quelli all’interno delle discoteche o dei dancing all’aperto ora che è agosto e hanno alzato persino le verande per godersi meglio le zanzare e il puzzo della campagna grassa e concimata. Lungo la via Emilia ne incontro le indicazioni luminose e intermittenti, i parcheggi ampi e infine le strutture di cemento e neon violacei e spot arancioni e grandifari allo iodio che si alzano dritti e oscillano avanti e indietro così che I coni di luce si intrecciano alti nel cielo e pare allora di stare a Broadway o nel Sunset Boulevard in una notte di quelle buone con dive magnati produttori e grandi miti. Ne immagino ventuno ma prima di entrare in Parma sono già a trentatré, la scommessa va a puttane, pazienza, in fondo non importa granché. This seemed a better option that than ‘those with dancing’ I interpreted ‘grandifari’ as referring to the cylindrical lights lining the motorway. In this case, I felt ‘torches’ was preferable to an exact translation as it was more in keeping with the lyrical impressionistic style of the passage. 16 ‘Miti’ is referring to celebrities here so ‘idols’ was the suitable translation. I also changed the structure of the sentence as it made more sense to group ‘divas’ and ‘idols’ together. 17 For the phrase ‘va a puttane’ , the English equivalent ‘to go to shit’ matches the vulgar register of ST 18 This could be translated as ‘it doesn’t matter’ ‘it doesn’t mean that much’. 14 15


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Coexisting by Letter Correspondence Only?

Ciaran Carson's translations of Baudelaire's 1857 'Correspondances' and Northern Irish Republican Culture Jessica Peart (NUIM)

In the field of Translation Studies, as Michael Cronin notes in his Translating Ireland, the terms diachronic and synchronic can be quite neutrally applied in identifying respectively where a translated version or adaptation contains a mixture of historical diction and language registers in the translation of older texts, and where it draws on a range of contemporary cultural and inter-textual connotation in the translation of recently produced texts. Choosing a diachronic approach, though, can underlie presumed translatorial intentions to bridge any desirable aspect of historical with the contemporary culture’s moment of translating, while selecting a synchronic sets the wider angle more on intercultural communicative engagement. The text of translation examined presently by contemporary Northern Irish poet, Ciaran Carson (hence CC) applies both approaches in its commentary on a need for historical continuity in republican culture as it is exercised in contemporary Northern Ireland in a context of political and civic integration through the 1998 institution of power-sharing structures for governance. In this application, the more conspicuous diachronic verbal units only serve to highlight contextual distortion of founding republican ideals in the current realpolitik concerning appropriateness of socio-political distribution. It is shown, as postcolonial translation critic Maria Tymoczko remarks, that even ‘the smallest elements in the text … (such as single phonemes and graphemes can) reveal metonymies of translation’ that invite commentary on circumstances and conditions of postcolonial relations. To discuss such dialogic terms in relation to CC’s stylistic adaptation of Charles Baudelaire’s (hence B) ‘Correspondances’, a useful starting point may refer to the multiple publication dates of both kinds of version. Firstly, B’s ‘Correspondances’, as Francis Scarfe, editor and literal translator into English of Baudelaire: The


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Complete Verse, who Carson draws on in this translation project, has noted, is ‘variously dated’, first appearing in either 1845/46, then 1855, and in the first edition of Les Fleurs du Mal in 1857, while not in that volume’s final second, 1861 edition. Carson has published two translation versions: the first in 1993 in his monolingual volume, First Language, that contains two thirds original and one third versions of poetry, in which he does not translate B’s title, but repeats it underneath with the acknowledgement, ‘ after Baudelaire’; and the second version entitled ‘Coexistences’ in his 1998 bilingual volume The Alexandrine Plan, half of which total 34 sonnets selected from A. Rimbaud, S. Mallarme and Baudelaire are taken from B’s 1840s and later Les Fleurs du Mal publications. The temporal frame situated by each set spans a shift in poetic response toward concurrent political events: for B, the mid-1840s withheld the popularising promise of socialist revolt over the constitutional monarchy while soon after 1848 and ultimately by the mid1850s he both privately and publicly rejected all forms of ideological association. While his sonnet was not revised, the decision to include it in later volumes as, what Jonathon Culler considers in his ‘B’s ‘Correspondances’: Intertextuality and Interpretation’ is an ‘ironic … (and) potentially demystifying reflection on the tradition and … notion of poet as decipherer of spiritual significance’, indicates that this sonnet has served as a gravitational pressure or anchoring away from both forces of mysticism and politicisation (James MacGowan, Ed. and Translator. C B. The Flowers ofEvil. Oxford World Classics, 1998.). Carson’s 1998 version is more purposely different than simply a revision of the 1993 version, each of which versions fit with their respective volume’s style of experimental form that in FL exhibits his characteristic long line, midline rhyme and lexical ingenuity in an eclectic variety of ways, and in TAP uniformly follows the rhyme scheme and verse length of each original Petrarchan sonnet yet diverges ‘inventively’, according to his publishers, The Gallery Press, on semantic and idiomatic levels in a translation style that reads ‘fluently’ or ‘sympathetically’ for its target linguistic and in particular local audiences. The ‘letters’ in the ‘letter correspondence’ to which this paper’s title refers can be understood literally as close or loose equivalence in consonant, vowel, grapheme, phoneme or any of their blends as


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they appear in sound and synaesthetically coloured patterning in addition to internal and end-rhymes. They operate as such further, though, as a mode of exchange in a dialogic relationship of utterances. By extension, the contemporary Northern Irish republican discourse inferred in Carson’s context of translation also deploys these ‘letters of the alphabet’ as, what political commentator John McGarry notes is perceived by unionists, a ‘smoke screen’ for the ‘bucolic theocracy’ of republican nationalism that conceals undercurrents of hostility in the new governance structures, and remain understated in public press releases accounting for states of progress. These letters appear as ciphers in a zero-sum game of political bargaining for identity-based rights in a context of equal and equitable coexistence and surface under the pressure of brinkmanship to meet cross-communal consensual deals, only to dispel at the note of pretence. A decisive brink can be traversed conveniently, on the other hand, within the controlled safety of a singular authorial or individual intra-cultural mind-set, and by extension to the sonnet, most effectively at the turning point or volta between the eighth and ninth line that marks the conventional transition between the octave’s generalised ‘lamenting’ and the sestet’s specified ‘reassuring’ tone of content. As the original sonnet in this instance though implicitly ironically treats the traditional tone and its pivotal shift, thereby having the unlikely expectation of reassurance skip back to complaint, Carson pervades that ironic turn throughout both versions, so that the encounter of his octave and sestet withholds a loud-hale through which his translated-subject might exhale the disappointed ideals toward an outcome of demand for even redress. The phoneme in question is ‘u’, or the sound of the name of the letter ‘u’, repeated in lines 8 and 9 in the nouns, ‘perfumes’ and ‘communiqué’ respectively. On a semantic level, the implied personal pronoun, ‘you’, amplifies the directness of address to an ‘other’ from a ‘self’, or a position assumed by the translated ‘lyric I’ speaker that calls the translated-object to attend to its general presence and specific message. Defining itself through an invasive smoke screen of perfume in consideration of the common Latin etymology of this noun in French and English, as ‘par flamme’, or ‘by fire’, and identifying what is at stake for its intra-cultural social unit in the


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consensual agreement through public communiqué releases from elite level peace talks, the medium of the message smudges a bright promise of progress that returns to secure concerns in single ethnic voter blocs. Enshrined of course at the core of the cross-communal consensual structures is a sense of security for both of the main and other minority communities with the intended prospect that the inclusive framework for inter-communal dialogue would build on an intracommunal dialogue gaining steadily in critical self-reflection in no longer incapacitating offensive circumstances. Among the sociological commentators on manners of communication that can facilitate and sustain this process at the elite, rank and file and more widely civic level, Jürgen Habermas’ notion of deliberative dialogue has been widely considered in the theoretical debate since the translation of his Communication and the Evolution ofSociety in 1979 on how to achieve participative democracy through these, what ‘constructive critic’ of the Belfast Agreement, Brendan O’Leary observes are ‘top-down’ governance structures. A central relevant aspect of this 1970s study, on acquiring consequential results from the exchange of communicative speech-acts in intra-cultural contexts can complement the Agreement’s confidence-building measures by virtue of its identification of speech-acts as fourfold and thus delineable for greater perspective and clarity in deliberation at all levels of participation. Habermas delineates these into factual, subjective, culturally symbolic, and finally a combination of all these levels as a linguistic ‘relation to reality’ that is the preserve of ‘stylistic’ contributors to debate, such as versifiers in any artistic form. The following main analysis of Carson’s 1998 sonnet version demonstrates how a stylistic or integrated utterance is delineable in this contemporarily readable translation by revealing assonantal patterning across the first three relations to reality, though I conclude more suggestively concerning uneasiness for interviewees in situations of official peace monitoring interview to approximate acceptably self-reflective responses to how rehabilitation schemes are working for their community towards reconciliation. Research by Jennifer Todd published in the Field Day Review into typical manners of sociological fieldwork almost a decade after the implementation of the Belfast Agreement observes that the interview process can


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glean more effectively telling responses once interviewers attend to moments in the content when an interviewee makes an unexpected change of subject, and then assess whether patterns emerge so as to trace expressive limits to schematic inter-communal engagement with archipelago and wider European funded ideals. Carson’s translated-lyric I plots such elliptical patterns through the assonantal association of both overt and covert communally telling words and symbolic practices in which the actual or factual rather than ideal wearing away of hostility gestates. Beginning with the main differences between his 1993 FL ‘Correspondances’ and 1998 TAP ‘Coexistences’ sonnet versions, it is of note to mention an observation by O’Leary that upsurges in fatality and conflict have tended to immediately precede far-reaching peace agreements, such as the Downing Street Declaration in 1993 and the Belfast Agreement in 1998, and to a more restricted yet seminal extent, the Sunningdale Accord of 1972-3. The coincidence of these former two dates with the publication years of the versions draws attention to a shift in Carson’s stylistic impression of the contingent factors in relationships between violence and peace. Of perhaps primary ‘faithful’ consideration in advancing a set of impressions that may be inspirationally in synchrony with Baudelaire’s initial flashes, concerns the latter’s Romantic Symbolist prompt to compose a sonnet from the outside in, or to infold a rhyme scheme from pairs of environmentally found sounds that strike the poet’s intuitive capability as symbolically appropriate expressions of subjectively perceived social circumstances. Carson can be read as following suit in his long line, uniform four verse ‘Correspondances’ version, not at the coupled end-words but rather in the examples of sounds he selects from his traditional music session playing environment as onomatopoeic blends of sound that are ‘buzz(ed) and mingle(d)’, ‘yawn[s](ed) and growl[s](ed)’ in ‘ oms and ahs’ 1 , and ‘blurt(ed) out’ in a ‘babble’, or so it seems to the version-speaker, positioned ‘at’ and ‘from / the verge’, or attending at the outer limits of comprehension during his acquisition of music as a language or semiotic system as though he were in sympathy with Baudelaire’s speaker as diachronic foreign visitor in this 1 Carson's

italicisation.


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locally specific communal instance of making ‘music’ and offering ‘Parable’. Not only the sounds but also the instrumental material reverberates within this tradition, as the ‘horsehair’ and ‘catgut’ that partially compose them produce ‘growls’ and ‘yawns’ when the ‘quartet’ play. This fiercely wrought Arcadia prefigures further 1998 sonnet selections from Baudelaire, such as those Carson translates as ‘O Happy Death’, ‘Warriors’, and ‘Talk to Me’, in which Baudelaire’s poetic speakers experience his public reception as a serially devastating and continued posthumous attack by ‘snails’, ‘worms’, ‘crows’, ‘snow leopards’, and ‘Portuguese lynx’ (Literal Translation, F. Scarfe.). Their fellow 1998 ‘Coexistences’ does not so much confabulate a narrative out of living organisms in a close-knit setting, but registers a shift toward codification in publicised republican communal expression. The exemplary symbolist interconnectivity between sounds, smells and images in Baudelaire’s original gives Carson license to work sound and smell metaphorically into contextual paramilitary associations whereby vocal expression becomes suffused, distracted and reordered by local air thickened in the animal fat of perfume. Versifying as the lyric combination between music and voice thus lets slip the false friend of ‘chanter’ to sectarian ‘chant’ and ‘slogans’ in the ‘hidden sanctums’ that locate Carson’s subliminal commentary on local contemporary republicanism. His further choice of militaristic nouns list, ‘columns’ ‘auxiliaries’ and ‘pupils’ in the opening quatrain; and ‘communiqués’, ‘smoky flambeau’, and ‘meadows’ in the first tercet, wherein ‘meadows’ represents a fugitive republican experience through synecdoche throughout this volume. Carson’s translated-subject adopts such postures line for line across this terrain, cautious neither to sidestep nor fall in step with any uniform rhythm where Baudelaire has in self-excoriating style made a deliberate yet oblique ‘inhuman retreat’ from all ideological associations by his mid-1850s release. Collapsing the received universalisms of Baudelaire’s interconnectivity and a contemporary Northern Irish civic republicanism, Carson edges the refuge coordinates of a deranged sense of ideological continuity to the rhyme scheme position of his version. Three such end-words–‘Belief’, ‘mirror’ and ‘flambeau’–occurring each in the first and second quatrain and in the first tercet,


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draw deliberately on his local knowledge of republican paramilitary strategies and tactics for communication as distinct from Baudelaire’s non-cognitive and subjective lineal assembly of newly and rarely combined complementary and contrastive environmental sounds. In the role of poetic translator, though, Carson is commissioned to be more keenly auditory than expressive in the general aim of equivalence, that if non-negotiable for phonological resemblance, shifts the onus toward attending to understated influences of republican militarization in what sociologist Mairead NicCraith calls the ‘fused’ Irish-Catholic-Nationalist ‘triad’ of a communal culture. Listening out for patterns of deflected statement in conversational tones similar to the ordinary language register of peace monitoring interviews, Carson inflects Baudelaire’s inspired and beguiling scheme for universalist self-expression with a common readable strategy for evasion during routine monitory assessment of the success of the new structures for governance. In parallel to how the rhyme scheme might issue in translation, points in the line where the medial caesurae fall appear erratic by comparison with their precise and uniform medial positioning characteristic of French Symbolist usage that functions through the separation of clauses or grammatical units to have a subjectively expressive hemistich comment on its culturally symbolic counterpart hemistich statement. These reflective and opportune breath-taking pauses occur in Carson’s sonnet version at shifts in intonation, in accordance with the typical emphasis pattern in English language speech rhythms, where prepositional, relative clause phrase, comma and semi-colon, genitive case, and coordinate conjunction occur. Not only with ordinary but also through poetic language by prioritising uniformity of rhyme scheme, Carson pressures the intended regularity of the French reflective caesura into scattering, and graphically traces the fissures out of that process from the a-line end-word syllabic sound, ‘um’, in ‘columns’ and ‘sanctums’, the vowel in which takes the weak sound of the letter ‘u’, to the pivotally related syllabic sounds at the volta, ‘um’ and ‘mu’ in ‘perfume’ and ‘communiqué’, the vowel in which, as mentioned earlier, takes the strong name sound of the letter ‘u’. The weak ‘um’ sound also travels inward in the first quatrain to the end of the first hemistich in the third line, associating thereby an


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averred military register with the ordinary use and fallible connotation of the verb ‘stumble[s]’ in the general third person conjugation, ‘Man stumbles’. Precisely where this translated-subject looses his footing is while advancing ‘through the Forest of Belief’, which is a loose translation of Baudelaire’s ‘forêts de symboles’ – the latter’s imaginative space in which the individual is capable of reconciling confusion or disharmony between particular statements and meanings in the ‘confuses paroles’ they perceive in their ‘familiers’ environment. This intuitive poetic space sets up Baudelaire’s opening quatrain rhymes through the complementarity of the liquid consonants, l and r, in the a-line ‘piliers’ and ‘familiers’, and the b-line ‘paroles’ and ‘symboles’. Carson, though, replaces these restorative liquids that open the mouth in pronunciation with the disorienting echo of the closemouthed nasal ‘um’ and ‘um’. As a closely equivalent syllabic sound, ‘um’ also registers an element of sympathy on Carson’s part with Baudelaire’s efforts to name the intangible in terms of the tangible through poetic simile with the word, ‘like’, or ‘comme’ that is repeated six times in the original and serves similarly to the reflective medial pause to broach points of correspondence between subjective and culturally symbolic worldviews. For Carson such bridge building exercises translate as garrison bonded in the hierarchies, inner circles and militaristic codes of his substitutions of ‘piliers’ with marching ‘columns’; of endless possibilities in a ‘forêts de symboles’ with a single capitalised, ‘Forest of Belief’; and an adjective and nouns that have neither close prompt nor necessary precedent in the original: ‘green’, ‘auxiliaries’, ‘pupils’, and ‘hidden sanctums’. He attempts however to blow these bridges or defuse the bond at the volta, where the ‘um’ sound takes the stressed position in both ‘perfume’ and ‘communiqué’, and is said forwards in the first instance as ‘um’, and backwards in the next as ‘mu’. Regarding the scansion of their locations of stress, the iambs ‘perfumes’ and, ‘commun-’ are followed by the dactyl, ‘(s)himmery’, and the trochee, ‘(t)here are’ respectively. Their scanned and graphic combination of duality draws a pivotal chiasmus here, which emphasised antagonistic relations further maintains on a semantic level in consideration of the operative processes both nouns describe as material substances: Both signify covert structures of


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release through subliminal or clandestine processes of diffusion or distribution respectively. In short the signifier ‘perfume’ consists in a flammable liquid substance that when set alight manifests its presence yet in that very instance becomes immaterial or formless; and the communiqué, as unit of coded information, only successfully delivers its potentially consequential content by remaining outwardly incomprehensible, or categorically fudged. Of note here also is the historical moment in which the word communiqué was first shared between French and English. According to the OED, it was first recorded in English in 1852, which year situates its significance in the period of revolutionary socialist reform that had emerged and spread throughout Europe, and in particular the main European capital cities (G. Rudé). The kind of revolutionary expression in this mid to late 19th Century period that occurred in Paris describes the volatile potential and consequences of forms of socialist pressure issuing from outlawed ‘conspirateurs’ and ‘ultra-left’ (R. Burton) underground radical republican groups and secret societies that had in 1848 initially been formed by public representatives but were soon taken over and managed by ordinary citizens, known as ‘le menu peuple’ (G. Rudé), who prioritised their own ‘particular local grievances’ (G. Rudé) over republican ideals and the ‘spirit of 1789’. A communiqué in this context has the potential to lead to public riot and commercial destruction in the aim of obtaining universal suffrage for the common man, or ‘the people’, in which effort it distributes its message through private to public knowledge and consequence. The contagious volatility of its potential offers an operative analogy with the purposeful exhaustion of perfume as a flammable substance turned into a ‘smoky flambeau’ subsequently used to distract attention from a latent outbreak of tension. It seems that the ‘um’ syllable, by contrast with its ‘mu’ counterpart, however, ought to be contained or silenced in peace time after the Belfast Agreement, under which pressures of liberal integrationism the local interview respondent recorded by sociological correspondent tends to ‘stumble[s]’ or elliptically slip, namely over the words they commission to describe the peace process from their personal point of view and from that of the communal experience to which they belong.


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A Note about Ulysses in Spanish Jorge Luis Borges Mark Kenny (TCD)

I am not one of those who mystically prejudge that each translation is inferior to the original. Many times I have realised, or been able to suspect, the contrary. The evident play on words that abound in the “ Manual Oracle” of Gracian (Militia is the life ofman against the militia ofman: what this pursues, the other persecutes) make it very inferior to the Gracians Handorakel of Schopenhauer, that, upon dispensing with such games, manages to dissimulate the trivial phonetic origin of the “ideas” that it proposes. Towards 1827, De Quincey translated into English the “ Laocoon” of Lessing; I have confronted both works; the English text is more urbane and more eloquent. In addition, the long-winded literal versions of One Thousand and One Nights (Lane, Burton, Mardrus, Littmann) insinuate and impress that the abridgement of Galland is much superior to the Arab text. Such facts don't astonish us; to presuppose that every recombination of elements is necessarily inferior to a previous arrangement is to presuppose that draft 9 is necessarily inferior to draft H, since there cannot be anything but drafts. The concept of the definitive text corresponds only to superstition or exhaustion. This declared, I will consider the problem of translating Ulysses into Spanish. Salas Subirat deems that the endeavour “doesn't present serious difficulties”; I deem it very arduous, almost impossible. The most bitter detractors of Joyce (George Sampson: The Concise Cambridge History ofEnglish Literature, page 972) recognise his verbal mastery. Those that reject Ulysses as a novel, accept it, subdued, as an epic. Ulysses, perhaps, includes the most chaotic and tedious pages recorded in history, but it also includes the most perfect. I repeat, that perfection is verbal. English (like German) is an almost monosyllabic language, suitable for the formation of compound words. Joyce was notoriously happy using such conjunctions. Spanish (like Italian, like French) is composed of unmanageable


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polysyllables that are difficult to combine. Joyce, who had written in Ulysses: bridebed, childbed, bed ofdeath, ghastcondled, had to resign himself to this waste of space in the French version: lit nuptial, lit de parturition, lit de mort aux spectrales bougies. In this first Hispanic version of Ulysses, Salas Subirat usually fails when he limits himself to translating the meaning. The English phrase: horseness is the whatness ofallhorse is a memorable definition of the Platonic thesis, not like the languid Spanish equivalent: el caballismo es la cualidad de todo caballo. Another example, also brief: phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed is a melodious and moving phrase; júbilos fantasmagóricos momificados; perfumados de almizcle is, perhaps, non-existent. Hombre de inteligencia múltiple is more equivalent to nothing than myriadminded man. Much superior are those passages in which the Spanish text is no less neologic than the original. For example, this, from page 743: que no era un árbolcielo, no un antrocielo, no un bestiacielo, no un hombrecielo, which correctly and inventively translates: that is was not a heaventree, not a heavengrot, not a heavenbeast, not a heavenman.

A priori, a worthy version of Ulysses seems to me impossible. The intention of this note is not, by the way, to accuse Señor Salas Subirat of incapacity, whose labours I deem worthy, whose passions I share; it is to denounce the incapacity for certain ends, of all the Romance languages, and singularly, of Spanish. Joyce expands and reforms the English language; his translator has the duty of taking congeneric liberties. 1 *Los Anales de Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires, Year 1, No. 1, January 1946. (Original text taken from Textos recobrados : 1931-195, Borges, Jorge Luis, 1899-1986. Barcelona : Emecé Editores, 2002) Borges translates the end of Molly Bloom's monologue in “The Last Page of Ulysses”, see Textos Recobrados 1919-1929, Buenos Aires, Emecé Editores, 1997. 1


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The Fate of Ulysses in Spanish Juan José Saer trans. Mark Kenny (TCD)

On 16 June, 1904, James Joyce and Nora took their first evening stroll around Dublin, an occasion which inspired Leopold Bloom's journey for Ulysses (1922), a day known as 'Bloomsday'. A book that transformed modern literature and became a challenge for translators. This is the history ofthe first version in Spanish. One afternoon in 1967, the author of this article attended the following scene: Borges, who had travelled to Santa Fe to speak about Joyce, was chatting animatedly in a cafe ahead of the conference with a group of young writers who had come to do a feature on him, when all of a sudden he remembered that in the forties he had been invited to join a commission which proposed to collectively translate Ulysses. Borges said that the commission would meet once a week to discuss the preliminaries of the gigantic task that the best Anglicists of Buenos Aires had proposed to carry out, but that one day, when almost a year of discussions had already taken place, one of the members of the commission arrived brandishing an enormous book and shouting: “A translation of Ulysses had just appeared!” Borges, laughing heartily at the story, even though he had never read the translation in its entirety (as he probably hadn't the original), concluded by saying: “And the translation was very bad”. To which one of the young writers who was listening to him replied: “Maybe so, but even if that's the case, then Señor Salas Subirat is the greatest writer in the Spanish language”. The response suggests the place which that translation occupied in the literary culture of the young Argentine writers during the fifties and sixties. The 815 page book was published in 1945 by the Santiago Rueda editorial of Buenos Aires, which also published A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man translated by Alfonso Donado (Dámaso Alonso). That catalogue featured many other exceptional names, such as Faulkner, Dos Passos, Svevo, Proust, Nietzsche, not to mention the


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complete works of Freud in 18 volumes, presented by Ortega y Gasset. By the end of the fifties those books were circulating widely amongst those who were interested in the literary, philosophical and cultural problems of the twentiethcentury. They formed part of the truly indispensable books of any good library.

The Ulysses of J. Salas Subirat (the

imprecise initial gave the name a mysterious connotation) appeared all the time in conversations, along with the inexhaustible verbal discoveries interspersed within the text without the necessity of being clear: every person with narratorial pretensions between the ages of 18 and 30, in Santa Fe, Parana, Rosario and Buenos Aires, knew them off by heart and quoted them. Many writers of the fifties or sixties learned several of their narrative techniques in that translation. The reason is very simple: the turbulent river of Joycean prose, upon being translated to Spanish by a man from Buenos Aires, swept along with it the living material of the speech that no other author - apart from maybe Robert Arlt - had been capable of using with such inventiveness, exactitude and freedom. The lesson of the work is very clear: the everyday tongue is the fountain of energy that fertilises the most universal literatures. Though being the first to do it doesn't necessarily attract more credit than the great achievement intrinsically possesses, it is certain that whoever translates Ulysses exposes themselves to two dangers which are often the two sides of the same coin: prejudiced criticism and pillaging. Such has been the fate - that some, admittedly, have insisted for some time needs correcting - of the extraordinary work of Salas Subirat. It would be unthinkable that somebody would throw themselves into a second Spanish translation of Ulysses pretending to disregard the existence of the first, but such appears to have been the stance of Professor Valverde, who in the 46 pages of his prologue gives justifiable praise to the version of Portrait by Dรกmaso Alonso, but doesn't mention a word about the translation of Salas Subirat, that when comparing the two versions it often seems that Valverde's choices are based only on his obsession with being different from the original. No


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serious translator of Ulysses can now deny that the first and second translations exist (such is the honest principle adopted by the authors of the third, Francisco García Tortosa and María Luisa Venegas), and such knowledge implies that these translations function always as necessary references. When Valverde's appeared, on the contrary, a climate of judging contempt made it understood that the second translation had arrived at last in order to repair the indescribable ineptitude of the first. On the internet, the natural homeland of the absurd, among several other aberrations of the first version of Ulysses, there is also mention of the worst case, product of a vulgar commercial transaction: the massacre that a certain Chamorro committed in 1996, correcting “up to 50%” of Salas Subirat's version, which is accused of falling, amongst other things, “into localisms belonging to Buenos Aires speech”, as if an English person from London were translating the popular localisms from Dublin, which figure in abundance in the Joyce original, into an Oxfordian idiom. Of this act of piracy, 51 years after the appearance of the book in Buenos Aires, even those who comment on it favourably cannot but observe that “it is in a certain way a reedition of the Salas translation”.

A work from the writer Eduardo

Lago compares the three reliable translations (the act of vandalism by Chamorro is judiciously discarded), without awarding either of them the tag of perfect and definitive, while on the other hand it would be reckless to attribute such a title to any translation, as excellent as it may appear. Comparing different passages of the text, Lago, with impartiality and attention to detail, verifies in the three works what could already be seen in the first two; that is, that their authors resolved with lesser or greater success the difficulties encountered. The object of a translation is not to exhibit the erudition of its author, nor their knowledge of the language of origin, which are of course necessary but not sufficient conditions to undertake the work, but rather to incorporate a living text into the target language. It is evident that each epoch, just like each linguistic area, requires new


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translations of classic texts, but this fact doesn't requite it to be obligatory to denigrate the previous ones. Of his own literary work, the translation of Ulysses is probably the most longlasting achievement. But his books of self-help and his treatment on insurance sales don't become ludicrous or indifferent to somebody who has read Joyce: Leopold Bloom might even have been able to write them. The first translator of Ulysses must have felt what each reader of true literature feels: that the book which they are reading speaks about their entire self, of the reader, not of a foreign and distant world. That intense revelation must have been the motor of his work, which allowed him to express his own life through a foreign text. Because one thing is certain: leaving aside the discussions of theory and technique about the translation, it is impossible not to recognise that the world of Ulysses appears more like the world of J. Salas Subirat than that of his academic successors.

(Original text first appeared in El PaĂ­s, 12 June 2004)


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Reflections on the Nature of Free Verse and Poetic Form Maria Sukharnikova (TCD)

I

In 1974 Joseph Brodsky’s essay about problems in the translation of poetry was published in the New York Review of Books on the occasion of the recent rendering into English of a few poems by Mandelstam. The issue, which drew the poet’s attention, was the fact that both American writers by whom the translation was done, Clarence Brown and W.S. Merwin, converted Mandelstam’s “classical” prosody into free verse and thus aroused Brodsky’s fierce criticism, since he firmly rejected their decision, emphasizing the value of poetic form in the following manner: ‘A poem is the result of certain necessity: it is inevitable and so is its form … Form is noble… It is the vessel in which meaning is cast. They need each other and sanctify each other reciprocally – it is an association of soul and body. Break the vessel and liquid will leak out.’ 1 This instance of altering the author’s design through the act of translation highlights the fragility of poetic form that shapes the poem’s content and attaches particular significance to it. It is precisely the notion of form that can be the door leading into the mystery of free verse, which is ‘anything but “free”’ 2, since the very questioning of it casts light on the nature of poetry. Free verse, which T.S. Eliot called ‘a battle-cry of freedom’ 3, seemingly resists all rules and restrictions, however, it has certain limits, which may be illustrated by Mandelstam’s case. How would Song of Myself be read if it was translated into another language and Whitman’s voice locked up in the vessel of a poetic form different from free verse? Would, in that case, any other body be appropriate for the poem’s liberated soul? World Literature Today, Vol. 53, No. 3, An Homage to French Poet Yves Bonnefoy (Summer, 1979), 374. 2 T.S. Eliot, To Criticize the Critic and Other Writings (Lincoln: Bison Books, 1992), 184. 3 Ibid. 1


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Would it not wither inside the boundaries of rhyme or regular metre? Free verse’s limit is its very freedom which cannot be encapsulated, nor can it survive outside its own peculiar rhythm which sets a metrical pattern creating, in turn, the poem’s form. Being liberated from the external restrictions of imposed rhyme, it is liberated for the fulfillment of the poem’s own potential in the poet’s specific language. The aim of this essay is to examine to what extent the freedom of free verse expands. To attain this goal it is necessary to look at the origins of free verse and the functioning of poetic form, before concluding with the notion of poetry being limited by the very act of artistic creation.

II

Whereas free verse originates in oral tradition and finds its first captured samples in Egyptian and Hebrew poetry, it is predominantly believed to be a twentiethcentury form, particularly associated with Modernist poets (such as Ezra Pound, Allen Ginsberg, T.S. Eliot, Joseph Brodsky and so forth). Refraining from strictly defined metre patterns and rhyme, free verse seems to abandon the longestablished tradition of rhymed poetry, thus being often flavored with the notions of protest and questioning of prevalent order. However, there cannot be any apparent opposition between what had gone before the modernist movement and after, since there is no disjunction between the two poetic “trends” but rather ‘a dialogue in disguise’ 4. Poetic form is a continuum inasmuch as poetry itself, as life’s perpetual reflector, is a living, evolving concept. In that sense, it is not just a discussion of rhymes and rhythms but different world-views bespeaking different social ideologies. For example, the symmetry, balance and harmony of Augustan poetry are but the reflection of a society embodying these qualities i.e. characterized by stability and rationality. Language, therefore, is not abstract; it M. Strand, E. Boland, The Making of a Poem (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2001), 259. 5 T.S. Eliot, To Criticize the Critic and Other Writings (Lincoln: Bison Books, 1992), 189. 6 A. Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991). 7 J. Brodsky, Conversations (Brighton: Roundhouse Publishing Ltd, 2003), 28. 4


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mirrors the present, preserves the remnants of the past and shapes the future age. In his essay “Reflections on ‘Vers Libre’” (1917) T.S. Eliot suggests that only “a closely-knit and homogeneous society” can produce “the Greek chorus, the Elizabethan lyric, and the Troubadour canzone” 5, thereupon, it can be argued that the use of regular verse rather signifies the actual presence of an orthodoxy, some common set of beliefs. In contrast, free verse can appear only when no common truth predominates over men’s various personal systems of values, longing for being depicted in their own unique forms. The new prosody unveils the infinite potentialities of poetic invention and breaks the rhymed chant of conventional poetics. At the same time, however, the appearance of free verse in the course of late modernity, marked by the complication and further fragmentation of social systems 6, is indicative of the loss of spiritual unity in society, which menaces to be transformed into spiritual chaos. Free verse, being a consequence of strict form, is the act of liberation. Nevertheless, as Brodsky once noticed, to be liberated means to experience some kind of slavery first, for “freedom does not have an autonomous meaning” 7. Ultimately, the concept of freedom cannot be understood in isolation from the notion of constraint since they originate from the same root. And if Robert Frost claims that to write free verse is similar to playing “tennis with the net down” 8, it must be noticed that the only difference between conventional tennis and its “Frost’s” analogy is the net dropped down, however the very rules of the game stay the same. The absence of the net is regarded as freedom, whereas if the tennis-court, the tennis-ball and the rackets were taken away as well, the game itself would cease to exist, it would be transmuted, at best, to nothingness, at worst, to chaos. Similarly, free verse can subsist only in the framework of the game called poetry thus, echoing the famous Eliot’s statement, “the division The Cambridge Companion to Robert Frost, ed. by Robert Faggen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 127. 9 T.S. Eliot, To Criticize the Critic and Other Writings (Lincoln: Bison Books, 1992), 189. 10 T.S. Eliot, To Criticize the Critic and Other Writings (Lincoln: Bison Books, 1992), 188. 8


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between Conservative Verse and vers libre does not exist, for there is only good verse, bad verse and chaos” 9.

III

It is argued that free verse and regular verse do not oppose each other and do belong to one and the same field of poetry, but what is poetry’s very being then? In other words, what does make a poem the poem and how does it come into existence as an entity on a page? Since free verse grows out of traditional verse, in order to answer this question it is worth analyzing the poetics of the latter first and then move to the question of free verse’s functioning. First of all, the poem is an object in its own right. It is a finite linguistic unit made up of words, in which no single word can be defined in the absence of others, and unique form of knowledge. Poetic meaning comes through the structure of the words of which it is comprised, out of the physical dimension of language. That is to say, if meaning is a boat then the poet needs to create the whole ocean to put the boat on it. The waves of the water is metrical pattern that unites and constitutes the poem, that is a finite linguistic unit in which the boat runs on the surface of words, keeping it afloat and central to the poem. In the case of conservative verse the motion of the vessel is ensured by rhyme setting pattern and rhythm, whereas the impetus, creating free verse’s metrical pattern, is slightly more obscure. The rejection of rhyme, at first sight, might seem to lead to the loss of the poetic thread weaving lines into a whole, and certainly imposes a severe restraint upon language. As Eliot suggests, “when the comforting echo of rhyme is removed, success or failure in the choice of words, in the sentence structure, in the order, is at once more apparent” 10. Thus, a greater effort needed to support the poetic E. Pound, M. Dirda, The ABC of Reading (New York: New Directions Publishing, 2001), 32. 12 J. Brodsky, Collected Poems in English (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc, 2002). 13 E. Pound, M. Dirda, The ABC of Reading (New York: New Directions Publishing, 2001). 14 For examples see Charles Bernstein’s poetry and Velimir Khlebnikov’s book “Te Li Le”. 11


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value of free verse drawing near the standards of prose. In such a manner, language itself, implicitly form seeking, becomes the means by which the poem acquires its grace and inner dynamics, consequently a way in which words are used appears to be the seat of the poem’s meaning. And inasmuch as poetry is the delicate craft of linguistic invention, words in the poem do function; what make them work thus, according to Ezra Pound, are efficiency, accuracy and clarity. 11

IV

The poet, as a shaper of words, ought to play with them carefully. Weaving a web with the poem s/he creates a piece of art, beautiful in its completeness, thereby, no matter how free their verse is, it should be integral in terms of its inner rhythm. Rhythm, in turn, can be defined as the aggregate of tone, voice and the movement of language inherent in the poem; however, owing to the notion of liberty, free verse rescues it from the braces of rhyme. Rhythm becomes a cast of the poet’s sense of moment with which s/he moves in step, thus making every poem unique, and the number of citations illustrating this uniqueness could be infinite. How different free verse poems are and what different air they breathe. How distinct Whitman’s grand democratic aesthetic of Song of Myself is from Brodsky’s bitter, small, almost lyrical, voice of Postscriptum (initially written in Russian and later translated by the author into English): How sad that my life has not come to mean for you what your life came to mean for me. ...How many times in vacant lots have I consigned my copper coin, crowned with the seal of state, to that webbed universe of wires, V. Shklovsky, “Art as Technique”, in Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays, than. by L.T. Lemon and M.J. Reis (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965), 13. 16 T.S. Eliot, To Criticize the Critic and Other Writings (Lincoln: Bison Books, 1992), 187. 15


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attempting hopelessly to stretch the time of our connectedness... Alas, unless a man can manage to eclipse the world, he's left to twirl a gap-toothed dial in some phone booth, as one might spin a ouija board, until a phantom answers, echoing the last wails of a buzzer in the night. 12 Как жаль, что тем, чем стало для меня твоё существование, не стало моё существование для тебя. …В который раз на старом пустыре я запускаю в проволочный космос свой медный грош, увенчанный гербом, в отчаянной попытке возвеличить момент соединения… Увы, тому, кто не умеет заменить собой весь мир, обычно остаётся крутить щербатый телефонный диск, как стол на спиритическом сеансе, покуда призрак не ответит эхом последним воплям зуммера в ночи. In the first instance the scale of the poem, abound with the ideas appearing to be even larger than Whitman’s elaborate sentences, seems to expand endlessly, whereas Postscriptum, suggesting the poet’s hopeless loneliness, is sullen and airless, with no place to go. Yet both poems do share something in common, which turns out to be their meditative mood created by lines flowing into one another. Both poems resemble rather a process than an accomplished state, as they are but author’s experience itself, never to be accomplished while he is alive.


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Free verse, combining three effects of language i.e. phanopoeia (the visual image), melopoeia (the sound and the rhythm of speech) and logopoeia (the emotional and intellectual associations stimulated by the actual words and groupings of words) 13, opens the way for almost boundless experiments with them. Some free verse poetry sets out precisely to defamiliarize the familiar for the purpose of sharpening the reader’s perception of the visual or the phonic in the poem14. At times coming closest to the visual arts or music, such poems allow to “recover the sensation of life” 15 by reviving the language. However, even “the freest” poetry has one inescapable rule: freedom, taken to the extreme, does destroy the poem. Freedom, as T.S. Eliot suggests, “is only truly freedom when it appears against the background of an artificial limitation” 16 which is imposed by the very nature of art since, as long as it is so, art is longing for order. Art is the tamed part of the incomprehensible, and the poet, by the virtue of their craft, extracts a cosmos, an orderly and harmonious system, from the immensity of life. Thus in order to achieve harmony s/he unavoidably has to rely on the unifying power of an alliterated sound, theme, image or whatever it might be, for otherwise their poetry would not be distinguishable from the muteness of the formless.

V

There is no such thing as formless poetry, since poetry is the means of giving name to the nameless, shape to the shapeless, so it can be expressed and articulated. Art in general is unthinkable outside the boundaries of form, because it extracts the concrete from the fluidity of time and measures by it life, just like a clock measures minutes. Consequently, in order to create this space of the concrete, the poet ought to impose “an artificial limitation” on their poem and find its peculiar rhythm which would convey the poem’s meaning and sustain inner dynamics. Free verse can refrain from rhyme or pronounced pattern, however, it does not mean it is devoid of rhythm, for there is no way free verse can be free from language that fills silence with sound which, in turn, implicitly brings with it meaning yearning for form. Rhythm is inherent in the language, and the craft of the poet is to sing their own voice in accord with it.


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Translation - Turkish Style Catherine Yiğit (TCD)

For the British Council Turkey Young Translator’s Prize last summer, entry was by translating one of two poems or three prose pieces. Being a glutton for punishment I entered all three prose pieces. This was a surprise. My translation career had only begun less than a year before. I had over ten years of experience going between Turkish and English. Having arrived to live in Turkey without knowing a word of Turkish, my first years were spent working from English into Turkish. Along the line I switched and found myself working the other direction. Visiting friends and family had me working both ways. My start in translation came from a request to proofread an academic paper that included a few paragraphs of Turkish, would I be able to translate them? A heavy sigh, muttering about giving inches and taking miles, I did it. It was stimulating and energizing and above all interesting. I was hooked. I wanted to do more and more. But this was all scientific translation where information was important, where being clear and precise were the most critical features. When I found the Translation Prize competition I was initially wary. Could I do this literary translation? How did it differ from the technical translation? So I was delighted to receive an invitation to Istanbul for Translation Day on November 8 as one of the top prose translators. There were 259 entries from 10 countries. Of these 34 made the longlist and were invited to attend Translation Day, with 22 attending. The Translation Prize was part of the British Council’s efforts to support Turkey as market focus for the 2013 London Book Fair. I found myself standing awkwardly in SALT Galata, a restored Ottoman bank used as a library and cultural centre. I was a little overwhelmed. The waiters were impeccable and the creases on their trousers would have cut silk; they would have been more at home in a foreign investment bank than a cultural centre.


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After a brief introduction to the day we headed for the prose workshop in a room with a view across the Golden Horn to the Süleymaniye Mosque. Sitting at the top of a horseshoe of tables was Maureen Freely, head of the Translators Association of the Society of Authors and best known as translator of Turkey’s Nobel prizewinner, Orhan Pamuk. She immediately put us at ease and got us to introduce ourselves. There were 11 women and 3 men, half of whom were Turkish and half were a mix of American, British and one Irish. Most of the others were studying or had studied either English Literature or Translation in some form. Maureen led us in a discussion of what literary translation is, how it differs from other forms of translation, and mentioned some theories on translation. Her own entry into translation was late and she felt her background as a writer was her greatest asset. We discussed the three pieces briefly. Maureen emphasised that translation should be approached as a piece of literature, taking note of register and setting as well as timing and point of view. Most important of all was rhythm, capturing the music of the piece in translation and using the sound to enhance the sense. Turkish with its agglutinative nature has a very different rhythm than English and that is challenging. Read your translations aloud, was Maureen’s advice, as you should with any piece you write. The first was a story by well-known children’s author Fatih Erdoğan, Fairytale without a Prince, about a boy reading a book. The princess in his book is captured by pirates and is trying to escape. Bora is drawn into the story as he waits at a distributor to get some plates his mother has collected newspaper coupons for. The action is in the book, in Bora’s reaction to it and in his encounters with the situations around him. At several points the action transfers from one setting to another without warning. Bora hears the princess call his name, only to realise it’s his mother calling him. The princess smashes a plate in the book and a small girl on the street drops the plates she’s holding. Separating the action, blending its locations was a challenge. The shifts needed to be smooth. The sentences are short and concise. There are few descriptive clauses that are so common in Turkish. Bora asks questions, forcing the reader to ask them too. His logic is clearly explained. This creates an intimate tone, we are there with Bora,


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lost in the book and standing in a queue. The second was a non-fiction piece, Love – 70’s Style, written by Can Dündar about his memories of love in 1970’s Turkey. He compares the hidden secret love of the old days with the modern cheap and common love. He is speaking to people his own age that remember those days and probably are surprised by the openness of the youth of today. His view is rosy, he thinks the unrequited, unconsummated love of those days was more pure than today. He describes a youth ready to take on the world but unable to openly declare their feelings. The ellipsis is used repeatedly, as it is in many Turkish opinion pieces. The irony of the unsaid being left unsaid in a piece about being unable to say something was obvious. The unsaid is part of Turkish culture where there are often multiple elephants in a room. Dündar is merely noting that what is unsaid may have changed. This is in contrast to the honesty of many Turks where a five-minute conversation may reveal a large part of their life story. The sentences were longer in this piece, with multiple clauses and abstract descriptions. A wonderful sentence that caused me problems included the word “lümpen”. In the sentence Dündar compares songs that revolutionary lovers would sing to their beloved with those the lumpenproletariat would sing. In Turkish “lümpen” means both the Marxist definition of a person without social class awareness but it also means a stranger to the class in which they find themselves who by their talk and actions is pushy and obnoxious. Discussions with Turks of the same generation as Dündar confirmed the second meaning was the sense used in this sentence. So to replicate that meaning keeping the neat comparative form and also reference a poet Nazım Hikmet and a singer Orhan Gencebay was difficult. The third piece was fiction, The Smell of Straw, by İnci Aral. This described a man’s memory of the night of a car crash that killed his wife. We move from the night-time road with spitting rain through the moment of the crash into a horsecart carrying bales of straw, the return of consciousness and death of his wife, to a description of the crash site. We feel his anguish and pain and relive his memories of his short marriage. The sentences vary from short to long and the descriptions are multi-layered and


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rich. Before the crash there is a long description of his wife’s chatter, the road and its surroundings, followed by short sentences describing his happiness and distraction before the action of the crash itself. The emotional response to the piece is immediate and devastating. We feel sympathy for this man though he has just killed his wife. This piece was challenging due to the depth of the descriptions, recreating the images was the highest importance. The piece emphasised all the senses; the smell of the straw thrown from the horse-cart, the coppery taste of death, the image of small blue flowers on a shirt soaking blood, the feel of mud underhand and the sound of the ambulance siren. Keeping the sense, while reproducing the images clearly, was difficult. The description of the pictures painted on the cart, contrasted with the mangled carcass of the horse was stilted in my translation, reading in retrospect. This piece caused great discussion during the prose workshop. Almost everyone had translated it and the discussion was lively compared with rather muted discussions of the other pieces. The winning translation was of this piece too, by John Angliss, who won a trip to the London Book Fair and a mentorship from Maureen Freely. All of the top translations are available as a free ebook from AltKitap called “Yansımalar / Art of Echo” (http://www.altkitap.net/yansimalarartofecho/). Having only just begun my journey in literary translation I am excited and intrigued by what’s ahead. I’ve begun exploring Turkish literature in the months since, reading classic stories by Sait Faik Abasıyanık and Yaşar Kemal, in addition to popular novels such as Sadakat by İnci Aral and Gizli Anların Yolcusu by Ayşe Kulin. I’ve gained a new perspective on my adopted country, its history and its present outlook. There is so much to share with those who don’t know the language; a country’s literature gives a clear reflection of its culture and norms.


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The JoLT Staff Executive Board

Claudio Sansone Kerstina Mortensen Karen Champ Lola Boorman Jessica Bernard Dr. Peter Arnds Editorial Board

Corina Chitic Donal Lyons Maya Zakrzweska-Pim Maria Sukharnikova Brían Ó Fearraigh Xiaoyu Wen

ISSN 2009-6046

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Trinity JoLT - Vol I Issue I - April 2013  

Trinity JoLT - Vol I Issue I

Trinity JoLT - Vol I Issue I - April 2013  

Trinity JoLT - Vol I Issue I

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