Audacity (Vol. 8 No. 2)

TRINITY

VOLUME 8

ISSUE II

JOURNAL OF LITERARY TRANSLATION

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Volume 8 Issue II “Audacity”

ou think writers have it hard? Try being a translator. (Look, I had to open with something true to the theme.) For every writer that comes under fire, there’s a translator getting spit-roasted over it. And I’m not just talking about William Tyndale, the British scholar who was literally burnt at the stake in 1536 for translating the Bible into English. The question of how to translate “correctly” has had theorists at each other’s throats since antiquity. St Jerome was viewed as heretical for his “sense-for-sense” (as opposed to “word-for-word”) translations of the Bible. A zany translation is what ended Vladimir Nabokov’s friendship with fellow writer Edmund Wilson. More recently, there’s been controversy over Deborah Smith’s Man Booker-winning translation of Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, which Charse Yun, writing for The LA Review of Books, criticised as “strikingly different to the original.” In her response, Smith wrote that Yun’s evaluation was “entirely correct.”

It was different to the original: it was a translation.

Translation is an art, not a science, yet some would have you believe that creativity in translation is a cardinal sin. If that’s the case, this issue is full of sinners.

The theme of “audacity” elicited a variety of interpretations from our contributors. Our cover pays homage to one of the most brazen artworks in recent memory, Maurizio Cattelan’s “Comedian”.

Nabokov figures here, in the form of an Irish translation of his shocking novel Lolita; you’ll also find Fyodor Dostoyevsky audaciously asking his wife to bankroll his gambling addiction, and a very brave translation of an extract from Georges Perec’s

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La Disparition, a book that avoids all use of the letter “E”. We also have prose turning into poetry, poetry turning into artwork, and artwork turning into a website (you’ll have to read on to see what I mean). But in a sense, every issue of The Trinity Journal of Literary Translation is audacious. Audacity is baked into the very act of translating.

We want to say thank you to everybody who assisted with the production of this issue, whether by promoting the submissions call, helping out with the editing, or simply providing moral support.

We’re especially grateful to all our submitters—your talent and imagination never fail to amaze us. And, as usual, I’m indebted to the editorial team: Millie, Orlando, Aifric, Sarah and Andrea, as well as to the faculty advisor Dr. Peter Arnds, for their creative input and astounding array of skills and knowledge.

This issue marks the final chapter in this editorial team’s involvement with JoLT. That’s just another reason for the theme: this way we get to go out with a bang.

Clare Healy

Editorial Staff 2019/20 Editor Clare Healy Deputy Editor Millie van Grutten Art Editor Sarah Sturzel

Assistant Editors Orlando Devoy Aifric Doherty Andrea Yang Faculty Advisor Dr Peter Arnds

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Contents Three Mollys artwork by Penny Stuart

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Lolita English-Irish translation

by Aifric Doherty 6

Poem II of Twenty-One Love Poems Intermedial translation

by Sarah Sturzel 34 Hirlas Owain Middle Welsh-English translation

by Orlando Devoy

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Deesis French-English translation

by Harry Hennessy

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Letter to Anna Russian-English translation

by Anastasia Fedosova

The Genius of Audacity German-English translation

by Suzanne Flynn

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Agamemnon (958-74) Ancient Greek-English translation

by Michael MacNulty

The Backbone Croatian-English translation

by Tina Anterić

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The Lorelei German-English translation

by Orlaith Connolly

Rake English-Mandarin translation

by Bowen Yang

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Inferno (canto V), 51-141 Italian-English translation

by Martina Giambanco

Samsarah artwork by Sheila Cullen Selfactually artwork by Penny Stuart

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***Flawless / Phenomenal Woman English-Irish translation

by Seirce Mhac Conghail 26 The Void French-English translation

by Jules Buffet / Ariane Dudych

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The Choice Scottish Gaelic-English translation

by Ross Coleman

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Re-Imagining of “Portrait of a Young Woman as a Wise Virgin” by Sebastiano del Piombo / Being Audacious in 2020 artwork by Celine Delahoy 48 The Histories Ancient Greek-English translation

by Sophie Dibben

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Aeneid Book II, 526-58 Latin-English translation

by Margherita Galli

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The Art of Disappearing English-Irish translation

by Peter Weakliam

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The Voice Due to You Spanish-English translation

by Patricia González Bermúdez

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Tending Toward the Infinite / Susurration artwork by Maya Bushell 62 Notes on Contributors

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Penny Stuart, Three Mollys

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ENGLISH

Lolita Vladimir Nabokov

Lolita, do I need to qualify its relation to Audacity? Probably the naughtiest book in the English language – is that putting things too lightly?

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-leeta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

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IRISH

Audaciously brilliant prose, and quite possibly the best novel introduction of all time. Tá súil agam gur thug mé a cheart dó.

Lolita translated by Aifric Doherty

Lolita, solas mo shaoil, tine mo luanta. Mo pheaca, m’anam. Lólí-ta: los na leideoige in aistear trí chéime go dtí an carbhall le smeach, ar a trí, ar na fiacla. Ló-lí-ta.

Tugadh Ló uirthi, Ló lom, ar maidin, seasta faoi bhun cúig troithe ar airde in aon stoca amháin. Tugadh Lola uirthi i mbríste. Tugadh Dolly uirthi ar scoil. Dolores a tugadh uirthi go hoifigiúil. Ach i mo bhachlainn, ba í Lolita choíche.

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FRENCH

Génie Arthur Rimbaud

This poem was composed by Arthur Rimbaud, a 19th century poet who abandoned his craft at the tender age of twenty. “Génie”, a freeform eulogy in praise of a Christlike figure, delineates his

Il est l’affection et le présent puisqu’il a fait la maison ouverte à l’hiver écumeux et à la rumeur de l’été, lui qui a purifié les boissons et les aliments, lui qui est le charme des lieux fuyants et le délice surhumain des stations. Il est l’affection et l’avenir, la force et l’amour que nous, debout dans les rages et les ennuis, nous voyons passer dans le ciel de tempête et les drapeaux d’extase.

Il est l’amour, mesure parfaite et réinventée, raison merveilleuse et imprévue, et l’éternité: machine aimée des qualités fatales.

Nous avons tous eu l’épouvante de sa concession et de la nôtr : Ô jouissance de notre santé, élan de nos faculties, affection égoïste et passion pour lui, lui qui nous aime pour sa vie infinie…. [...] Sachons, cette nuit d’hiver, de cap en cap, du pôle tumultueux au château, de la foule à la plage, de regards en regards, forces et sentiments las, le héler et le voir, et le renvoyer, et sous les marées et au haut des déserts de neige, suivre ses vues, ses souffles, son corps, son jour.

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ENGLISH titular genius. There is perhaps nothing more audacious than endeavouring to overcome our postlapsarian Total Depravity in union with Christ to achieve ultimate salvation.

Wholly present and affectionate Since kindling his tendered hearth Whether Winter’s roar or Summer’s murmur, The vessel staunched to pacify our fervour, Mystic of the cloisters as the garth, He is the transubstantiate.

Yet affectionate, and yet to be, Lo, streamers of his ecstasy, Which flash and flicker ‘cross the thund’ring sky, And we but blithely glimpse, preoccupied By furies, frets and fusses ‘neath These ardours of our devotee.

He is love which modulates to culminate his cadence, Hark chromatic consonance in perpetuity: Oh petrifying instrument, oh mystic rhapsody!

We’ve imbibed the ichor of his agonising grievance, And too have swilled the

Deesis translated by Harry Hennessy pungent smack of our own bitter brine: Oh, a toast, then, to depravity, our Lust for the divine!

His eyes fixed on our salvation, as we crowd him but to preen, His love for us, in any case, increases exponentially…..

This winter night, from cape to cape, From Polheim squalls to banquet halls, From the serried throng to the shore’s escape, With each gaze held fast in each other’s thrall, Let all passions and all tenderness turn stupefied And behold Him, now hail Him, track his redemptive rise!

From ‘neath the fecund ocean tides To the barren snowcapped heights, Heed his Judgement, his Spirit, his Flesh and his Gore!

Let us follow him through to the day of the Lord.

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RUSSIAN

Письмо Анне Fyodor Dostoevsky

Every genius has a flip side. While reading Fyodor Dostoevsky’s letter to his wife, Anna, one might see an arrogant, presumptuous person and inveterate gambler.

Saxon les Bains.

18 ноября 1867. Понедельник.

Аня, милая, бесценная моя, я все проиграл, все, все! О, Ангел мой, не печалься и не беспокойся! Будь уверена, что теперь настанет, наконец, время, когда я буду достоин тебя и не буду более тебя обкрадывать, как скверный, гнусный вор! Теперь роман, один роман спасет нас, и если б ты знала, как я надеюсь на это! Будь уверена, что я достигну цели и заслужу, твое уважение. Никогда, никогда я не буду больше играть. Точно то же было в 65-м году. Трудно было быть более в гибели, но работа меня вынесла. С любовью и с надеждой примусь за работу, и увидишь, что будет через 2 года.

Теперь же, ангел мой, не беспокойся! Я надеюсь и рвусь к тебе, но до четверга двинуться не в состоянии. И вот почему: узнай все.

Я заложил и кольцо и зимнее пальто и все проиграл. За кольцо и пальто надо будет заплатить 50 франков, и я их выкуплю (увидишь как). Но теперь не в том дело. Теперь три часа пополудни. Через полчаса я подам это письмо и пойду взять на почте твое, если есть (утром толкался на почту – никого там нет, никто не сидит). Таким образом, мое письмо пойдет завтра – или в 5 часов утра, или в одиннадцать – не знаю. Но во всяком случае ты завтра его получишь. Но в [это] отеле за все это врем” я задолжаю, и выехать мне будет нельзя. И потому умоляю тебя, Аня, мой ангел-спаситель: пришли мне, чтоб расплатиться в отеле, 50 франков. Если в среду, утром рано или завтра, во вторник, вечером успеешь послать, то я получу в среду вечером и в четверг, утром, или в 6-м часу вечера, буду у тебя.

Друг мой, не печалься, что я разорил тебя, не мучайся за наше будущее. Я все, все поправлю!

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ENGLISH

Thankfully Anna managed to cure him eventually – in 1871 Dostoevsky played his last card game and never went back to gambling again.

Saxon les Bains.

Letter to Anna translated by Anastasia Fedosova 18th November 1867. Monday

Anya, my darling, my precious Anya, I gambled away everything, everything, everything! Oh, my angel, don’t be saddened or worried! Rest assured, the time when I am worthy of you, when I no longer steal from you like an odious, wicked thief, will come soon! Now the novel, only the novel will save us, and if only you knew how much I hope for that! Rest assured, I will achieve the goal and earn your respect. Never ever will I gamble again! The same thing happened in 1865. It would be hard to be more in difficulty than then, but the work saved me. I will get to work with love and with hope, and you will see what happens in 2 years.

For now, my angel, don’t worry! I hope and I long to see you, but I am not in a position to set off until Thursday. And here is why: may you know everything.

I pawned both the ring and the winter coat and I lost everything.

50 Francs are needed to be paid for the ring and the coat, and I’ll buy them back (you’ll see). But that’s not the point now. Now it is 3pm. In half an hour I’ll submit this letter and go to the post office to get yours, if it is there (I jostled in the post office in the morning, but there was nobody, no one was working). Thus, my letter will be sent tomorrow either at 5am or 11am – I don’t know. Anyway, you will get it tomorrow. However, I won’t be able to check out of the hotel, as I’ll have owed them money by that time. Therefore, I beg you, Anya, my rescuing angel, to send me 50 Francs to pay for the hotel. If you manage to send me the money on Wednesday morning, or tomorrow, on Tuesday evening, I’ll get it on Wednesday night, and then on Thursday morning or before 6pm I’ll be with you.

My friend, don’t be sad that I impoverished you, don’t suffer, thinking of our future. I will fix it, I will fix everything!

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RUSSIAN

Друг мой, я попрошу у Огарева 300 франков до 15-го декабря. Во-первых, он не Герцен, а во-вторых, хоть и тяжело мне это до мучительной боли, – я все-таки не свяжу себя ничем нравственно. Я выговорю это, занимая, я благородно скажу ему. Наконец, он поэт, литератор, у него сердце есть, и кроме того сам он ко мне подходит и ищет во мне, стало быть, уважает меня. Он не откажет мне на эти три недели.

Аня, милая, ради бога, не тревожься! Я теперь здоров, но каково мне будет сидеть до четверга и ждать минуты, когда увидимся! Аня, я недостоин тебя, но прости мне за этот раз. Я еду с крепкой надеждой и, клянусь, обещаю тебе в будущем счастье! Люби только меня, так как и я тебя бесконечно, вечно люблю. Не считай теперешних поступков моих за легкость и за маловесность моей любви. Бог видит, как я сам наказан и как я мучился. Но всего более мучаюсь за тебя. Боюсь, что теперь ты будешь одна (до четверга) тосковать, плакать, мучиться, не будешь беречь себя. Ангел мой святой, Аня, пойми, что я серьезно говорю, что другая жизнь начинается; увидишь меня, наконец, на деле. Спасу и поправлю все. Прошлый раз я приезжал убитый, а теперь надежда в моем сердце, только одна мука – как дожить до четверга! Прощай, мой ангел до свидания, обнимаю и цалую тебя! О, зачем, зачем, я от тебя уехал! Цалую тебя, твои руки и ноги. Твой вечно любящий

Федор Достоевский.

P. S. Деньги пошли так: заверни 50-франковый билет (который достань у менялы) в письмо, вложи в конверт и пошли Saxon les Bains, роste restante, recommande.

P. P. S. Но, ради бога, не горюй, не печалься, как подумаю, что ты заболеешь в эти дни – сердце кровью обольется! И я мог тебя оставить! Не знаю, как и дожить до четверга.

Не подумай, ради Христа, что я буду играть на эти 50 франков. О, ради Христа, не подумай!

Сейчас к тебе. Я потому приеду в шестом часу (а не утром), что здесь, в этом проклятом отеле, никаким образом нельзя добиться, чтоб разбудили в четыре утра.

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ENGLISH

My friend, I’ll ask Ogarev to give me 300 Francs until December 15th. First of all, he is not Herzen; second of all, regardless of how hard it is for me, painfully hard, at least I won’t bind myself morally anyhow. I’ll be honest with him while borrowing the money, I’ll nobly tell him everything.

He is a poet, after all, a writer, he has a heart and, moreover, he is always looking for me himself, thus, he respects me. He won’t refuse me for these three weeks.

Anya, my sweetheart, for God’s sake, don’t worry! I am well now, but what would it feel like to be here until Thursday and wait for the moment when I see you! Anya, I am not worthy of you, but please forgive me this time. I am coming with a strong sense of hope, and I swear, I promise you happiness for the future! Love only me, as I love you endlessly, I love you forever. Don’t consider my deeds as the lightness of my love. God sees how I punished myself, how I suffered. But most of all I suffer for you.

I am afraid that you’ll be alone (until Thursday), that you’ll be yearning, and crying, and tormenting, that you won’t take care of yourself. My holy angel, Anya, trust me, the new life is beginning. You’ll finally see me indeed. I’ll save it, I’ll make it right. Last time I came to you being dead, but now I have hope in my heart. The only torment is how to survive until Thursday! Goodbye my angel! Hugging and kissing you! Oh, for what did I leave you! Kissing you, your hands and feet. Forever loving you, Fyodor Dostoevsky P. S. This is how you should send me the money: wrap a 50-Franc banknote (which you can get from a moneychanger) in a letter, put it inside an envelope and send it to Saxon les Bains, poste restante, recommande.

P. P. S. But for God’s sake don’t grieve, don’t be sad! My heart bleeds when I think that you might get sick in these days. How could I leave you! I don’t know how I should live until Thursday.

For Christ’s sake, don’t think that I’ll gamble these 50 Francs. Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t!

The reason why I’ll come around 6pm on Thursday and not in the morning is that in this damned hotel it’s impossible to make them wake me up at 4am.

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ANCIENT GREEK

ΑΓΑΜΕΜΝΩΝ (958-74) Aeschylus

Κλ.

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The first play of Aeschylus’ Oresteia tells the bloody story of king Agamemnon’s return from Troy. Clytemnestra gives this speech as she urges Agamemnon

ἔστιν θάλασσα — τίς δέ νιν κατασβέσει; τρέφουσα πολλῆς πορφύρας ἰσάργυρον κηκῖδα παγκαίνιστον, εἱμάτων βαφάς. οἶκος δ’ ὑπάρχει τῶνδε σὺν θεοῖς, ἄναξ, ἔχειν· πένεσθαι δ’ οὐκ ἐπίσταται δόμος. πολλῶν πατησμὸν δ’ εἱμάτων ἂν ηὐξάμην, δόμοισι προυνεχθέντος ἐν χρηστηρίοις, ψυχῆς κόμιστρα τῆσδε μηχανωμένη. ῥίζης γὰρ οὔσης φυλλὰς ἵκετ’ ἐς δόμους, σκιὰν ὑπερτείνασα σειρίου κυνός. καὶ σοῦ μολόντος δωματῖτιν ἑστίαν, θάλπος μὲν ἐν χειμῶνι σημαίνει μολόν· ὅταν δὲ τεύχῃ Ζεὺς ἀπ’ ὄμφακος πικρᾶς οἶνον, τότ’ ἤδη ψῦχος ἐν δόμοις πέλει, ἀνδρὸς τελείου δῶμ’ ἐπιστρωφωμένου. Ζεῦ Ζεῦ τέλειε, τὰς ἐμὰς εὐχὰς τέλει· μέλοι δέ τοι σοὶ τῶνπερ ἂν μέλλῃς τελεῖν.

ENGLISH

to enter the palace by treading on the family’s finery — an act of hubris — and in encouraging this audacity Clytemnestra both tempts and seals his fate.

Agamemnon (958-74) translated by Michael MacNulty

Clytemnestra:

There is the sea — who could drain it?

It laps with violet — abundant, silver’s equal, ooze without end — dip-dying our clothes.

The gods are with us, my lord, This house is stocked in store and has no notion of poverty!

Had the prophecies so decreed, I would have offered up more finery to crease underfoot As I planned to buy back your life!

The root, as long as it lives its leaves reach roof — spreading shade in dog-star Sirius’ season.

And you! Coming to the home-hearth You herald warmth coming in winter.

Zeus brings strong-bodied wine from the unripened grape; So the halls are refreshed when their unsullied lord returns.

Fulfil, Zeus, I pray! Fulfil, Zeus, my prayers: See to it as you see fit that all comes to fruition.

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GERMAN

Die Loreley Heinrich Heine

Heine boldly challenges romanticism through irony and hyperbole in this poem, which depicts the Greek myth of the Siren. Due to his Jewish background, Heine’s

Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten, dass ich so traurig bin; ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten, das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.

Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt, und ruhig fließt der Rhein; der Gipfel des Berges funkelt im Abendsonnenschein.

Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet dort oben wunderbar; ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet, sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.

Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme und singt ein Lied dabei; das hat eine wundersame, gewaltige Melodei.

Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe ergreift es mit wildem wWeh; er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe, er schaut nur hinauf in die Höh.

Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen am Ende Schiffer und Kahn; und das hat mit ihrem Singen die Lore-Ley getan.

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ENGLISH

works were banned during the Third Reich. However, Die Loreley was so popular that it overcame eradication and lived on, however written by an “unknown author”.

The Lorelei translated by Orlaith Connolly

I do not know, what should it mean that I am so forlorn?

From my mind I cannot keep, This fairytale of yore.

The air is cool and as it grows dark, The Rhine silently ebbs its course.

Yet the cliff’s summit sparkles In the last of the evening light.

Up yonder perches a maiden So exquisite and sublime Golden jewels all a-glisten, Attending her golden locks.

She grooms her hair with a comb of gold Singing a song all the while of astounding, spellbinding melody By which the skipper in his small ship Is seized with savage woe, He no longer looks upon her rocky reef, But direct into the heavens.

In the end, I believe the waves gobble up both sailor and his barge By virtue of violence of song Of the enchanting Lorelei.

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ITALIAN

Inferno (canto V), 51-141 Dante Alghieri

In the second circle of Hell, Dante and Virgile meet Francesca, who was murdered by her husband after he caught her in an extramarital affair with his brother. Their audac-

[...] “Maestro, chi son quelle genti che l’aura nera sì gastiga?”.

“La prima di color di cui novelle tu vuo’ saper”, mi disse quelli allotta, “fu imperadrice di molte favelle.

A vizio di lussuria fu sì rotta, che libito fé licito in sua legge, per tòrre il biasmo in che era condotta.

Ell’è Semiramìs, di cui si legge che succedette a Nino e fu sua sposa: tenne la terra che ’l Soldan corregge.

L’altra è colei che s’ancise amorosa, e ruppe fede al cener di Sicheo; poi è Cleopatràs lussurïosa.

Elena vedi, per cui tanto reo tempo si volse, e vedi ’l grande Achille, che con amore al fine combatteo.

Vedi Parìs, Tristano”; e più di mille ombre mostrommi e nominommi a dito, ch’amor di nostra vita dipartille.

Poscia ch’io ebbi ’l mio dottore udito nomar le donne antiche e ’ cavalieri, pietà mi giunse, e fui quasi smarrito.

I’ cominciai: “Poeta, volontieri parlerei a quei due che ’nsieme vanno, e paion sì al vento esser leggeri”.

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ENGLISH

ity ultimately rests in the kiss they exchanged as a symbol of their courage in overtly accepting and manifesting their love in the face of all obstacles.

Inferno (canto V), 51-141 translated by Martina Giambanco

[....] “Maestro, who are those people, whom the black air so castigates?”

“The first of those of whom tiding thou wouldst know”, said he then, “the empress was of many languages.

To the vice of lust was she so accustomed, that libido made licit in her law, to remove the blame to which she had been led.

She is Semiramìs, of whom we read That succeeded Ninus and was his spouse: She held the land which now the Sultan holds.

The other is she who killed herself amorous, and broke faith to the ashes of Sichcaeus; next is Cleopatràs the voluptuous.

Helen you see, for whom so much a time of guilt rolled by, and see the great Achilles, who fought with love until the end.

See Parìs, Tristan”; and more than a thousand shadows he showed me and named me with his finger, whom love from our life had separated.

After that I had my doctor heard naming the dames of eld and cavaliers, piety prevailed, and I was almost lost.

I began: “Poet, willingly speak would I to those two who go together, and appear indeed upon the wind to be light.”

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ITALIAN

Ed elli a me: “Vedrai quando saranno più presso a noi; e tu allor li priega per quello amor che i mena, ed ei verranno”.

Sì tosto come il vento a noi li piega, mossi la voce: “O anime affannate, venite a noi parlar, s’altri nol niega!”

Quali colombe dal disio chiamate con l’ali alzate e ferme al dolce nido vegnon per l’aere, dal voler portate; cotali uscir de la schiera ov’è Dido, a noi venendo per l’aere maligno, sì forte fu l’affettüoso grido.

“O animal grazïoso e benigno che visitando vai per l’aere perso noi che tignemmo il mondo di sanguigno, se fosse amico il re de l’universo, noi pregheremmo lui de la tua pace, poi c’ hai pietà del nostro mal perverso.

Di quel che udire e che parlar vi piace, noi udiremo e parleremo a voi, mentre che ’l vento, come fa, ci tace.

Siede la terra dove nata fui su la marina dove ’l Po discende per aver pace co’ seguaci sui.

Amor, ch’al cor gentil ratto s’apprende, prese costui de la bella persona che mi fu tolta; e ‘l modo ancor m’offende.

Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona, mi prese del costui piacer sì forte, che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona.

Amor condusse noi ad una morte.

Caina attende chi a vita ci spense”.

Queste parole da lor ci fuor porte.

20

And he to me: “Thou’lt see when they will be more towards us; and then thou implore them by that love which leadeth them, and they will come.”

ENGLISH

Indeed soon as the wind bends them to us, I uplift my voice: “O weary souls, come speak to us, if no one denies it!”

As doves by desire called, with the wings raised and steady to the sweet nest fly through the air, by their volition led, such coming out from the band where Dido is, coming to us athwart the air malign, so strong was the affectionate cry.

“O pretty animal and benign Who visiting goest through the gloomy air us who have stained the world of blood-red, if the king of the universe was a friend, we would pray him for thy peace, since thou hast pity of our woe perverse.

Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak, we will hear and speak to you, while the wind, as it now, hushes.

Sitteth the land where born was I, upon the sea-shore where the Po descends to have peace with all his retinue.

Amor, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize, took this man for the beautiful person that was ta’en from me; and the mode still offends me.

Amor, which absolves from loving none that’s loved, seized me of this man’s pleasure so strong, that, as thou seest, yet doth not abandon me.

Amor has conducted us unto one death.

Caina waiteth who quenched our life”.

These words from them were offered to us.

21

ITALIAN

Quand’io intesi quell’anime offense, china’ il viso, e tanto il tenni basso, fin che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”.

Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso, quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio menò costoro al doloroso passo!”.

Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io, e cominciai: “Francesca, i tuoi martìri a lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.

Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri, a che e come concedette amore che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?”.

E quella a me: “Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice ne la miseria; e ciò sa ‘l tuo dottore.

Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto, dirò come colui che piange e dice.

Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse; soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.

Per più fïate li occhi ci sospinse quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso; ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.

Quando leggemmo il disïato riso esser basciato da cotanto amante, questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante.

Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse: quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante”.

Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse, l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade io venni men così com’io morisse.

E caddi come corpo morto cade.

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When I heard those offended souls, I bowed my face and so long held it down, until the poet said to me: “What thinkest?”

ENGLISH

When I answered, I began: “Alas, how many sweet thoughts, how much desire conducted these unto the dolorous pass!”

Then I turned to them and I spoke, and I began: “Francesca, your martyrdoms sad and pious to weeping make me.

But tell me: at the time of the sweet sighs, by what and how Amor conceded that you knew your dubious desires?”

And she to me: “No greater sorrow than remembering the happy time in misery; and that thy teacher knows.

But if to know the first root Of our love thou hast so great affection, I will tell the way of he who weeps and speaks.

We were reading one day for our delight of Launcelot how love tied him; alone we were and without any suspect.

For many times our eyes together drew that reading, and drove the colour from our faces; but only one point was it that o’ercame us.

When we read of the longed-for smile Being kissed by such a lover, this one, who ne’er from me shall not be divided, my mouth kissed all trembling.

Galeotto was the book and who wrote it: that day no farther did we read therein.

While one spirit this said, the other was weeping; so that for pity I swooned as if I was dying.

And I fell as dead body falls.

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24

Sheila Cullen, Samsarah

Penny Stuart, Selfactually

25

ENGLISH

***Flawless / Phenomenal Woman Beyonce / Maya Angelou

You wake up, flawless Post up, flawless Ridin’ round in it, flawless Flossin on that, flawless This diamond, flawless My diamond, flawless This rock, flawless My Roc, flawless I woke up like this I woke up like this We flawless, ladies tell ‘em I woke up like this I woke up like this We flawless, ladies tell ‘em Say I, look so good tonight God damn, God damn Say I, look so good tonight God damn, God damn, God damn

26

These two pieces appear as one due to the direct similarities in both their audacious styles and content, pertaining to the celebration

Now you understand Just why my head’s not bowed.

I don’t shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing, It ought to make you proud.

I say, It’s in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need for my care. ’Cause I’m a woman Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman, That’s me.

IRISH

of the bodies and spirits of two truly groundbreaking African American artists. They are both equally rousing and tonnes of fun.

Ar d’éirí, foirfe Ag baint fút, foirfe Sa charr agat, foirfe Ag cur maise air, foirfe An seoid seo, foirfe Mo sheoid-se, foirfe An stór, foirfe Mo Stór, foirfe Mhúscailíos mar seo, mhúscailíos mar seo Muid foirfe, ‘mhná insígí Mhúscailíos mar seo, mhúscailíos mar seo Muid foirfe, ‘mhná insígí Deir “Táim-se im’ stá anocht” In ainm Dé Deir “Táim-se im’ stá anocht” In aimn Dé!

***Foirfe / Bean Chreathnach translated by Seirce Mhac Conghail

Anois a thuigin sibh Síneadh ard mo chean Easpa fearga im’ fhonn Gan gá dom faic a rá de scread.

‘S mé ag gabháil thar bráid, Bígí bródúil mar is ceart.

Deirim-se, Is i smeach mo sháile atá sé, I gcúb mo ghruaige, I mbas mo láimhe Riachtanas m’aird-se.

Mar gur bean mé, Bean chreathnach.

Creathbhean, Mo bheannacht.

27

FRENCH

La Disparition Georges Perec

L’Oulipo, a Parisian writing group, is famous for pushing writing to its limits by playing with constraint. In this work, author Georges Perec

Anton Voyl Qui d’abord, a l’air d’un roman jadis fait où il s’agissait d’un individu qui dormait tout son saoul.

Anton Voyl n’arrivait pas à dormir. Il alluma. Son Jaz marquait minuit vingt. Il poussa un profond soupir, s’assit dans son lit, s’appuyant sur son polochon. Il prit un roman, il l’ouvrit, il lut ; mais il n’y saisissait qu’un imbroglio confus, il butait à tout instant sur un mot dont il ignorait la signification.

Il abandonna son roman sur son lit. Il alla à son lavabo ; il mouilla un gant qu’il passa sur son front, sur son cou. Son pouls battait trop fort. Il avait chaud. Il ouvrit son vasistas, scruta la nuit. Il faisait doux. Un bruit indistinct montait du faubourg. Un carillon, plus lourd qu’un glas, plus sourd qu’un tocsin, plus profond qu’un bourdon, non loin, sonna trois coups. Du canal Saint-Martin, un clapotis plaintif signalait un chaland qui passait.

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ENGLISH

voluntarily omits this fifth out of twenty-six symbols, that many say is vital to writing.

What is this, if not audacity?

The Void translated by Jules Buffet/Ariane Dudych

Anton Voyl Which, at first, looks as a book writ long ago, about an individual who naps his fill.

Anton Voyl can’t drop off, and puts his light on. His Jaz clock shows half past midnight. With a big sigh, Anton sits up on his bunk, propping his body on his pillow; taking a book, unfurling it, thumbs through it, grasping but a blurry imbroglio out of it, always stumbling upon a word of which all signification is unknown to him.

Abandoning his book on his bunk, Anton walks to his sink, damps a washcloth and rubs it on his brow, on his throat. His blood is throbbing too strongly, it is too hot for him. Anton lifts his fanlight, gazing into a warm night. An indistinct sound climbs up from his district. A carillon tolls – no tocsin or gong or bourdon bongs as profoundly as its vast, throbbing sound – tolls, and again, and again. From Canal Saint-Martin, a pitiful lapping signals a narrowboat on its way.

29

FRENCH

Sur l’abattant du vasistas, un animal au thorax indigo, à l’aiguillon safran, ni un cafard, ni un charançon, mais plutôt un artison, s’avançait, traînant un brin d’alfa. Il s’approcha, voulant l’aplatir d’un coup vif, mais l’animal prit son vol, disparaissant dans la nuit avant qu’il ait pu l’assaillir.

Il tapota d’un doigt un air martial sur l’oblong châssis du vasistas.

Il ouvrit son frigo mural, il prit du lait froid, il but un grand bol. Il s’apaisait. Il s’assit sur son cosy, il prit un journal qu’il parcourut d’un air distrait. Il alluma un cigarillo qu’il fuma jusqu’au bout quoiqu’il trouvât son parfum irritant. Il toussa.

Il mit la radio : un air afro-cubain fut suivi d’un boston, puis un tango, puis un fox-trot, puis un cotillon mis au goût du jour. Dutronc chanta du Lanzmann, Barbara un madrigal d’Aragon, Stich-Randall un air d’Aida. Il dut s’assoupir un instant, car il sursauta soudain. La radio annonçait : « Voici nos informations. »

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ENGLISH

On his windowsill, an animal with a bluish thorax, not a cockroach, not an ant, but actually a curculio, is inching forward, trailing halfah grass in its jaws. Anton draws in, wanting to swiftly squash it flat, but it lifts off, flying away into dusk prior to his attack.

His hand taps a military march onto windowsill wood. Prying his built-in minibar ajar, taking out cold milk, Anton pours and drinks a bowlful. This calms him down. Anton sits down on his couch, grabs a journal and scans it nonchalantly; lights a cigarillo, smoking it through although its aroma is irritating to him. A cough.

Anton turns on his radio: out pours an Afro-Cuban air, a boston follows, a tango, a fox-trot, a stylish cotillion follow. Dutronc sings Lanzmann, Barbara a madrigal by Aragon, Stitch-Randall an aria from Aida. Anton springs up with a start – dozing off, possibly. A broadcast plays on his radio: “And now, your daily information.”

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SCOTTISH GAELIC

An Roghainn Somhairle MacGill-Eain

Choisich mi cuide ri mo thuigse a-muigh ri taobh a’ chuain; bha sinn còmhla ach bha ise a’ fuireach tiotan bhuam.

An sin thionndaidh i ag ràdha: a bheil e fìor gun cual’ thu gu bheil do ghaol geal àlainn a’ pòsadh tràth Diluain?

Bhac mi ‘n cridhe bha ‘g èirigh ‘nam bhroilleach reubte luath is thubhairt mi: tha mi cinnteach; carson bu bhreug e bhuam?

Ciamar a smaoinichinn gun glacainn an rionnag leugach òir, gum beirinn oirre ‘s gun cuirinn i

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This poem comes from the cycle Dáin Do Eimhir (Poems for Eimhir) chronicling the poet’s unrequited love for his Muse. In this poem, the poet

gu ciallach ‘na mo phòc?

Cha d’ ghabh mise bàs croinnceusaidh an èiginn chruaidh na Spàinn is ciamar sin bhiodh dùil agam ri aon duais ùir an dàin?

Cha do lean mi ach an t-slighe chrìon bheag ìosal thioram thlàth, is ciamar sin a choinnichinn ri beithir-theine ghràidh?

Ach nan robh ‘n roghainn rithist dhomh ‘s mi ‘m sheasamh air an àird, leumainn à neamh no iutharna le spiorad ‘s cridhe slàn.

ENGLISH

is berating himself for his lack of audacity but says that if he had the chance, he’d do anything to win his love.

Out with my reason I walked by the shore Together we were But she staying a few feet away Then she turned Said: “Have you heard Your lovely bright love Is to be married Monday?”

I checked the heart Boiling in my torn breast: “Of course I know.

Why the hell should I lie about it Why should I think That I could catch that bright star and put it safe in my pocket?”

The Choice translated by Ross Coleman

I did not die a soldier’s death in Spain And thus how should I expect The glossy prize of poetry?

For what path did I follow but The dry path The gentle path Lukewarm, Thus do I deserve To be dashed by the thunderbolt of love?

But, If I had the choice again, Standing on a height I’d leap from heaven or hell With a pure spirit and a pure heart.

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INTERMEDIAL TRANSLATION

Poem II of TwentyOne Love Poems Adrienne Rich

Rich’s poem is a proclamation of love and intimacy between two women. My translation seeks to visually translate Rich’s creative process and the bright tenderness that she finds in love.

I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.

Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other, you’ve been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed: our friend the poet comes into my room where I’ve been writing for days, drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere, and I want to show her one poem which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate, and wake. You’ve kissed my hair to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem, I say, a poem I wanted to show someone… and I laugh and fall dreaming again of the desire to show you to everyone I love, to move openly together in the pull of gravity, which is not simple, which carries the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.

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Sarah Sturzel, ♥

35

MIDDLE WELSH

Hirlas Owain Owain Cyfeiliog

In bardic style, this 12th-century poem sings of the courageous (historical) heroic deeds performed

by Owain’s men to recuperate territories and authority in midWales whence he had unduly

Dywallaw di’r corn i’r cynifiaid, Canawon Owain, cyngrain cydnaid.

Wynt a ddyrllyddant, yn lle honnaid, Glud, men ydd ânt, gloyw hëyrn ar naid.

Madawg a Meilyr, gwyr gorddyfnaid Trais, tros gyferwyr gyferbyniaid; Taranogion torf, terfysg ddysgaid; Trinheion faon, traws arddwyaid.

Ciglau am dâl medd myned haid - Gatraeth, Cywir eu harfaeth, arfau llifaid.

Cosgordd Fynyddawg, am ei cysgaid Cawsant eu hadrawdd, casflawdd flaeniaid.

Ni waeth wnaeth fy nghydwyr yng ngraid - Faelawr Ddillwng carcharawr, ddyllest folaid.

Dywallaw di, fenestr, fedd hidlaid - melys, O gyrn buelin balch oreuraid.

Ergyrayw gwrys gochwys yn rhaid, Er gobryn bobrwy gwerth eu henaid.

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ENGLISH been ousted. The poet celebrates and commemorates warriors and fallen heroes through inviting the cupbearer to pour drinking horns of mead to the health/memory of those who put their lives on the line.

The Drinking Horn of Owain translated by Orlando Devoy

A drinking horn, a libation, pour, To honour comrades fallen, Kindred to Owain, Finding silent shelter, Beneath both familiar And hostile ground.

Wind rushing behind bowshot, And flashes of steel, The faithful Bard records.

Madoe here, mighty Meilir there, Sent Saxon hordes to their end.

Their drink was mead, Their hearts were faithful, Blades ground sharp.

But the indomitable defenders Of Owain do make the world give way.

Then pour sweet mead until the strain, No strife in time of rest, While brave spear is red in hour of need, And provide for each departed spirit, For the honour and renown He does truly deserve.

37

GERMAN

Dem Genius der Kühnheit Friedrich Hölderlin

This extract (stanzas 2, 3 and 4) from Friedrich Hölderlin’s poem “Dem Genius der Kühnheit” exemplifies

Einst war, wie mir, der stille Funken Zu freier heitrer Flamme dir erwacht, Du braustest so, von junger Freude trunken, Voll Übermuts durch deiner Wälder Nacht, Als von der Meisterin, der Not, geleitet, Dein ungewohnter Arm die Keule schwang, Und drohend sich, vom ersten Feind erbeutet, Die Löwenhaut um deine Schulter schlang. Wie nun in jugendlichem Kriege Heroënkraft mit der Natur sich maß!

Ach! wie der Geist, vom wunderbaren Siege Berauscht, der armen Sterblichkeit vergaß!

Die stolzen Jünglinge! die kühnen!

Sie legten froh dem Tiger Fesseln an, Sie bändigten, von staunenden Delphinen Umtanzt, den königlichen Ozean.

Oft hör’ ich deine Wehre rauschen, Du Genius der Kühnen! und die Lust, Den Wundern deines Heldenvolks zu lauschen, Sie stärkt mir oft die lebensmüde Brust; Doch weilst du freundlicher um stille Laren, Wo eine Welt der Künstler kühn belebt, Wo um die Majestät des Unsichtbaren Ein edler Geist der Dichtung Schleier webt.

38

ENGLISH

feelings of audaciousness using natural imagery and poetic language to engage the reader.

The Genius of Audacity translated by Suzanne Flynn

There was like me, a silent spark Awakened to a free and bright flame You were breezing like that, drunk with youthful joy, Full of mischief through your woods at night As led by the female master, the necessity, Your arm, not used to swinging the club, And threatening, captured by the first enemy, The lion’s skin wrapped around your shoulder.

As now in youthful warfare, Heroic strength measured by nature itself!

Ah! Like the spirit, from wonderful victory Intoxicated, who has forgotten poor mortality!

The proud youths! The bold!

They gladly put the tiger in chains, They are tamed, by marvelling dolphins Dancing around the royal ocean.

I often hear your weirs swishing, You genius of boldness! And of lust, To listen to the wonders of your heroic people, It often strengthens my breast, weary of life; but thou art kinder to quiet lares, Where a world of artists boldly revives, Where the majesty of the invisible A noble spirit of poetry weaves veils.

39

CROATIAN

Kičma Dorta Jagić

“Kičma” is a short story from the collection of the same name written by the Croatian author Dorta Jagić, published in 2014. It is a story

U Kini. Vele znalci da se prave kičme mogu naći još samo u Kini, i to zimi ispod debelog leda. Poslije tajnih krštenja noću, na rijeci Yun. Tamo kičme mirišu na propupale izraelske smokve. I griju srca, cijelu iscrpljenu zemlju. Kao da nisu kičme, već zapaljene baklje u noći. Tihih pršljenova, blago zavijene. Vitke, svete konstrukcije, blještavo bijele za odrasle i za djecu. Ne krckaju ni kad u njih zapuše vrući crni vjetar.

Pa ipak, zabilježeno je da se i takve kičme ponekad rastope.

Ovdje naše kičme opojno mirišu na gradilišta, zavarivanje željeza i opeku. Ljeti se nekima s pršljenova u hodu osipa fina crvena prašina, kao cimet.

U Vatikanu je kičma štap za goste u vitrini. U Moskvi je sportsko violončelo. U pustinji je progutani kišobran. I u meni isto. Ponekad me velika drška u ustima zasmeta prije tonuća u san. A sve su kičme, i ovdje i tamo, uvijek samo debele koštane trske s besmrtnim škampom koji sve vidi iznutra.

Znam samo da svatko treba nositi svoju kičmu. Osobito u posljednje vrijeme, jednu kičmu za po doma i za grad. Za tržnicu, za tramvaj, za općinu.

Kičmu nehrđajuću, crnu, iskuhanu. Onu koja sja na mjesečini. Kičmu svjesnu svega. Mudru. Niklu iz betona, bez doticaja s puževom sluzi. Britku, visoku. Tvrdu, snježnu, išibanu vjetrom. Nazubljenu. Mrku, ipak ranjivu, plačljivu na perje i nedotaknutu kožu.

Kičmu na zapovijedanje. Na navijanje, slaganje i rastavljanje. Kičmu kao jarbol, morski kolac. Kao jelku. Kao telegrafsko koplje.

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ENGLISH

that offers a reflection on the question of courage in today’s world through reduced narration and condensed metaphorical expression.

The Backbone translated by Tina Anterić

In China. The connoisseurs say that the real backbones can nowadays only be found in China, in the winter, under the thick layer of ice. After the secret baptisms in the night, on the River Yun. The backbones smell of the budding Israeli figs there. And they warm up the hearts, the entire drained earth.

As if they are not the backbones, but the burning torches in the night. Of the silent vertebrae, slightly curved. Of the slim, holy structure, shiny white for the grown-ups and for the children.

They don’t crack, not even when the hot black wind blows into them.

And still, it’s been noted that even such backbones sometimes melt.

Here, our backbones have the intoxicating aroma of construction sites, of iron welding and of bricks. In the summer, as they go along, some of them shed fine red cinnamon-like dust off their vertebrae.

In the Vatican, the backbone is a stick for the guests in the showcase. In Moscow, it’s a sport’s cello. In a desert, a swallowed umbrella. In me as well. Sometimes its big handle in my mouth annoys me before I fall asleep. But all the backbones, both here and there, are always just thick boney canes with the immortal shrimp which sees everything inside.

I only know that everyone needs to carry its own backbone. Especially recently, one backbone to have at home and in town. In the marketplace, on a tram, in the town hall.

A stainless, black, boiled backbone. One that shines in the moonlight. A backbone aware of everything. Wise. Sprouted from the concrete, untouched by the snail slime. Sharp, tall.

Hard, snowy, beaten by the wind. Serrated. Scowling, yet vulnerable, weepy around the feathers and the untouched skin.

41

CROATIAN

Već po potrebi, rasporedivu u išibani križ po podu, u goruću zvijezdu na stropu.

Kičmu punu guste atmosfere. Punu dobrih vijesti. Punu želje, želje, želje. Do vratnog kralješka napunjenu kolektivnim pamćenjem svih voljenih ljudi.

U takvoj je kičmi zastava. Vijori. Podiže se onim poznanicima na cesti punima tjeskobnoga graha, zamotanima u požutjele zastore. Oni se smiješe, i posrću preko svake sjene.

Klimavi su, u leđima imaju prazno mjesto. Ne smiju ni tući ni ljubiti. Moraju se čuvati svakog napora. Na licu im se vidi krevet. Mirišu na mokru zemlju.

U kičmi je sol i sja neonsko svjetlo.

Ljudi s dobrom kičmom su čisti, prozračni, pometeni.

Bole ih ruke od ljubavi. Nisu u sebi podstanari, već stanodavci.

Nemaju zelena lica i voštane nokte, zube prevarene kuje.

Ne gutaju metke ujutro nakon umivanja kao tablete protiv glavobolje. Nemaju lažne adrese i slomljene kišobrane, nepreboljene šamare i zalupljena vrata. Umiju razdvajati poljupce od poljubaca, vode od voda. Kartaju belu dok igraju poker i svemu se nadaju, sve vjeruju. Krvare kada ima mjesta vani, jer kad krvare jako rastu. Zubima kopaju komunikacijske kanale. Ne izrezuju si mnogo prostora iz mesa zatvorenog čovjeka. Radije čekaju. Stalno vide Božji oblik ruže. Ne boje se biti tihi u golome mraku. Mirišu na sunce.

Srca u srcu su im krvava, teško ih je razgledati do zadnje postaje. Imaju dobru kičmu, a nisu nikada bili u Kini. Nema potrebe.

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ENGLISH

A command-to backbone. A wind-up one, an assemble and dismantle one. A backbone like a mast, a pole. Like a Christmas tree. Like a telegraph spear.

As needed, arangeable as a flogged cross on the floor, a burning star on the ceiling.

A backbone full of thick atmosphere. Full of good news.

Full of desire, desire, desire. Up to the cervical vertebrae filled with the collective memory of all the loved people.

In that kind of a backbone is a flag. Flying. It hails the familiar faces in the street, who are full of anxious beans, wrapped up in yellowed curtains. They smile, and stumble over every shadow. They are wobbly, they have an empty spot in their backs. They are not allowed to hit or to kiss. They have to keep away from any effort. On their faces a bed can be seen.

They smell of wet dirt.

In the backbone, there is salt and a neon light shines.

People with a good backbone are clean, ethereal, swept.

Their arms hurt out of love. They are not their own tenants, but landlords. They don’t have green faces and pasty nails, nor the teeth of a tricked bitch. They don’t swallow bullets as headache pills after washing in the morning. They don’t have fake addresses and broken umbrellas, unsurpassed slaps and slammed doors. They know how to distinguish kisses from kisses, waters from waters. They play belote while playing poker and hope for everything, believe everything. They bleed when there is space out there, because when they bleed they grow a lot. They dig the communication channels with their teeth. They don’t cut out a lot of space for themselves out of the flesh of a closed-up man. They rather wait. They continually see the God’s form of a rose. They are not afraid to be quiet in the naked darkness. They smell of the sun.

The hearts within their hearts are bleeding, it’s hard to look at them until the last stop. They have a good backbone, and they have never been to China. No need.

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ENGLISH

Rake Townes van Zandt

These lyrics were written by American singer-songwriter Townes van Zandt and appeared on his album Delta Momma Blues (1971). The song is a rewriting of the Spanish myth of Don Juan,

I used to wake and run with the moon I lived like a rake and a young man I covered my lovers with flowers and wounds My laughter the devil would frighten The sun she would come and beat me back down But every cruel day had its nightfall I’d welcome the stars with wine and guitars Full of fire and forgetful My body was sharp, the dark air clean And outrage my joyful companion Whispering women how sweet they did seem Kneeling for me to command them And time was like water but I was the sea I’d have never noticed it passing Except for the turning of night into day And the turning of day into cursing

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MANDARIN which narrated the confession of an audacious man, a charming but incorrigible heartbreaker ever indulging himself in feasting and pleasure-seeking.

浪子

translated by Bowen Wang (王博文)

我常醒于月下，逐其奔跑 像一介青年浪子 眷恋花丛，却留以伤痛 我的笑声令恶魔惧悚 旭日初升，四射的艳阳将我驱赶 直到黄昏降至，末日终结 我以美酒声乐，献邀辰星 璀璨如火，以乐忘忧 我棱角分明的身体，在阴暗中扫过 并蹂躏着我愉悦的侣伴 低语娇喘的女人，美艳娇好 匍伏着恳求我的号令 我乃汪洋一片 无视岁月如细水般流淌 直至夜色将尽，黎明渐起 白昼化为声声诅咒

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ENGLISH

You look at me now and don’t think I don’t know What all of your eyes are a-saying Does he want us to believe these ravings and lies?

They’re just tricks that his brain’s been a-playing A lover of women he can’t hardly stand He trembles he’s bent and he’s broken I’ve fallen it’s true but I say unto you Hold your tongues until after I’ve spoken I was taking my pride in the pleasures I’d known I laughed and thought I’d be forgiven But my laughter turned ‘round eyes blazing and said My friend, we’re holding a wedding I buried my face but it spoke once again The night to the day we’re a-binding And now the dark air is like fire on my skin And even the moonlight is blinding.

MANDARIN

你直视于我，洞穿一切 满眼尽叙着： 凭何叫人信他这谰言诳语 不过是工于心计的把戏 女人的情夫，颓然不能立 他颤抖着，蜷曲着，几不成形 是的，我倒下了，但我要告诉你—— 别出声，且听我说 及时为乐，我难掩自豪 纵声大笑，想着会被宽恕 但那灼灼的目光却说着： 我的朋友，这儿正有一场新婚 我不由掩面，却不敌它反复絮说 夜尽昼出，我们灵肉相合 如火的阴霾，炙烤着我的皮肤 以至此时月光，分外灼人

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Celine Delahoy, A Re-Imagining of “Portrait of a Young Woman as a Wise Virgin” by Sebastiano del Piombo

Celine Delahoy, Being Audacious in 2020 49

ANCIENT GREEK

Ἱστορίαι

Herodotus

This piece demonstrates the audacity of all three characters. Candaules compels his bodyguard to see his mistress naked, transgressing a sacred custom in Ancient Greece. Gyges is audacious enough to take the

οὗτος δὴ ὦν ὁ Κανδαύλης ἠράσθη τῆς ἑωυτοῦ γυναικός, ἐρασθεὶς δὲ ἐνόμιζέ οἱ εἶναι γυναῖκα πολλὸν πασέων καλλίστην. ὥστε δὲ ταῦτα νομίζων, ἦν γάρ οἱ τῶν αἰχμοφόρων Γύγης ὁ Δασκύλου ἀρεσκόμενος μάλιστα, τούτῳ τῷ Γύγῃ καὶ τὰ σπουδαιέστερα τῶν πρηγμάτων ὑπερετίθετο ὁ Κανδαύλης καὶ δὴ καὶ τὸ εἶδος τῆς γυναικὸς ὑπερεπαινέων. χρόνου δὲ οὐ πολλοῦ διελθόντος

(χῆν γὰρ Κανδαύλῃ γενέσθαι κακῶς). ἔλεγε πρὸς τὸν Γύγην τοιάδε. ‘Γύγη, οὐ γὰρ σε δοκέω πείθεσθαι μοι λέγοντι περὶ τοῦ εἴδεος τῆς γυναικός (ὦτα γὰρ τυγχάνει ἀνθρώποισι ἐόντα ἀπιστότερα ὀφθαλμῶν, ποίεε ὅκως ἐκείνην θεήσεαι γυμνήν.’ ὃ δ᾽ ἀμβώσας εἶπε ‘δέσποτα, τίνα λέγεις λόγον οὐκ ὑγιέα, κελεύων με δέσποιναν τὴν ἐμὴν θεήσασθαι γυμνήν; ἅμα δὲ κιθῶνι ἐκδυομένῳ συνεκδύεται καὶ τὴν αἰδῶ γυνή. ’ πάλαι δὲ τὰ καλὰ ἀνθρώποισι ἐξεύρηται, ἐκ τῶν μανθάνειν δεῖ: ἐν τοῖσι ἓν τόδε ἐστί, σκοπέειν τινὰ τὰ ἑωυτοῦ. ἐγὼ δὲ πείθομαι ἐκείνην εἶναι πασέων γυναικῶν καλλίστην, καὶ σέο δέομαι μὴ δέεσθαι ἀνόμων.

ὃ μὲν δὴ λέγων τοιαῦτα ἀπεμάχετο, ἀρρωδέων μὴ τί οἱ ἐξ αὐτῶν γένηται κακόν, ὃ δ᾽ ἀμείβετο τοῖσιδε. ‘θάρσεε, Γύγη, καὶ μὴ φοβεῦ μήτε ἐμέ, ὡς σέο πειρώμενος λέγω λόγον τόνδε, μήτε γυναῖκα τὴν ἐμήν, μὴ τὶ τοι ἐξ αὐτῆς γένηται βλάβος. ἀρχήν γὰρ ἐγὼ μηχανήσομαι οὕτω ὥστε μηδέ μαθεῖν μιν ὀφθεῖσαν ὑπὸ σεῦ. : ἐγὼ γάρ σε ἐς τὸ οἴκημα ἐν τῷ κοιμώμεθα ὄπισθε τῆς ἀνοιγομένης θύρης στήσω. μετὰ δ᾽ ἐμὲ ἐσελθόντα παρέσται καὶ ἡ γυνὴ ἡ ἐμὴ ἐς κοῖτον. κεῖται δὲ ἀγχοῦ τῆς ἐσόδου θρόνος: ἐπὶ τοῦτον τῶν ἱματίων κατὰ ἕν ἕκαστον ἐκδύνουσα θήσει, καὶ κατ᾽ ἡσυχίην πολλὴν παρέξει τοι θεήσασθαι. ἐπεὰν δέ ἀπὸ τοῦ θρόνου στείχῃ ἐπὶ τὴν εὐνήν κατὰ νώτου τε αὐτῆς γένῃ, σοὶ μελέτω τὸ ἐνθεῦτεν ὅκως μὴ σε ὄψεται ἰόντα διὰ θυρέων.’ ὃ μὲν δὴ ὡς οὐκ ἐδύνατο διαφυγεῖν, ἦν ἕτοιμος: 50

ENGLISH easier road between two evils, he can either die by law or survive by becoming a tyrant. Candaules’ wife, a nameless figure, but immensely bold, demonstrates that women can be agents over men.

The Histories translated by Sophie Dibben

Once upon a time, a man named Candaules, the present King of Lydia, fell madly in love with his own wife. And so in love with her was he that he believed her to be by far the most beautiful woman in the world.

So maintaining this judgment, he praised her beauty beyond measure to Gyges, son of Dascylus, who was his absolute favourite bodyguard.

He confided in Gyges the most significant secrets. Now, after not too much time has passed, Candaules, for he was doomed to debacle, spoke to Gyges with these words: “Gyges, it does not seem sufficient to me that you can only believe the words I state about the beauty of my wife.

It is often the case that men place more faith in their eyes, so I can only conclude that you must behold her naked!”

But hearing things of such a kind, Gyges protested loudly, afraid in case some evil should come to him from it. So he replied this, “Master, let’s be honest, that is quite a silly suggestion, that I should see my mistress naked! For at the same time as a robe is removed, a woman removes her chastity. Long ago, noble things have been discovered by virtuous men, rules have been established, which are necessary to learn. This is one you should perhaps re-examine, one should see only what is your own possession. I take your word that your queen is the most beautiful of all women, but please, I ask you not to ask me to do something that is lawless.” Gyges tried to resist this ridiculous request: he was terrified of the impending disaster that would inevitably occur.

But Candaules pulled out of the bag some persuasive rhetoric; “Have courage, Gyges, and do not fear me, or that you will have any harm from my wife. I have already contrived a plan, a plan which means she will not learn that she has been a spectacle. I shall arrange it so you stand in the spot where we sleep, and you can creep alongside me and into the bedroom. There lies a special chair at the entrance. From there, she will undress her clothes, and in utter silence, the sight will be granted to you. Wherever she walks, you’ll be behind her. Just really 51

ANCIENT GREEK

ὁ δὲ Κανδαύλης, ἐπεὶ ἐδόκεε ὥρη τῆς κοίτης εἶναι, ἤγαγε τὸν Γύγεα ἐς τὸ οἴκημα. καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα αὐτίκα παρῆν καὶ ἡ γυνή. ἐσελθοῦσαν δὲ καὶ τιθεῖσαν τὰ εἵματα ἐθηεῖτο ὁ Γύγης. τότε μὲν δὴ οὕτω οὐδέν δηλώσασα ἡσυχίην εἶχε. ὡς δὲ κατὰ νώτου ἐγένετο ἰούσης τῆς γυναικός ἐς τὴν κοίτην, ὑπεκδὺς ἐχώρεε ἔξω, καὶ ἡ γυνὴ ἐπορᾷ μιν ἐξιόντα. μαθοῦσὰ δὲ τὸ ποιηθέν ἐκ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς οὔτε ἀνέβωσε αἰσχυνθεῖσα οὔτε ἔδοξε μαθεῖν, ἐν νοῶ ἔχουσα τίσεσθαι τὸν Κανδαύλεα. παρὰ γὰρ τοῖσι Λυδοῖσι, σχεδὸν δὲ καὶ παρὰ τοῖσι ἄλλοισι βαρβάροισι καὶ ἄνδρα ὀφθῆναι γυμνόν ἐς αἰσχύνην μεγάλην φέρει. ὡς δὲ ἡμέρη τάχιστα ἐγεγόνεε, τῶν οἰκετέων τοὺς μάλιστα ὥρα πιστοὺς ἐόντας ἑωυτῇ, ἑτοίμους ποιησαμένη ἐκάλεε τὸν Γύγεα.

ὁ δὲ οὐδὲν δοκέων αὐτήν τῶν πρηχθέντων ἐπίστασθαι ἦλθε καλεόμενος: ἐώθεε γὰρ καὶ πρόσθε, ὅκως ἡ βασίλεια καλέοι, φοιτᾶν. ὡς δὲ ὁ Γύγης ἀπίκετο, ἔλεγε ἡ γυνὴ τάδε. ‘νῦν τοί δυῶν ὁδῶν παρεουσέων Γύγη δίδωμί αἵρεσιν, ὁκοτέρην βούλεαι τραπέσθαι. ἢ γὰρ Κανδαύλεα ἀποκτείνας ἐμέ τε καὶ τὴν βασιληίην ἔχε τὴν Λυδῶν, ἢ αὐτόν σε αὐτίκα οὕτω ἀποθνήσκειν δεῖ, ὡς ἂν μὴ πάντα πειθόμενος Κανδαύλῃ τοῦ λοιποῦ ἴδῃς τὰ μὴ σε δεῖ. ’ ἀλλ᾽ ἤτοι κεῖνόν γε τὸν ταῦτα βουλεύσαντα δεῖ ἀπόλλυσθαι, ἢ σε τὸν ἐμὲ γυμνήν θεησάμενον καὶ ποιήσαντα οὐ νομιζόμενα.’ ὁ δὲ Γύγης τέως μὲν ἀπεθώμαζε τὰ λεγόμενα, μετὰ δὲ ἱκέτευε μὴ μιν ἀναγκαίῃ ἐνδέειν διακρῖναι τοιαύτην αἵρεσιν. οὔκων δὴ ἔπειθε, ἀλλ᾽ ὥρα ἀναγκαίην ἀληθέως προκειμένην ἢ τὸν δεσπότεα ἀπολλύναι ἢ αὐτὸν ὑπ᾽ ἄλλων ἀπόλλυσθαι: αἱρέεται αὐτὸς περιεῖναι. ἐπειρώτα δὴ λέγων τάδε. ‘ἐπεί με ἀναγκάζεις δεσπότεα τὸν ἐμὸν κτείνειν οὐκ ἐθέλοντα, φέρε ἀκούσω τέῳ καὶ τρόπῳ ἐπιχειρήσομεν αὐτῷ.’ ἣ δὲ ὑπολαβοῦσα ἔφη ‘ἐκ τοῦ αὐτοῦ μὲν χωρίου ἡ ὁρμή ἔσται ὅθεν περ καὶ ἐκεῖνος ἐμέ ἐπεδέξατο γυμνήν, ὑπνωμένῳ δὲ ἡ ἐπιχείρησις ἔσται.’ ὡς δὲ ἤρτυσαν τὴν ἐπιβουλήν, νυκτὸς γενομένης (οὐ γὰρ ἐμετίετο ὁ Γύγης, οὐδέ οἱ ἦν ἀπαλλαγὴ οὐδεμία, ἀλλ᾽ ἔδεε ἤ αὐτὸν ἀπολωλέναι ἢ Κανδαύλεα) εἵπετο ἐς τὸν θάλαμον τῇ γυναικί, καί μιν ἐκείνη, ἐγχειρίδιον δοῦσα, κατακρύπτει ὑπὸ τὴν αὐτὴν θύρην.

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ENGLISH take care that she does not see you and you’ll be okay. And since Gyges could not escape the King’s command, he reluctantly consented.

So when Candaules imagined that it was an appropriate time for bed, he led Gyges into the dwelling. Suddenly the scene was setting in stone: the woman enters and is taking off her clothes, Gyges gets to see her naked. When she turns her back upon him to go to bed, he slips from the room. But she catches sight of him and he escapes undetected in vain! In that instant, she deducted what had occurred between the men, and while shame bestowed upon her, she did not give off the impression that she had sussed the plot. She wanted to really punish Candaules.

Since among the Lydians and most of the foreign peoples it was a great shame for even men to be seen naked, even the first class citizens! But as soon as it was day, she prepared those of her household who were most faithful to her, and called Gyges.

Now, naively supposing that our queen knew nothing of the transgression, Gyges answered the summons, of course, he was accustomed to attending his queen. Gyges entered boldly, she addressed head-on with these rightful words: “Now, Gyges, you have two paths ahead of you; you must decide which one you will follow. You must either kill Candaules and marry me taking the throne of Lydia for your own, or be killed yourself now. So that in the future you will not see what is not proper for your eyes, by obeying Candaules. One of you must die: either he, the contriver of this prosperous plot, or you, who have outraged all custom by looking at me naked.” Gyges stood there open-mouthed, undoubtedly he attempted to beg her not to channel these direct roads. Alas, he could not deter her, and saw that dire necessity was truly upon him either to kill his master or himself be killed by others. He chose his own life (quelle surprise) and inquired: “Since you are forcing me against my free will to kill my own master, pray do tell how we will carry out the murder.” She replied, “You shall attack him from the exact spot where he made you view me naked: strike him in his sleep.” The plot was prepared and night had fallen over the palace.

Gyges followed the queen into their chamber. Remember, Gyges was not released and there was absolutely no means of escape, either he or Candaules must die. She gave him a dagger and hid him behind the same chair.

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LATIN

Aeneid, Book II, 526-58 Virgil

In this passage from Virgil’s Aeneid, Pyrrhus/Neoptolemus, Achilles’s son, kills Priam, Troy’s aging king, under one of the city altars, thus defying both a

Ecce autem elapsus Pyrrhi de caede Polites, unus natorum Priami, per tela, per hostis porticibus longis fugit et vacua atria lustrat saucius. illum ardens infesto vulnere Pyrrhus insequitur, iam iamque manu tenet et premit hasta. ut tandem ante oculos evasit et ora parentum, concidit ac multo vitam cum sanguine fudit. hic Priamus, quamquam in media iam morte tenetur, non tamen abstinuit nec voci iraeque pepercit: ‘at tibi pro scelere,’ exclamat, ‘pro talibus ausis di, si qua est caelo pietas quae talia curet, persolvant grates dignas et praemia reddant debita, qui nati coram me cernere letum fecisti et patrios foedasti funere vultus. at non ille, satum quo te mentiris, Achilles talis in hoste fuit Priamo; sed iura fidemque supplicis erubuit corpusque exsangue sepulcro reddidit Hectoreum meque in mea regna remisit.’ sic fatus senior telumque imbelle sine ictu coniecit, rauco quod protinus aere repulsum, et summo clipei nequiquam umbone pependit. cui Pyrrhus: ‘referes ergo haec et nuntius ibis Pelidae genitori. illi mea tristia facta degeneremque Neoptolemum narrare memento. nunc morere.’ hoc dicens altaria ad ipsa trementem traxit et in multo lapsantem sanguine nati, 54

ENGLISH suppliant’s right of sanctuary and the gods on whose protection the king relies. His hybris is in striking contrast with the pietas showed to Priam by Achilles.

Aeneid, Book II, 526-58 translated by Margherita Galli

Yet now, having escaped Phyrrus’s carnage, Polites, one of Priam’s own sons, fled the darts and the enemies under the long arcades and across the empty halls, his wounds gaping open. Phyrrus chased him, burning for the blow that kills, when now he grabbed him by the hand and pushed his spear through his body.

When at last Polites came under his parents’ gaze, he fell, and let his life spill out with much blood.

Though death may already have marked him for her own, Priam did not yet hold back, nor did he save his voice and rage: “For this crime,” he cried out, “for such unlawful deeds may the gods, if there be any dignity in heaven to attend to such matters, render you due thanks and reward you as is most fitting, who forced me to witness my son’s death with my own eyes and defiled a father’s face with your butchery.

But Achilles, of whose stock you falsely claim to be the progeny, was not so merciless to his enemy Priam, but he paid homage to the rights and trust of a petitioner, and returned Hector’s lifeless body for the burial and allowed me to go back to my kingdoms.”

Having said this, the old man weakly threw a harmless spear that quickly bounced off the hollow-sounding bronze, hanging down uselessly from the boss of the shield.

To him Phyrrus said: “Be then my messenger to the son of Peleus, my father, 55

LATIN

implicuitque comam laeva, dextraque coruscum extulit ac lateri capulo tenus abdidit ensem. haec finis Priami fatorum, hic exitus illum sorte tulit Troiam incensam et prolapsa videntem Pergama, tot quondam populis terrisque superbum regnatorem Asiae. iacet ingens litore truncus, avulsumque umeris caput et sine nomine corpus.

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ENGLISH

be the one to relay news of these events to him. Pray do not forget to give him an account of my most horrid feats and of Neoptolemus degenerate.

Now die.” As he said these words he dragged trembling Priam to his very own altars, slipping on the pool made by his son’s blood, grabbed his hair with his left hand, drew his flashing sword with his right and buried it up to the hilt into his side.

This was the conclusion assigned to Priam’s destiny, he met the end allotted to him while Troy was on fire, his eyes on Pergamon’s ruins, he who had once been the proud sovereign of so many lands and the peoples of Asia. A large trunk now lies on the beach, a head severed from the shoulders and a nameless body.

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ENGLISH

The Art of Disappearing Naomi Shihab Nye

Naomi Shihab Nye’s “The Art of Disappearing” is taken from her collection Words Under the Words: Selected Poems.

In an age which celebrates

When they say Don’t I know you? say no.

When they invite you to the party remember what parties are like before answering.

Someone telling you in a loud voice they once wrote a poem.

Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.

Then reply.

If they say We should get together say why?

It’s not that you don’t love them anymore.

You’re trying to remember something too important to forget.

Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.

Tell them you have a new project.

It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store nod briefly and become a cabbage.

When someone you haven’t seen in ten years appears at the door, don’t start singing him all your new songs.

You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.

Know you could tumble any second.

Then decide what to do with your time.

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IRISH

hyperconnectivity and hypervisibility, it is a welcome reminder that the cultivation of solitude is a necessary and courageous act.

Ag Imeacht as Radharc translated by Peter Weakliam

Nuair a deir siad Nach bhfuil aithne agam ort? abair níl.

Nuair a thugann siad cuireadh chun na cóisire duit Cuimhnigh ar cad is cóisir ann sula bhfreagraíonn tú.

Duine éigin ag rá leat de ghlór ard gur scríobh siadsan dán uair amháin.

Meallóga gréisceacha ispíní ar phláta páipéir.

Ansin tabhair do fhreagra.

Má deir siad Ba chóir dúinn bualadh lena chéile abair cén fáth?

Ní hé nach ngránn tú a thuilleadh iad.

Tá tú ag iarraidh cuimhneamh ar rud éigin atá róthábhachtach le go ligfí i ndearmad é.

Crainn. Clog na mainistreach sa chlapsholas.

Inis dóibh go bhfuil tionscadal nua agat.

Ní chríochnófar é go deo.

Nuair a aithníonn duine éigin thú i siopa grósaera sméid do cheann agus tiontaigh i do chabáiste.

Nuair a thagann duine nach bhfaca tú le deich mbliana chuig an doras, ná tabhair faoi do chuid amhrán nua ar fad a cheol dó.

Ní thiocfaidh tú suas riamh leis an bhfreacnairc.

Siúil thart amhail is gur duilleog thú.

Cuimhnigh go bhféadfá titim soicind ar bith.

Ansin socraigh cad a dhéanfaidh tú le do chuid ama.

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SPANISH

La voz a ti debida Pedro Salinas La forma de querer tú es dejarme que te quiera.

El sí con que te me rindes es el silencio. Tus besos son ofrecerme los labios para que los bese yo.

Jamás palabras, abrazos, me dirán que tú existías, que me quisiste: jamás.

Me lo dicen hojas blancas, mapas, augurios, teléfonos; tú, no.

Y estoy abrazado a ti sin preguntarte, de miedo a que no sea verdad que tú vives y me quieres.

Y estoy abrazado a ti sin mirar y sin tocarte.

No vaya a ser que descubra con preguntas, con caricias, esa soledad inmensa de quererte sólo yo.

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This poem by the Spanish writer Pedro Salinas is an extract from his collection of love poetry “The Voice Due To You” (1933). Written in blank verse in deceptively simple

ENGLISH language, it relies on a rhythm created through parallelisms and stress patterns and emphasises the audacity of sensual love in the modern world.

The Voice Due to You translated by Patricia González Bermúdez

That loving way of yours is to let me love you.

The yes with which you surrender is the silence. Your kisses are the offer of your lips for me to kiss them.

Never words, embraces, will tell me that you existed, that you loved me: never.

It is blank pages, maps, omens, telephones, that tell me so; You, no.

And here I am holding you Without asking, out of fear that it may be untrue that you live and love me.

And here I’m holding you without looking, without touching.

Just in case I would discover with questions, with caresses, that immense loneliness of loving you on my own.

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62

Maya Bushell, Tending Toward the Infinite

Maya Bushell, Susurration

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Notes on Contributors Penny Stuart, a Dublin artist, draws from life with charcoal. Exhibitions include a collaborative event with the Whispering Trees Collective in May 2019 in Blackrock Market and a group exhibition with Trinity Arts Workshop at Pearse Centre Dublin, June 2019. Her artwork also appeared in The Trinity Journal of Literary Translation, Vol. 8, Issue I. Aifric Doherty is a Senior Sophister European Studies student and Assistant Editor of the journal. She likes Nabokov, unashamedly.

Harry Hennessy is a SS English and History student and francophile who is passionate about poetry, poesy and linguistics. Despite having never previously ventured into the world of literary translation, his approach has been undoubtedly audacious!

Anastasia Fedosova is a first-year English Literature and German student.

This is her first literary translation experience. One of Anastasia’s passions is reading aloud, both poetry and prose in both Russian and English.

Michael MacNulty is a second-year student of Classics. A fan of drama in general, he is particularly* passionate about Greek tragedy and its relevance in the modern world, from issues of social justice to contemporary culture.

He is also a proud owner of two dogs.

*an understatement.

Orlaith Connolly is a fourth-year Law and German student.

Martina Giambanco (best known as Martha if you are a friend or someone who just likes nicknames) is a third-year English and Classical Civilisation student. She is an English major with a passion for everything John Keats related and 19th century decadent literature, along with a fondness for the ancient Greek and Roman world. You can occasionally find her reading poetry or drinking tea in her natural habitat (that is, any bookshop with a cafĂŠ).

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Sheila Cullen loves blind-drawing from life with charcoal. She’s been attending life-drawing classes with Dublin Drawing for the last year, when she’s not teaching, knitting or minding her hens.

Seirce Mhac Conghail is a second-year English and Irish student, whose previous publishing credits include Dodging the Rain Literary Journal.

Jules Buffet, a Classicist from Paris, tutors TCD pupils in his national idiom, and looks forward to starting a PhD, studying History of Antiquity.

Ariane Dudych is an Anglicist both studying and giving tutorials at Trinity. Having a passion for wordplay and translation, she tried very hard to write a biography without the letter E in it but remembered that her name has one.

Ross Coleman is a SS Modern Irish and Classical Civilisation student, tending to his thesis by day and writing literally anything else by night.

Sarah Sturzel is a fourth-year French and English student at Trinity. She is the Art Editor of the journal. She has contributed artwork to Suas and Trinity News also.

Orlando Devoy is SS Latin and Greek at TCD, focusing this year on a thesis in comparative literature. He is an Assistant Editor of the journal.

Orlando remembers how his Welsh granddad instilled in him a love of language through the natural musicality of his granddad’s singing and speaking that will live on.

Suzanne Flynn studies Law and German and has recently begun translating texts from German to English in a translation module in her final semester.

Tina Anterić is a Visiting Lecturer in Croatian language and culture at TCD’s Department of Russian and Slavonic Studies.

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Bowen Wang is a first-year Ph.D. candidate in School of English, TCD. He received his M.Sc. in Literature and Modernity at University of Edinburgh. He is currently working on a Chinese translation of Slavoj Žižek’s Like a Thief in Broad Daylight (2018) and will publish several Chinese-English translated poems on Washington Square Review in 2020.

Celine Delahoy is a Junior Sophister Business and Sociology student.

She works primarily with graphic design. Her artwork frequently uses bold colours and typography. Her inspiration comes from vintage movie posters, advertisements, and her surroundings. She currently lives in Umeå, Sweden, and is a contributor to Trinity News.

Sophie Dibben is a SF student of Classics (Latin and Greek) and former sixth-form school Greek scholar-enthusiast.

Margherita Galli is a third-year English student at Trinity College, Dublin. She’s interested in English literatures, classical languages and civilisations, language theory and translation.

Peter Weakliam is a PhD student in the TCD Irish department.

His current research focuses on the theme of freedom in the work of contemporary prose writer Pádraig Ó Cíobháin.

Patricia González Bermúdez graduated in English Studies at the Universidad Autonoma de Madrid and lived in Regensburg and Paris before moving to Dublin in 2006. She holds an M.Phil. in Literary Translation from TCD and lectures in the Department of Hispanic Studies of the same university.

Maya Lydia Bushell is a final-year student of English Literature and History of Art and Architecture. Currently, she is working on her senior Capstone project, an extended work of creative non-fiction centred on her relationship with food, family, and the formation of identity. She hopes you’ll join her at the table.

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Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Volume 8, Issue II (Spring 2020) www.trinityjolt.org Cover art by Sarah Sturzel