Ellipsis (Volume 10, Issue I)

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TRINITY

JOURNAL OF

LITERARY

TRANSLATION

VOLUME 10, ISSUE I




Volume 10, Issue I: Ellipsis Editorial Staff 2021/22

Editor-in-Chief Cian Dunne

Deputy Editor & Layout Oisín Thomas Morrin Cover Art crocksart & Daniela Williams Faculty Advisor Dr Peter Arnds

Assistant Editors Lily Brodie Hayes Andrea Bergantino Felix Vanden Borre Anastasia Fedosova Rebecca Deasy-Miller Emer O’Hanlon Art Editor Daniela Williams

... the three dots invite me to write; they invite you to (hopefully) read. There– one undeniably apposite use of the ellipsis.

With the theme of ‘ellipsis’, we encouraged you to showcase writers who obviate ‘the ghastliness of these dots,’ as Umberto Eco characterised them. Writers who instead display an ample dual understanding of the possibilities and limitations of the ellipsis, and use it accordingly adroitly– whether that be to convey silence, uncertainty, waiting, anticipation, longing, dreaming, the passage of time… or some such other intangible expression. The word ellipsis comes to us from the 16th century, via Latin from the Greek elleipsis, from elleipein ‘leave out’. At the same time, we invited you to showcase ellipsis as a literary device, in the sense of omissions, gaps, pauses, and elisions, in and from the final text. On a more immersive level, these omissions, presently absent without the use of the punctuation point, invite us into the text we are reading– asking silent questions of us, and providing a space for us to connect the invisible dots in search of an answer. Yet even then, despite our search, the definitive answers may evade us. Mark O’Connell, though he may, in his writings, explore the transgressive possibilities of transhumanism, come the end he still finds comfort in the beauty inherent and available in the finite nature of existence– that which makes ‘life so intensely beautiful and terrifying and strange.’ And, though he may warn us of an apocalypse already begun, he still advocates for the ‘courage of ambivalence’ as we come to terms with it. Perhaps, then, there is a need, at times, to be comfortable with the uncomfortable. To be at home in the gaps between the lines– in the ambiguities, equivocacies, and opacities that constitute a large part of our experience as we navigate through our lives. When we sit down to translate a literary text, we are forced to contend with a similar degree of elusiveness. According to Cervantes, translating from one language into another is ‘like looking at tapestries from the wrong side.’ In an attempt to transpose a text into another language, the translator negotiates the obscurities and idiosyncrasies of the language it is rendered in, as well as the culture from which it springs. The translator then reformulates and elucidates these abstractions ...


of the original language and culture for the readers in the target language. Done well, the ultimate result is twofold: retaining their original essence whilst transporting them into a new linguistic and cultural context. On one level then, translation is for a large part to do with the communication of that which is spoken, or written. However, how do we choose to translate that which is left unspoken, or unwritten? Indian writer Vivek Shanbhag goes as far as to say that ‘the essence of translation lies in taking what is unsaid in a work from one language to another […] to recreate the unspoken in another language, one needs to understand what went into making the original; then one must dismantle it and rebuild it in the other language.’ This sounds like no easy task, and this was indeed the challenge faced by, as well as the privilege afforded to, the translators whose work you shall encounter in the following pages. Where does this difficulty of interpretation leave us, as translators, and indeed, as readers? For Michael Leiris, ‘translating means having the honesty to stick to an allusive imperfection.’ Though there may be an element of truth to such a statement, there comes a point where the translator must make an authoritative choice: to take a literal or interpretative approach, or whether to create a translation that is at pains ‘faithful’ to the original or at liberty to take liberties in the service of transforming it anew. Similarly, in our own lives, we must at some point arrive at the point at which we make a choice, whether that be big or small– whether that be for justice, for love, for happiness, for pride, or for life itself. In the pages that follow, our translators make such a variety of choices. The texts they have chosen to translate at once deal with the ethereal and the substantive, the superfluous and the essential–in the material and immaterial make-up of life itself. In their careful arrangement, you’ll come across interpretations of, amongst others: Joyce, Rimbaud, Prévert, Hughes, Sappho, Dickinson, Montale, Pascoli, Cavafy, Kafka, Cummings, Williams, Boland, Blok, and… Beckett? Well, you can put the last one down as a maybe. There is a story in these pages, and… May it take you from the innocence of youth, to the dawning of love, to the loneliness of despair, to the failure of words, to the joys of nature, to the sunset beckoning us at close of day, and to the next journey beyond– with the final destination as yet unknown. Thank you to my predecessor, Martina, for giving me the opportunity to build upon her amazing achievements of last year’s most challenging of years, and for assembling for me the most wonderful team of editors for this year, each of whom are reliable and astute in equal measure. My immense gratitude also to crocksart for allowing us to use his quintessentially elliptical illustration as our cover art, and to Daniela for applying the circular finishing touch. To my superb Deputy Editor and friend, Oisín, thank you for laying out the following pages with such painstaking professionalism and precision, and for everything else which remains unseen beyond these pages. And, given that we have arrived at the tenth– thank you to all the faithful followers of JoLT since its foundation in 2013 by the remarkable Claudio Sansone, with the support of the ever-supportive Dr. Peter Arnds. Finally, my thanks to the contributors to this first issue of this tenth volume, for your quality and creativity, and to you, the reader, for (hopefully) reading on. …in these words. Yet, keep in mind that the story begins, ends, starts, stops again in the margins, in the spaces, in the gaps and in the blanks. In the inbetween, the story is told, in the pauses, the story is to be found. In the spaces, the … is told, the … is to be found.

Cian Dunne 3


Imleabhar 10, Eagrán I: Focalbhá

... Tugann na trí phonc cuireadh dom scríobh; tugann siad cuireadh duit léamh. Sin– úsáid sciliúil amháin den chomhartha focalbhá.

Leis an téama ‘focalbhá’, chuireamar fáilte romhaibh scríbhneoirí a thaispeáínt a sheachain ‘the ghastliness of these dots,’ mar a dúirt Umberto Eco faoi. Scríbhneoirí nach bhfuil tuiscint mhaith ar na féidearthachtaí agus na lochtanna a bhaineann leis an gcomhartha focalbhá amháin, ach a úsáideann í go healaíonta de réir sin– chun tost, éiginnteacht, fanacht, oirchill, dúil, brionglóideach, imeacht aimsire… nó mothú dobhraite eile a chur in iúl. Tagann an focal ellipsis dúinn ón séú haois déag, tríd an Laidin agus a fhréamh ag teacht ón elleipsis (an Ghréigise), ón focal elleipein ‘fág amach.’ Ag an am céanna, thug muid cuireadh díobh focalbhá a léiriú mar ciúta liteartha, sa chiall easnaimh, bearnaí agus stadanna sa téacs deiridh. Ar leibhéal níos tumtha, tugann na heasnaimh seo, i láthair tríd a neamhláithreacht, cuireadh dúinn teacht isteach sa téacs a bhfuil á léamh againn– ag cuir ceisteanna tostacha orainn, agus ag tabhairt spáis dúinn chun na poncanna dofheicthe a nascadh le chéile ar thóir freagra. Ach mar sin féin, in ainneoin ár gcuardaigh, d’fhéadfadh na freagraí éalú uainn. B’fhéidir gur cheart dúinn a bheith compordach agus muid míchompordach fiú - chun a bheith ar do shuaimhneas sna bearnaí idir na línte– san deibhrí agus san chastacht atá mar chuid mhór dár n-éispéireas agus chun ár mbealach a dhéanamh tríd an saol. Nuair a shuímid síos chun aistriuchán a dhéanamh ar téacs liteartha, tá iallach orainn déileáil leis an tseachtanacht sin freisin. Ar leibhéal amháin, baineann an t-aistriuchán den chuid is mó le cumarsáid scríofa, nó labhartha. Cén roghanna a dhéanfaimid agus muid ag aistriú focal neamhscríofa, nó neamhspléach, áfach? Is léir nach tasc éasca é seo, agus is é seo an dúshlán a bhí le sárú ag na haistritheoirí, agus an phribhléid a thugtar do na haistritheoirí san eagrán seo. Beag ban ar an éiginnteacht seo, tagann pointe nuair a bhíonn ar an aistritheoir cinneadh údarásach a dhéanamh. Ar an mbealach céanna, inár saol féin, sa deireadh is gá dúinn cinneadh a dhéanamh nuair atá rogha againn – rogha mór nó beag agus é ar son an chóir, an ghrá, an aiteas, an bhróid, nó an tsaoil féin. Sna leathanaigh seo a leanas, déanann ár n-aistritheoirí cinntí den sórt sin. Pléann na téacsanna atá roghnaithe acu an domhan neamhshaolta agus ábharthach, rudaí fánacha agus bunriachtanacha– ag déileáil le comhdhéanamh ábhartha is neamhábhartha na beatha féin. Tá scéal sna leathanaigh seo, agus… Tógfaidh sé thú ó shoineantacht na hóige, go breacadh an lae, ó huaigneas an éadóchais, go teip na bhfocal, go lúcháir an nádúir, go luí na gréine ag druidim linn ag deireadh an lae, agus go dtí an chéad turas eile thall- an ceann scríbe deiridh anaithnid go fóill. ...


Go raibh maith agat le mo réamhtheachtaí, Martina, as ucht an deis a thabhairt dom leanacht ar aghaidh leis an obair den scoth a bhí déanta aici le linn na bliana seo chaite, agus as ucht foireann eagarthóireachta iontach a eagrú le chéile dom don bhliain seo. Mo bhuíochas ollmhór freisin do crocksart as ucht a liníocht éilipseach a úsáid mar chlúdach an eagráin, agus do Daniela don ealaín. Do mo leas-eagarthóir thar cionn agus chara Oisín– go raibh maith agat as na leathanaigh seo a leanas a leagan amach chomh gairmiúil agus chomh cruinn is atá siad - agus as gach rud eile nach bhfacthas taobh amuigh de na leathanaigh seo. Agus, ós rud é go bhfuil an deichiú imleabhar bainte amach againn - buíochas le lucht leanúna dílis JoLT ó bunaíodh é in 2013 ag Claudio Sansone, le tacaíocht ó Dr. Peter Arnds. Faoi dheireadh, gabhaim buíochas do na daoine a chuir leis an gcéad eagrán seo den deichiú imleabhar, as do cháilíocht agus do chruthaitheacht, agus duitse, an léitheoir, as léamh (tá súil agam). …sna focail seo. É sin ráite, coinnigh i gcuimhne go dtosaíonn agus go gcíochnaíonn an scéal arís sna himill, sna spásanna, agus sna bearnaí. Sna spásanna, insítear an scéal; sna stadanna, tá an scéál le fáil. Sna spásanna, insítear an …, tá an … le fáil.

Cian Ó Duinn

‘high bird, deep fish’, Anonymous 5


Contents

Editorial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ‘high bird, deep fish’ photograph by Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . 5 A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man English-French translation by Sarah Sturzel, Mathilde Irigaray, Anna Tomlinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 The Creation of… artwork by Naemi Dehde . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 ‘La Anunciatión’ Spanish-English translation by David Eduardo Torres Alvarez . . . . . 12 ‘Aube’ & ‘Royauté’ French-English translation by Lucy McCabe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Cnuasach photograph by Alexander Fay . . . . . . . . 16 ‘An Fiach’ Irish-English translation by Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill . . . . . . . . . . . 18 ‘Les Anciens Animaux Saillissaient…’ French-Irish translation by Álanna Hammel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Oona English-Portuguese translation by Amábile Alice Deretti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 ‘para este país’ Portuguese-English translation by Rafael Mendes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Ceist na Teangan I’ & ‘Ceist na Teangan II’ artworks by Ciara Fennessy . . . . . . . . . . 32 ‘Ceist na Teangan’ Irish-Italian translation by Ciara Fennessy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 ‘Dream Variations’ English-Arabic translation by Shireen Moussa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 ‘Éagmais’ photograph by Alexander Fay . . . . . . . . 34 untitled German-English translation by Anile Tmava . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 ‘The Diary of a Superfluous Man’ artwork by Shireen Moussa . . . . . . . . . . 36

‘Swans’ photograph by Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . 20

‘The Factory’ artwork by Judy Carrol Deeley . . . . . . . . . . 36

繁花 Chinese (Shanghai)-English translation by Yian Zhang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

महबू ब Hindustani-English translation by Khushi Jain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Eclipse artwork by Christina Keiko Tomita . . . . 24

‘Fragment 26: A Three-Way Dialogue’ French/Aeolic Greek-English translation by Alexandra Corey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

‘Happiness’ English-Irish translation by Rebecca Coxon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

...

‘The Road’ photograph by Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . 26

‘Three Muses’ artwork by Naemi Dehde . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38


‘I cannot live with You’ English-Hindustani translation by Khushi Jain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

‘r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r’ English-Chinese translation by Bowen Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

‘Non recidere forbice quel volto…’ Italian-English translation by Elena Poletto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

‘To Be Closely Written on a Small Piece of Paper Which Folded into a Tight Lozenge Will Fit Any Girl's Locket’ English-Russian translation by Anastasia McAuliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

‘Monica’ artwork by Penny Stuart . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Μακρυά Greek-English translation by Natasha Remoundou . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 ‘With her Elfin Eyes’ artwork by Ellecia Vaughan . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 ‘Dorul’ Romanian-English translation by Ioana Răducu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 ‘Contrast’ English-Russian translation by Dana Bagirova . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 ‘Ragaire’ photograph by Alexander Fay . . . . . . . . 45 ‘La grasse matinée’ French-English translation by Eléonore Maréchal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 ‘Unentitled’ artwork by Penny Stuart . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 ‫أنا قطار الحزن‬

Arabic-English translation by Shireen Moussa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 ‘Die Sorge des Hausvaters’ German-English translation by Caroline Loughlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 El luto humano Spanish-English translation by Octavio Pérez Sánchez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

‘Garden Number 7’ artwork by Meghan Flood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 ‘Ellipsis’ artwork by Meghan Flood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 ‘An Chéad Oíche’ Irish-English translation by Peter Weakliam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 ‘Elle’ artwork by Evvie Kyrozie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 ‘Il Gelsomino Notturno’ Italian-English translation by Martina Giambanco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 ‘Evanescence’ artwork by Ella Sloane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 «Мы встречались с тобой на закате...» Russian-English translation by Anastasia McAuliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 ‘The Quay’ photograph by Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . 67 ‘F-’ English-French translation by Clare Healy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Notes on Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 ‘The Magician’ artwork by Patrick Balfe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

7


ENGLISH

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

James Joyce

Joyce’s bildungsroman begins with young Dedalus attempting to make sense of his surroundings. We consciously adopted a child’s worldview and occasional misunderstandings, avoiding over-clarifying lines

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo... His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face. He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt. O, the wild rose blossoms On the little green place. He sang that song. That was his song. O, the green wothe botheth. When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell. His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor’s hornpipe for him to dance. He danced: Tralala lala, Tralala tralaladdy, Tralala lala, Tralala lala. Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante. Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper. ...


FRENCH to preserve Joyce’s deliberate omissions, neologisms and truncated language. We creatively transposed the text with an emphasis on sound, considering the cadence, rhythm, and lyricism.

Portrait de l’artiste en jeune homme

translated by Sarah Sturzel, Mathilde Irigaray, Anna Tomlinson

Il était une fois, et cette fois-ci était la bonne, une meuhmeuh qui se promenait dans les bois et cette meuhmeuh qui se promenait dans les bois rencontra un gentil p’tit garçon qui s’appelait bébé toucou… Son père lui racontait cette histoire, son père le regardait à travers un verre: son visage était plein de poils. Il était bébé toucou. Cette meuhmeuh se promenait dans les bois où vivait Betty Byrne la vendeuse de bonbon au citron. Ô comme les roses éclosent Et recouvrent cette pierre de leur verdure. Il chantait cette chanson, c’était sa chanson. Ô rose pierre vert dure Le pipi au lit ça réchauffe jusqu’à ce que ça refroidisse. Sa mère mit un drap ciré. Il avait une odeur des plus étranges. Sa mère avait une odeur plus agréable que son père. Elle lui jouait des chant de marin au piano pour qu’il danse l’hornpipe. Et il dansait: Papalalala Papalala papalalala Papalalala Papalalala Tonton Charles et Dante applaudissaient. Ils étaient plus vieux que son père et sa mère mais tonton Charles était plus vieux que Dante. Dante avait deux brosses dans son placard. La brosse avec du velours bordeaux était pour Michael Davitt et la brosse avec du velours vert était pour Parnell. Dante lui donnait un cachou dès qu’il lui apportait un mouchoir. 9


ENGLISH The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were Eileen’s father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said: --O, Stephen will apologize. Dante said: --O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.-Pull out his eyes, Apologize, Apologize, Pull out his eyes. Apologize, Pull out his eyes, Pull out his eyes, Apologize.

‘The Creation of…’, Naemi Dehde ...


FRENCH La famille Vance habitait au numéro sept. Ils n’avaient pas les mêmes parents. C’était le père et la mère d’Eileen. Quand ils seraient grands, il allait se marier avec Eileen. Il se cachait sous la table. Sa mère lui disait: « Ô Stephen dit pardon. » Et Dante répondait: « Ô sinon les corbeaux vont t’arracher les yeux comme des boutons. » Comme des boutons Dit pardon, Dit pardon, Comme des boutons, Pardon Bouton Pardon Bouton.

11


SPANISH

‘La Anunciación’ Rosario Castellanos

This poem presents a use of ellipsis in which the author never explicitly indicates her relation to the addressee. Given its religious images, it could be

I Porque desde el principio me estabas destinado. Antes de las edades del trigo y de la alondra y aun antes de los peces. Cuando Dios no tenía más que horizontes de ilimitado azul y el universo era una voluntad no pronunciada. Cuando todo yacía en el regazo divino, entremezclado y confundido, yacíamos tú y yo totales, juntos. Pero vino el castigo de la arcilla. Me tomó entre sus dedos, desgarrándome de la absoluta plenitud antigua. Modeló mis caderas y mis hombros, me encendió de vigilias sin sosiego y me negó el olvido. Yo sabía que estabas dormido entre las cosas y respiraba el aire para ver si te hallaba y bebía de las fuentes como para beberte. Huérfana de tu peso dulce sobre mi pecho, sin nombre mientras tú no descendieras languidecía, triste, en el destierro. un cántaro vacío semejaba nostálgico de vinos generosos y de sonoras e inefables aguas. Una cítara muda parecía. No podía siquiera morir como el que cae aflojando los músculos en una brusca renunciación. Me flagelaba la feroz certidumbre de tu ausencia, adelante, buscando tu huella o tus señales. No podía morir porque aguardaba. ...


ENGLISH read as addressed to an unborn child, as if Mary was reciting it to Jesus; but it could also be read as if written to a lover.

‘The Annunciation’ translated by David Eduardo Torres Alvarez

I Because from the beginning you were destined to me. Before the ages of the wheat and the lark and even before the fish. When God had no more than horizons of unlimited blue, and the universe was an unpronounced will. When everything lay on the divine lap, intermingled and confused, you and I we laid whole, together. But then came the punishment of clay. He took me between his fingers, tearing me from the absolute plenitude of old. He moulded my hips and my shoulders, He lit me up with restless vigils, and denied me oblivion. I knew you were sleeping among the things and I breathed the air to see if I could find you and I drank from the fountains as if to drink you. Orphan of your sweet weight upon my chest, without a name until your descent I languished, sad, in exile. I was like an empty pitcher nostalgic of copious wines and of sonorous and ineffable waters. I seemed to be like a mute zither. I could not even die like the one who falls loosening the muscles in an abrupt renunciation. I was flogged by the ferocious certitude of your absence, ahead, finding your trace or your signs. I could not die because I waited. 13


Porque desde el principio me estabas destinado era mi soledad un tránsito sombrío y un ímpetu de fiebre inconsolable. II Porque habías de venir a quebrantar mis huesos y cuando Dios les daba consistencia pensaba en hacerlos menores que tu fuerza. Dócil a tu ademán redondo mi cintura y a tus orejas vírgenes mi voz, disciplinada en intangibles sílabas de espuma. Multiplicó el latido de mis sienes, organizó las redes de mis venas y ensanchó las planicies de mi espalda. Y yo medí mis pasos por la tierra para no hacerte daño. Porque ante ti que estás hecho de nieve y de vellones cándidos y pétalos debo ser como un arca y como un templo: ungida y fervorosa, elevada en incienso y en campanas. Porque habías de venir a quebrantar mis huesos, mis huesos, a tu anuncio, se quebrantan. III Para que tú lo habites quisiera depararte un mundo esclarecido de céfiros, laureles, fosforescentes algas, litorales sin término, grutas de fino musgo y cielos de palomas. IV He aquí que te anuncias. Entre contradictorios ángeles te aproximas., como una suave música te viertes, como un vaso de aromas y de bálsamos. Por humilde me exaltas, Tu mirada, benévola, transforma mis llagas en ardientes esplendores. He aquí que te acercas y me encuentras rodeada de plegarias como de hogueras altas. ...


Because from the beginning you were destined to me my loneliness was a sombre transit and an impetus of inconsolable fever. II Because you had to come to break my bones and when God was granting them consistency, He was thinking of making them weaker than your strength. Docile to your gesture He rounded my waistline and so, to your virgin ears my voice, disciplined in intangible syllables of foam. He multiplied the beat of my temples, He organized the networks of my veins and widened the plains of my back. And I measured my steps on Earth not to hurt you. Because in front of you who are made of snow, and of candid fleeces and petals I must be like an ark and like a temple: anointed and fervent, elevated in incense and bells. Because you had to come to break my bones, my bones, at your announcement, break. III For you to inhabit I would like to yield a world enlightened by zephyrs, laurels, phosphorescent seaweeds, endless coastlines, caves of fine moss and skies of doves. IV Behold, you announce yourself. Amidst contradictory angels you approach me, like a soft music you pour yourself, like a vessel of aromas and balms. Due to my humbleness, you exalt me, your sight, benevolent, transforms my sores into ardent splendours. Behold, you come closer, and you find me surrounded by prayers like high bonfires. 15


FRENCH

‘Aube’ & ‘Royauté’

Rimbaud’s Illuminations gives us glimpses of scenes, suggestions of a mood more than the stuff of the poems themselves. Both poems deal with kinds of love. Most of all, we get the sense of

Arthur Rimbaud

J'ai embrassé l'aube d'été. Rien ne bougeait encore au front des palais. L'eau était morte. Les camps d'ombres ne quittaient pas la route du bois. J'ai marché, réveillant les haleines vives et tièdes, et les pierreries regardèrent, et les ailes se levèrent sans bruit. La première entreprise fut, dans le sentier déjà empli de frais et blêmes éclats, une fleur qui me dit son nom. Je ris au wasserfall blond qui s'échevela à travers les sapins : à la cime argentée je reconnus la déesse. Alors je levai un à un les voiles. Dans l'allée, en agitant les bras. Par la plaine, où je l'ai dénoncée au coq. A la grand'ville elle fuyait parmi les clochers et les dômes, et courant comme un mendiant sur les quais de marbre, je la chassais. En haut de la route, près d'un bois de lauriers, je l'ai entourée avec ses voiles amassés, et j'ai senti un peuson immense corps. L'aube et l'enfant tombèrent au bas du bois. Au réveil il était midi.

...

Un beau matin, chez un peuple fort doux, un homme et une femme superbes criaient sur la place publique. "Mes amis, je veux qu'elle soit reine!" "Je veux être reine!" Elle riait et tremblait. Il parlait aux amis de révélation, d'épreuve terminée. Ils se pâmaient l'un contre l'autre. En effet ils furent rois toute une matinée où les tentures carminées se relevèrent sur les maisons, et toute l'après-midi, où ils s'avancèrent du côté des jardins de palmes.

‘Cnuasach’, Alexander Fay ...


ENGLISH

‘Dawn’ & ‘Heroes’

things missing, of time condensed and narrative lost to prose. In this, and in the eventual losses of translation, we are aware of the ellipses at work.

translated by Lucy McCabe

I embraced the summer dawn. Still nothing moved on the palace façades. The water was dead. Camps of shadow would not scatter on the woodland road. I walked on, awakening warm living breaths, and the gemstones kept watch and wings rose up in silence. For my first adventure, down a path already lit with fresh, pale gleams, a flower told me its name. I laughed at the Waterfall with its golden hair dishevelled over firs: I recognised the goddess at the silvered peak. So one by one, I raised each veil. There on the path, my arms waving. Then across plains, where I denounced her to the rooster. In the city, she fled among the bell towers and domes, and running like a beggar down marble quays, I chased her. At the top of the road, by a laurel wood, I surrounded her with her gathered veils, beginning to sense the immensity of her body. Deep in the forest, dawn and the child fell. Waking, it was noon.

...

One fine morning, in a civilised land, one proud man and one proud woman were shouting in the main square. ‘Friends, I want her to be queen!’ ‘And I want to be queen!’ She was laughing and trembling. He spoke to friends of revelation, of trials overcome. They were swooning over one another. And yes they were royals for one fine morning, when crimson hangings were raised above the houses, and for an entire afternoon, as they made their way to the garden of palms.

17


IRISH

‘An Fiach’ Liam Ó Flaihearta

This short story comes from a collection titled ‘Dúil’ which means Desire, and this story in particular relates to the theme of

Bhí creag mhór sínte le farraige agus gleannta caola féaracha ag lúbadh anseo agus ansiúd idir na leacacha, ó bharr na haille. Tháinig gadhar buí isteach sa gcreag. Sheas sé ar thrí chois agus shín a eireaball. Fuair sé boladh coinín. Thug sé rith te reatha suas an gleann: a shrón le talamh. Sheas sé arís – ar croitheadh – a chluasa bioraithe. Ansin chas sé isteach i measc na scailp, ag léimneach anonn is anall, ag casadh go dlúth arís agus arís eile, ag smúrthacht an bholaidh the a bhí fágtha ar na leacacha glasa sleamhna ag cosa an choinín. Fá dheireadh sheas sé de thaghd ar aghaidh dhá chloch a bhí seasta guala le gualainn agus poll caol eatarthu. Chonaic sé coinín suite sa bpoll. Bhí droim donn an choinín i bhfogas dhá shlat dá shrón. Dhírigh a chorp agus thit a dhá chluais a bhí bioraithe roimhe sin. Tháinig torann tobann tapaidh, ar nós línéadaigh róthirim a réabfaí go mear, nuair d’éirigh an coinín amach as dídean na gcloch. Léim sé thar an leic a bhí idir é féin agus an gleann. Chas sé agus a thaobh le talamh, ar nós báid fholaimh a leagfaí faoi ghaoth láidir. Lig an gadhar sceamh agus osna. D’éirigh sé den leic. Le neart a choirp agus le cuthach a léime stróic sé slisíní den leic lena chosa deiridh. Ag gabháil scarachosach tríd an aer, lig sé sceamh eile. Bhuail sé talamh sa ngleann. Baineadh treascairt as le saint a shiúil agus thit sé i ndiaidh a uchta. Ach bhí sé ina sheasamh arís ar bhualadh boise. Seo suas an gleann é i ndiaidh an choinín, a eireaball sínte uaidh, a bholg le féar agus sruth gealchúrach na feirge ag sileadh lena dhrad. Bhí ardán féarach ag trasnú na creige ó chlaí go claí, tuairim is fiche slat ar leithead. Bhí iallach ar an gcoinín an t-ardán a thrasnú chun a choinicéar a shroichint, in aice claí thoir na creige, amuigh ar bhruach na farraige. Nuair a chas an coinín as an ngleann, soir in aghaidh an ardáin, bhí an gadhar i bhfogas dhá shlat dá eireaball. Ghéaraigh siúl an ghadhair. Thug sé amhóg. Shíl sé droim an choinín a aimsiú. Chas an coinín siar. Bhí an gadhar ina dhiaidh aniar. Chas an coinín de phlimp isteach faoi bholg an ghadhair. Chuaigh siad timpeall ar a chéile trí huaire, ag iompú chomh mear sin nárbh fhéidir craiceann buí an ghadhair a aithint ó chraiceann donn an choinín. Suas leis an gcoinín arís. Suas leis an ngadhar ina dhiaidh. Bhuail sé srón ar an gcoinín san aer. Buaileadh an coinín ar spéice i mbéal an choinicéir. Thit an gadhar ina mhullach. Tháinig sian bheag thruamhéileach ón gcoinín agus tafann lúcháireach ón ngadhar. Bhí an marú déanta. ...


ENGLISH ellipses because of the wait between the dog starting his hunt, and finishing it.

‘The Hunt’ translated by Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill

A large rock stretched to the sea and the narrow, grassy valleys, bending here and there between the flagstones, from the top of the cliffs. A golden hound appeared on the rocks. He stood on three legs and extended his tail. He got the scent of a rabbit. He sprinted off up the valley: his nose to the ground. He stood again - shivering - his ears pricked. Then he turned in amongst the banks, jumping here and there, turning closely again and again, sniffing the hot scent which was left on the slippery green flagstones by the rabbit’s feet. Finally, he stood hastily on two rocks beside one another, with a small hole between them. He saw a rabbit sitting in the hole. The rabbit’s brown back was two yards from his nose. His body straightened and his ears, which had been pointed before, fell. A sudden, quick noise came, like a too dry piece of linen being ripped quickly, when the rabbit emerged from the protection of the rocks. He leapt over the stone between himself and the valley. He turned himself to the ground, as if he were an empty boat struck down by a strong wind. The hound groaned and yelped. He got up from the flagstones. With all his body strength and a furious leap, he scratched slices into the flagstones with his hind paws. Flying through the air with his legs stretched out, he let out another yelp. He beat the ground. He stumbled - his eyes overzealous in their search - and fell forward on his chest. But he was standing again in a second then, up the glen he went after the rabbit, his tail stretched out from his body, his stomach to the grass and the sea’s bright bubbling stream running alongside his snout. A raised grassy platform covered the rocks from one rocky wall to another, at least twenty yards in length. The rabbit was desperate to cross the grassy area to reach his rabbit-hole, beside the east wall of the platform, out on the sea shore. When the rabbit turned out of the valley, eastwards from the platform, the hound was only two yards from his tail. The hound’s eyes narrowed. He lept. He tried to reach the rabbit’s back. The rabbit turned back. The hound was right behind him to the west. The rabbit went under the hound’s stomach like a shot. They went around each other three times, getting so close to each other you couldn’t tell the hound’s golden fur from the rabbit’s brown body. Up with the rabbit again. Up with the hound behind him. He hit the rabbit in the air with his nose. The rabbit was struck towards the entrance to the rabbit-hole. The hound set upon him. A tragic little whine came from the rabbit, and a joyful bark from the hound. The killing was done. 19


FRENCH

‘Les Anciens Animaux Saillissaient…’

The title of this piece includes an ellipsis. Not only that, I believe the subject matter does cause the reaction one conjures up in response to an ellipsis. The

Arthur Rimbaud Les anciens animaux saillissaient, même en course, Avec des glands bardés de sang et d'excrément. Nos pères étalaient leur membre fièrement Par le pli de la gaine et le grain de la bourse. Au moyen âge pour la femelle, ange ou pource, Il fallait un gaillard de solide gréement ; Même un Kléber, d'après la culotte qui ment Peut-être un peu, n'a pas dû manquer de ressource. D'ailleurs l'homme au plus fier mammifère est égal ; L'énormité de leur membre à tort nous étonne ; Mais une heure stérile a sonné : le cheval Et le boeuf ont bridé leurs ardeurs, et personne N'osera plus dresser son orgueil génital Dans les bosquets où grouille une enfance bouffonne.

‘Swans’, Anonymous ...


IRISH language is quite vulgar and somewhat disturbing, however in French and Irish even these words come across as beautiful.

‘Na hAinmhithe Fadó…’ aistrithe ag Álanna Hammel

Shead na hainmhithe fadó ar an gcrúb, Le faireog a bhí clúdaithe le fuil agus tuar. Ár n-aithreacha a mbaill ar taispeáint le bród Fillteacha na truaille agus an chadairne ag at, Sna meánaoiseanna don bhean, aingeal nó cráin bhíodh Stócach le ball soladach ag teastáil Fiú ginearál Kleber ‘is a stádas - de réir a bhríste, Thar fóir, b’fhéidir, beagáinínAch lán de dhánacht. D’fheáfadh fear a bheith mar an gcéanna leis an mamach is bródúla Níorbh aon ionadh é méid a bhaill, Ach fós buaileadh an uair steiriúil; an capall Agus an gearrán agus an damh, shrian siad a ndúthracht, Níor leomh d’aon duine gaisce a dhéanamh as a bhaill ghiniúna Sna doirí á plódú leis na páistí ag scig-gháire.

21


CHINESE (SHANGHAI)

繁花

Jin Yucheng

Blossoms is a full-length novel which is primarily written in Shanghai dialect. In order to establish a concise style of writing, the author omits most personal pronouns and conjunctions.

阿宝十岁,邻居蓓蒂六岁。两个人从假三层爬上屋顶,瓦片温热,眼 里是半个卢湾区,前面香山路,东面复兴公园,东面偏北,看见祖父 独幢洋房一角,西面后方,皋兰路尼古拉斯东正教堂,三十年代俄侨 建立,据说是纪念苏维埃处决的沙皇,尼古拉二世,打雷闪电阶段, 阴森可惧,太阳底下,比较养眼。蓓蒂拉紧阿宝,小身体靠紧,头发飞 舞。东南风一劲,听见黄浦江船鸣,圆号宽广的嗡嗡声,抚慰少年人 胸怀。阿宝对蓓蒂说,乖囡,下去吧,绍兴阿婆讲了,不许爬屋顶。蓓 蒂拉紧阿宝说,让我再看看呀,绍兴阿婆最坏。阿宝说,嗯。蓓蒂说, 我乖吧。阿宝摸摸蓓蒂的头说,下去吧,去弹琴。蓓蒂说,晓得了。这 一段对话,是阿宝永远的记忆。

此地,是阿宝父母解放前就租的房子,蓓蒂住底楼,同样是三间,大 间摆钢琴。帮佣的绍兴阿婆,吃长素,荤菜烧得好,油镬前面,不试咸 淡。阿婆喜欢蓓蒂。每次蓓蒂不开心,阿婆就说,我来讲故事。蓓蒂 说,不要听,不要听。[…]吃过夜饭,蓓蒂的琴声传到楼上。有时,琴声 停了,听到蓓蒂哭。阿宝娘说,底楼的乡下老太,脾气真不好。阿宝爸 爸说,不要再讲乡下,城里,剥削阶级思想。阿宝娘说,小姑娘,自小 要有好习惯,尤其上海。阿宝爸爸不响。阿宝娘说,绍兴阿婆哪里懂 呢,里外粗细一道做。阿宝爸爸说,旧社会,楼上贴身丫鬟,楼下大脚 娘姨。阿宝娘不响。阿宝爸爸说,少讲旧社会事体。 蓓蒂的爸爸,某日从研究所带回一只兔子。蓓蒂高兴,绍兴阿婆不高 兴,因为供应紧张,小菜越来越难买,阿婆不让兔子进房间,只许小 花园里吃野草。礼拜天,蓓蒂抽了篮里的菜叶,让兔子吃。蓓蒂对兔 子说,小兔快点吃,快点吃,阿婆要来了[…]一天阿婆冲过来说,蓓蒂 呀蓓蒂呀,每天小菜多少,阿婆有数的。阿婆抢过菜叶,拖蓓蒂进厨 房,蓓蒂就哭了,只吃饭,菜拨到阿婆碗里。阿婆说,吃了菜,小牙齿 就白。蓓蒂说,不要白。阿婆不响,吃了菜梗,菜叶子揿到蓓蒂碗里, 蓓蒂仍旧哭。阿婆说,等阿婆挺尸了,再哭丧,快吃。蓓蒂一面哭一面 吃。[…]蓓蒂说,小兔也要断气了。阿婆说,是呀是呀。蓓蒂说,花园 里,野草已经吃光了。阿婆抱紧蓓蒂说,乖囡,顾不到兔子了,人只能 顾自家了,要自家吃。蓓蒂哭了起来。阿婆不响。附近,听不到一部汽 车来往。阿婆拍拍蓓蒂说,菜秧一样的小人呀,眼看一点点长大了, ...


ENGLISH Besides, Jin prefers to leave the characters' feelings unexplored, frequently using the phrase 'No sound from somebody' to signal a pause.

Blossoms

translated by Yian Zhang

Bao was ten; Beidi, his neighbour, was six. The two climbed up to the roof from the false third floor; the tiles were warm, half of the Luwan District was in eyes; Xiangshan Road was in the front; Fuxing Park was to the east; to the north of the east, they saw the corner of grandfather's detached house; to the back of the west, Nicholas Orthodox Church of Gaolan Road was there, built by Russian expatriates in the thirties, allegedly in memory of Nicholas II the Tsar who was executed by the Soviets; in the stage of thunder and lightning, it was filled with eeriness and dread; under the sun, it was a bit more eye-pleasing. Beidi drew Bao close; the petite figure leaning close; the hair was fluttering. The southeast wind strengthened; the sound of the boats on the Huangpu River was heard; the broad hum of the French horn soothed the youngsters' chests. Bao said to Beidi, get down sweety; never climb the roof; Shaoxing Granny keeps telling you that. Beidi drew Bao close and said, let me take another glimpse; Shaoxing Granny is the worst. Bao said, well. Beidi said, I'm good, right? Bao petted Betty's head and said, go down, play the piano. Beidi said, all right. An everlasting memory, Bao bears in mind. Before Liberation, Bao’s parents rented this house; Beidi lived on the ground floor, with three rooms as well as Bao’s; the biggest one set up with a piano. Shaoxing Granny the housekeeper, ate vegetables of all time; she cooked the meats well; in front of the frying pans, she never tried the taste of her cooking. Granny liked Beidi. Whenever Beidi was upset, she would say, let me tell you a story. Beidi said, no, no. […] After the evening meal, the sound of Betty's piano beamed upstairs. Sometimes, the sound of the piano stopped, crying from Beidi was heard. Bao's mum said, the old hick lady on the ground floor, she has a really nasty temper. Bao's father said, stop talking about the hick, about the city, it’s too exploiting class. Bao's mum said, young ladies, they should have good habits since childhood, especially in Shanghai. No sound from Bao's father. Bao's mum said, Shaoxing Granny is completely unaware of it, she does and teaches the housework and homework and everything else together. Bao's father said, in the Old Society, the personal maids lived upstairs, and the freemoving aunties lived downstairs. No sound from Bao's mum. Bao's father said, do not bring up the history of Old Society. 23


CHINESE (SHANGHAI) 乖囡,乖,眼睛闭紧。蓓蒂不响,眼睛闭紧。阿婆说,老早底,有一个大 老爷,真名叫公冶长,是懒惰人,一点事体不会做,只懂鸟叫,有一 天,一只仙鹤跳到绿松树上,对大老爷讲,公冶长,公冶长。大老爷走 到门口问,啥事体。仙鹤讲,南山顶上有只羊,侬吃肉,我吃肠。大老 爷高兴了,爬到南山上面,吃了几碗羊肉,一点不让仙鹤吃。有天,一 只叫天子跳到芦苇上讲,公冶长,公冶长。大老爷走到门口问,叽叽 喳喳,有啥事体。叫天子讲,北山顶上有只羊,侬吃肉,我吃肠。大老 爷蛮高兴,跑到北山上面,拎回半爿羊肉,一点不让叫天子吃。有一 天,有一天,绍兴阿婆一面讲,一面拍,蓓蒂不动了,小手滑落下来。 思南路一点声音也听不见了。阿婆讲第五个回合,一只凤凰跳到梧 桐树上面,蓓蒂已经睏了。阿婆讲故事,习惯轮番讲下去,讲得阿宝 不知不觉,身体变轻,时间变慢。

‘Eclipse’, Cristina Keiko Tomita ...


ENGLISH

Beidi's father, one day, brings home a bunny from the Institute. Beidi was pleased; Shaoxing Granny was not, because the food supplies were tight; veggies were becoming harder to buy; Granny refused to let the rabbit into the room, and only allow it to eat the grass in the small garden. On Sundays, Beidi tore off the leaves from the basket, and then let the bunny eat them. Beidi said to the bunny, bunny eat quickly, eat quickly, Granny is coming. […] One day Granny rushed over and said, Beidi Beidi, I know how many veggies we have, I know it well. Granny snatched the leaves, and dragged Beidi into the kitchen; Beidi just cried; she only ate rice, and plucked the vegetables into Granny's bowl. Granny said, eat veggies, the teeth will whiten then. Beidi said, no white. No sound from Granny; vegetable stalks were eaten; the leaves were snapped into Beidi's bowl; Beidi continued to cry. Granny said, wait until Granny becomes a corpse to weep and mourn, now, quick to eat. Beidi was sobbing and eating at the same time. […] Beidi said, the bunny is going to die too. Granny said, yes. Beidi said, the grass in the garden, it has been eaten up. Granny grabbed Betty tightly and said, good baby, we can't take care of the bunny anymore, we can only take care of our own, we have to eat for ourselves. Beidi burst into tears. No sound from Granny. There was not a single car passing by; no sound was in this area. Granny patted Betty and said, you're a tiny girl who was as big as a vegetable stalk, now you are growing up and up, good baby; listen to me, close your eyes, sleep tight. No sound from Beidi; her eyes closed tightly. Granny said, long long ago, there was an elder, whose name was Gongye Chang the lazy man, who could not do anything at all; he only knew how to talk to birds; one day, a crane jumped onto a green pine tree and said to the elder, Gongye Chang, Gongye Chang. The elder went to the door and asked, who is it? The crane said, there is a sheep on the top of the southern mountain, you eat the meat, let me eat the guts. The elder was happy; he climbed to the top of the southern mountain, and ate several bowls of sheep meat; he did not let the crane eat any of it. One day, a lark jumped onto the reeds and said, Gongye Chang, Gongye Chang. The elder went to the door and asked, noisy, who is it. The lark said, there is a sheep on the top of the northern mountain, you eat the meat, let me eat the guts. The elder was happy; he climbed to the top of the northern mountain, and brought back half of it; he did not let the lark eat any of it. One day, one day; Shaoxing Granny talked and patted; Beidi kept silent; the tiny hand slipped down. The sound of Sinan Road could not be heard. When Granny came to the fifth turn, a phoenix jumped onto the top of a plane tree; Beidi was already sleepy. Granny had a habit, which is to tell a story in a loop; Bao listened to the story as well; without realizing it, his body became lighter; time slowed down.

25


ENGLISH

‘Happiness’ Eavan Boland

Boland simultaneously gives us every small detail and tells us very little. ‘Happiness’ is a poem that does exactly this. It takes us on a

A Connemara summer. 1940. My father is learning Irish. My mother is painting the harvest. She holds umber and burnt orange up against the canvas. He says samradh for summer and atais for happiness. The Atlantic salts the dark. She packs her colours. It is time to go home to the city where I have yet to be born. They cannot see my sadness as the train moves east through fields, shadows, farms towards my life. They do not hear the wheels saying - as I can never again, never again.

‘The Road’, Anonymous ...


IRISH journey from the joy of the west to the sadness of the east whilst omitting what it is that causes this change in emotional state.

‘Aiteas’ aistrithe ag Rebecca Coxon

Samhradh Chonamara. 1940. Tá m'athair ag foghlaim na Gaeilge. Mo mháthair ag péinteáil an fhómhair. Crochann sí umbar agus flannbhuí dóite in airde le taobh an chanbháis. Deir sé samhradh ar summer agus aiteas ar happiness. Sailleann an Atlantach an dorchadas. Pacálann sí a dathanna. Tá sé in am dul abhaile chuig an gcathair ina bhfuil mo bhreith fós romham. Ní féidir leo mo bhrón a fheiceáil agus an traein ag bogadh soir trí pháirceanna, scáthanna, fheirmeacha chun mo shaoil. Ní chloiseann siad na rothaí ag rá - mar a chloisim féin go deo arís, go deo arís.

27


ENGLISH

Oona Alice Lyon

Oona is an experimental novel without the letter O, an omission connected to the protagonist’s name to symbolize her mother’s loss. Besides the phonological

Ireland is in Ireland. Arrived age nine and Ireland invaded. Green green green talk talk talk gray sky gray sky grey sky – very near – hedge hedge wall wall bull sheep sheep sheep ass ass wall wall wall cart cart cart sheep sheep sheep calf sheep calf calf bull bull bull turf fire turf fire turf fire turf fire. Acrid turf burn scent breath printed in me. Relatives chatted flagrantly. Claimed as family by them. Great aunt Margaret in a hairnet and slubby cardigan. UncleAuntMargaretNualaBernadineGerardineMarianPatriciaFrancisIda. They hadn’t much. Cattle, an ass, turf in the barn. Wet farm. Me in my pressed white shirt making the limewash walls seem blue-grey. Yes, I am a Yank with my trimmed hair and well-laundered dresses. I wasn’t an I. My edges blurred. Ireland filled me up in the places I wasn’t. Big suburb gaps in me. Mist, which they called misht. Uncle Ant cut peat and gave me a piece. I wrapped it in newspaper and stuck it in my blue Pan Am bag. Desire. It was in the way way back in my walnut cabinet. A teenage Tuesday I hunkered in, grabbed it then stuffed it further, deeper in the dark. ...


PORTUGUESE transcription below the title, I chose to remove the letter U instead of the O to bring this connection to Brazilian readers.

U’na translated by Amábile Alice Deretti

A Irlanda é na Irlanda. Vim com nove e a Irlanda tinha me dominado. Verde verde verde fala fala fala tempo cinza tempo cinza tempo cinza – bem perto – cerca cerca sebe sebe boi ovelha ovelha ovelha asno asno sebe sebe sebe carreta carreta carreta ovelha ovelha ovelha bezerro ovelha bezerro bezerro boi boi boi relva fogo relva fogo relva fogo relva fogo. O cheiro acre do fogo na relva impresso em mim. Parentes conversavam flagrantemente. Declarada família por eles. Tia-avó Margaret com redinha de cabelo e cardigã atarracado. TioTiaMargaretNoalaBernadineGerardineMarianPatriciaFrancisIda. Não eram nada demais. Gado, asno, relva no celeiro. Fazenda molhada. Minha camisa branca passada deixava as paredes de cal em tom anilacinzentado. Sim, eis a Yankee de cabelo aparado e vestidos bem-passados. Era, e não era. Minhas margens ficaram borradas. A Irlanda me transborda em locais sem nem estar. Grandes imediações espaçadas em mim. A névoa, do inglês mist, chamavam de misht. Tio Tia cortam o composto e passam pra mim. Enrolo no jornal e boto dentro da minha bolsa Pan Am anil. Desejo. Deixei lá pra trás, no armário de madeira de noz. Essa terça jovial ancorada sobre mim, agarrei-a e levei cada vez mais e mais pro abismo sombrio. 29


PORTUGUESE

‘para este país’ Lubi Prates

para este país eu traria os documentos que me tornam gente os documentos que comprovam: eu existo parece bobagem, mas aqui eu ainda não tenho esta certeza: existo. para este país eu traria meu diploma os livros que eu li minha caixa de fotografias meus aparelhos eletrônicos minhas melhores calcinhas para este país eu traria meu corpo para este país eu traria todas essas coisas & mais, mas não me permitiram malas : o espaço era pequeno demais aquele navio poderia afundar aquele avião poderia partir-se com o peso que tem uma vida. para este país eu trouxe a cor da minha pele meu cabelo crespo meu idioma materno minhas comidas preferidas na memória da minha língua para este país eu trouxe ...

Lubi Prates conceals her traumas in this poem. Not only hers: the pain of an entire people is underthrough-on-in-at-above each of

meus orixás sobre a minha cabeça toda minha árvore genealógica antepassados, as raízes para este país eu trouxe todas essas coisas & mais : ninguém notou, mas minha bagagem pesa tanto.


ENGLISH these words. Lubi Prates doesn’t need to say race to be an emergent voice against racism.

to this country I would bring the documents that make me human the documents that prove: I do exist it seems silly, but look I am still not sure whether: I do exist. to this country I would bring my diploma, books I read my box of photographs my electronic devices my best panties to this country I would bring my body to this country I would bring all these things & more but I wasn’t allowed any luggage : there wasn’t enough room

‘to this country’ translated by Rafael Mendes I brought my orixás over my head my entire family tree ancestors, roots to this country I brought all these things & more : nobody noticed but my luggage is so heavy.

that ship could sink that plane could break apart with the weight of a life. to this country I brought my skin colour my curly hair my mother tongue my favourite dishes in the memory of my language to this country 31


‘Ceist na Teangan I’, Ciara Fennessy

‘Ceist na Teangan II’, Ciara Fennessy ...


IRISH

‘Ceist na Teangan’ Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill Nuala Ní Domhnaill’s poem explores the unknown journeys that languages take. Her hope for Irish is that it will be saved like Moses, but its path there is an ellipsis, an Cuirim mo dhóchas ar snámh i mbáidín teangan faoi mar a leagfá naíonán i gcliabhán a bheadh fite fuaite de dhuilleoga feileastraim is bitiúmin agus pic bheith cuimilte lena thóin ansan é a leagadh síos i measc na ngiolcach is coigeal na mban sí le taobh na habhann, féachaint n’fheadaraís cá dtabharfaidh an sruth é, féachaint, dála Mhaoise, an bhfóirfidh iníon Fharoinn?

ITALIAN

‘La questione della lingua’ translated by Ciara Fennessy unknown. Does her poem being translated into foreign languages directly from the Irish represent it being found?

Metto la mia speranza a navigare in una piccola barca della lingua come metteresti un infante in una culla di foglie di iris intrecciate, il fondo ricoperto con bitume e pece poi appoggiato fra le canne e il giunco sulla sponda del fiume non sapendo dove la corrente la porterà, magari, come Mosè, dalla figlia di un Faraone?

33


ENGLISH

‘Dream Variations’ Langston Hughes

This poem is a perfect example of the employment of ellipsis as a literary device. Thus, the recurring dots are a clear witness of the To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening Beneath a tall tree While night comes on gently, Dark like me— That is my dream! To fling my arms wide In the face of the sun, Dance! Whirl! Whirl! Till the quick day is done. Rest at pale evening . . . A tall, slim tree . . . Night coming tenderly Black like me.

ARABIC

‫أطياف ُحلُم‬ translated by Shireen Moussa dreamy state of the author as he recounts his dream of the survival of people of color. ‫اعي ال مبا ٍل‬ ّ ‫أراين ملق ًيا بذر‬ ،‫كناي قرن ٌة عىل ناصي ِة الشّ مس‬ َ ‫ُس‬ َ ‫ألتف‬ ‫اقصا‬ ّ ‫أجدُين‬ ً ‫حول نفيس مرت‬ .‫بياض ال ّنها ِر كاألمس‬ ُ ‫يغيب ع ّني‬ َ ‫حتّى‬ ‫ثم أسرتيح يف اسرتخاء بالعيش‬ ‫تحت شجر ٍة عالي ٍة تحاكيني بالهمس‬ َ ‫رويدًا رويدًا يدنو م ّني الل ّي ُل الحالك مثيل‬ !‫ك ْم أم ّني ال ّنفس‬ ‫اعي ال مبا ٍل‬ ّ ‫أراين ملق ًيا بذر‬ ،‫ح ٌّر يف لقا ٍء مع الشّ مس‬ !‫ألتف! أدو ُر‬ ّ !‫أرقص‬ ُ ‫وأنا‬ َ ‫حتّى‬ .‫يزول ال ّنها ُر ال َعج ُِل كاألمس‬ ‫أرتاح يف سكونِ العش ّي ِة‬ ُ ‫وإذا يب‬ ‫شجر ٌة عالي ٌة تحاكيني بالهمس‬ ‫رويدًا رويدًا يدنو الل ّي ُل م ّني بحنان‬ .‫ليل أسو ٌد مثيل‬ ٌ

‘Éagmais’, Alexander Fay ...


GERMAN - ENGLISH This untitled poem draws the reader into the raw scenery that opens up behind its cut sentences. Do you hear the rustle? Can you smell the sea?

untitled Anja Kampmann translated by Anile Tmava

wir sehen so wie der sommer es nicht vermag als vorgriff auf die zeit die uns bleibt flandern die schlucht die nicht mehr ist ein stein der nicht fällt die weite in deinen geöffneten augen hell eine sandbank ihr rauschen gegen die eigene zeit was kommt aus den tiefen der ferne was hütet im schlaf das eigene grau und verspricht trotz der kälte dass all dies uns bleibt wenn die wasser schon steigen auf denen unsere geschichte dann treibt hier strandet leis eine reglose zahl und wo all diese träume dann bleiben. we see how the summer fails as anticipation upon the time that remains flanders the gorge that no longer is a stone that does not fall the immenseness in your widened eyes bright a sandbank its rustling against one’s time what emerges from the depths of afar what sleeping guards its own grey and promises despite the cold that all this remains with us when the waters already rise on which our story drifts here strands silently an inert number and where all these dreams then remain. 35


‘The Diary of a Superfluous Man’, Shireen Moussa

‘The Factory’, Judy Carrol Deeley ...


HINDUSTANI

महबू ब Jai Singh

ENGLISH

‘Beloved’ translated by Khushi Jain

'Mehboob' is in itself an ellipsis. Dreams, fleeting as they are, vanish once day breaks, and all that is left is an echo of unsaid words. In the translation, I have used repetition

and paragraph-breaks to imitate the ellipsis. A stunning piece on the transience of moments, 'Mehboob' intensifies the pleasures of the unsaid of the in-betweens.

कल सुबह जब नींद खुलेगी और टूटेगा यह ख़्वाब मेरा तो क्या यहीं होगी तुम मेरे सिरहाने पर अपनी ज़ुल्फ़ों की ख़ुशबू बिखराए हुए? और क्या एक ही साज़ में लिपटेगी रात की खामोशी और तुम्हारी साँसों की सुरईया? ... यह ख़्वाब जो देख रहा हूँ ... डर रहा हूँ की टूट ना जाए एक हलचल ना हो किसी भी करवट की तू जाग ना जाए यह रात अब रोक ली जाए ज़रा गर्दिश में डाल दिए जाएँ यह चाँद सितारे पेशी हो इनकी मेरे ख़्वाबों की अदालत में फ़र्मान जारी कर दिया जाए ... कि खुलने ना दें मेरी पलकों को आज मेरा महबूब सो रहा है मेरी आँखों में ...

When I wake up tomorrow And this dream has to face reality Will you still be here Diffusing the air with the fragrance of your tresses? And will the quiet of the night And the rhythm of your breathing Melt into the same melody? This dream. This dream. Oh, this delicate dream. I fear that it will shatter. Let the bending, meandering folds Of this bed sheet lie still and silent So as to not stir you. Let the night be suspended And gyrate the moon and the stars. Summon them to the tribunal of my dreams And let it be decreed, Don’t gather the pleats of my eyelids today. My beloved sleeps in these orbs of mine. 37


AEOLIC GREEK/ENGLISH

‘Fragment 26: A Three-Way Dialogue’ Sappho ]Θαμέω[ ὄ]ττινα[ς γάρ] εὖ θέω, κῆνοί με μά]λιστα πά[ντων] σίνοντα]ι. ]ἀλεμάτ[ ] . γόνωμ[ ].ιμ᾽ οὐ πρ[ ]αι ] σέ, θέλω[ ] το πάθη[ ]. Αν, ἔγω δ᾽ ἔμ᾽ [αὔται τοῦτο σύ]νοιδα ].[.]. τοισ[. . .] . [ ]εναμ[ ].[.]. [

A translation of Sappho’s ‘ Fragment 26’ into French from Anne Carson’s translation into English (from the original Aeolic Greek). Much of the meaning in

] frequently ] for those I treat well are the ones who most of all ] harm me ] crazy ] ] ] ] you, I want ] to suffer ] in myself I am aware of this ] ] ]

‘Three Muses’, Naemi Dehde ...


FRENCH Sappho’s fragments rests upon what is absent, which demands the translator to fill in the gaps. In this sense, the translation relates to the theme of ellipsis.

‘Fragment 26: A Three-Way Dialogue’ translated by Alexandra Corey

] souvent ] car ceux que je traite bien sont ceux qui me font ] le plus mal ] c’est dingue1 ] ] ] ] toi, je veux ] souffrir ] en moi j’en suis consciente. ] ] ]

...

I have translated Anne Carson’s ‘crazy’ as ‘dingue’ such that it refers to the situation itself rather than a self-reflection on the part of the poet. I would argue that the way in which this adjective stands alone halfway through the fragment gives way to two possible interpretations: ‘crazy’ as a reflection of the poet’s reaction to the experience, or ‘crazy’ as a reflection of the experience itself. With a translation of ‘crazy’ as ‘[ça me rend] folle’, the (female) poet would see herself as made ‘crazy’ by the harm articulated prior (as opposed to the masculine ‘fou’). The original Greek that corresponds to Carson’s ‘crazy’ is ‘ἀλέματος’ which means ‘idle’ or ‘in vain’, indicating that the word ‘crazy’ most likely refers to the paradoxical nature of the situation, as well as the harm inflicted. The harm is ‘in vain’ when the poet ‘want(s) to suffer’. Much of the meaning in Sappho’s fragments rests upon what is absent, something which allows for varying interpretations. 1

39


ENGLISH

‘I cannot live with You’ Emily Dickinson I cannot live with You – It would be Life – And Life is over there – Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to – Putting up Our Life – His Porcelain – Like a Cup – Discarded of the Housewife – Quaint – or Broke – A newer Sevres pleases – Old Ones crack – I could not die – with You – For One must wait To shut the Other's Gaze down – You – could not – And I – could I stand by And see You – freeze – Without my Right of Frost – Death's privilege? Nor could I rise – with You – Because Your Face Would put out Jesus' – That New Grace Glow plain – and foreign On my homesick Eye – Except that You than He ...

Poem 640 is beguilingly simple which makes it challenging to translate. I have tried to recreate the effect of Dickinson’s cesuras by playing with syntax

Shone closer by – They'd judge Us – How – For You – served Heaven – You know, Or sought to – I could not – Because You saturated Sight – And I had no more Eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise And were You lost, I would be – Though My Name Rang loudest On the Heavenly fame – And were You – saved – And I – condemned to be Where You were not – That self – were Hell to Me – So We must meet apart – You there – I – here – With just the Door ajar That Oceans are – and Prayer – And that White Sustenance – Despair –


HINDUSTANI

and leaving many of the lines open-ended. Since Hindustani demands it, unfortunately, I have had to gender the poet-persona's interlocutor.

मैं तुम्हारे साथ रह नहीं सकती वह ज़िन्दगी होगी ... और ज़िंदगी तो वहाँ है उस दराज़ में जिसकी चाबी कब्र कीं के पास है दिखावा ... हमारी ज़िंदगी का जैसे चीनी का कप ग्रहणी का फैंका हुआ अजीब - टूटा पड़ा नये से खुशियाँ हैं बीते हुओं में दरारें पड़ जाती हैं मैं तुम्हारे साथ मर नहीं सकती क्योंकि मोहब्बत में फ़र्ज़-ए-इंतज़ार है महबूबा की पलकों के पर्दे सरकाने का पर तुम ... तुम बेसब्र थी और क्या मैं खड़ी-खड़ी देख पाती, तुम्हारी जमती रूह को अपने बर्फीले हक के बगैर वह इख़्तियार-ए-मौत? ना ही मैं उठ सकती हूँ, तुम्हारे साथ क्योंकि तुम्हारे चेहरे के आफ़ताब परवरदिगार को फीका कर देंगे वह जगमग है

मैं तु म् हारे साथ रह नहीं सकती translated by Khushi Jain दमकती हो यह सब आँखें चुभती हैं क्योंकि तुम्हें जन्नत की चाहत थी या चाहत की कोशिश पर मेरी आरज़ूएँ नाकाम रहीं क्योंकि मेरी नज़रों में बस तुम थी मेरी आँखें तुमसे लबालब रहीं और इस नापाक फ़िरदौस की ख्वाहिश की कोई जगह ना बची और अगर तुम खो जाओ तो मैं ... मेरा पता आसमान में गूँजती ग़ज़लों को भी नहीं मिलेगा और अगर तुम्हें जन्नत मिल जाए और मुझे सज़ा-ए-दूरी तो वही मेरा जहन्नुम है तो हमें यूँही मिलना होगा तुम उधर, मैं ... इधर पलकों से खुले दरवाज़ों और समन्दरों के फ़ासलों की तरह धुँधली दुआओं के बीच यह कफ़ूर सी रोज़गारी और तन्हाई के साथ

कोरा-कोरा, अजनबी सा मेरी तरसती आँखों पे पर वह नहीं, तुम 41


ITALIAN

ENGLISH

‘Non recidere forbice quel volto…’

‘Do not sever, shears, that face’

Eugenio Montale

translated by Elena Poletto

The collection of poems Le Occasioni (1939) is characterized by aposiopesis. In order to avoid talking about traumatic events, the ‘silence strategy’ creates real ‘textual scars’

in the poem. In this motet, the scar is representing the unutterability of memorial destruction, the death of the lover/muse in the poet’s memory.

Non recidere, forbice, quel volto, solo nella memoria che si sfolla, non far del grande suo viso in ascolto la mia nebbia di sempre.

Do not sever, shears, that face in the disbanding memory alone, do not make that close listening face of hers my mist of ever.

Un freddo cala… Duro il colpo svetta. E l’acacia ferita da sé scrolla il guscio di cicala nella prima belletta di Novembre.

The cold snaps… lopped off, hard thump. The wounded acacia shakes off the shells of cicada in the first November ooze.

‘Monica’, Penny Stuart ...


GREEK

Μακρυά Constantine P. Cavafy An iconic poem by Cavafy written in 1914 captures queer desire and memory through an array of powerful images. The ample use of ellipses and hyphens captures

ENGLISH

‘Far Away’ translated by Natasha Remoundou

the speaker’s efforts to recount the fragmentary remembrance of a loved one against the relentless passage of time, that August of his youth.

Θα ’θελα αυτήν την μνήμη να την πω… Μα έτσι εσβήσθη πια… σαν τίποτε δεν απομένει — γιατί μακριά, στα πρώτα εφηβικά μου χρόνια κείται.

I would like this memory to utter... But so it has been erased...as though nothing remains of itFor far away it lies, during my early youth.

Δέρμα σαν καμωμένο από ιασεμί… Εκείνη του Αυγούστου — Αύγουστος ήταν; — η βραδιά… Μόλις θυμούμαι πια τα μάτια· ήσαν, θαρρώ, μαβιά… Α ναι, μαβιά· ένα σαπφείρινο μαβί.

Skin as if made of jasmine... That August - was it August? - night... The eyes I only just remember; they were, I think, deep purple... Ah, yes, deep purple; a sapphire kind of purple.

‘With her Elfin Eyes’, Ellecia Vaughan 43


ROMANIAN

‘Dorul’ Nina Cassian Nina Cassian’s use of ellipsis expresses a longing, a lover-shaped emptiness that manifests itself as physical ache: the (mostly) untranslatable Romanian word

...

ENGLISH

‘Longing’ translated by Ioana R Ă ducu dorul. Around her, nature falls into a state of silence and somnolence, as though to further deepen the solitude of the poet’s never-ending wait.

Dragostea mea, ancoră grea, ține-mă strâns; toate mă dor: gura—de dor ochii—de plâns.

Oh, love of mine, anchor through the spine, smother my fears; my whole being’s aching: my mouth — of longing, my eyes — of tears.

Vântul căzu— poate că nu, dar s-a făcut liniște-n cer fără puteri, ca la-nceput.

The wind huffs, distraught – – perhaps it is not, but silence now reigns over heavens above, stripped of vim and love, as time’s gallop wanes.

Nu mai visez pași prin zăpezi, urme de vulpi; nu mai sunt flori, sufletul lor doarme în bulbi.

In dreams, long ago: footsteps in the snow, fox paths through the weeds; the flowers all withered, their soul that once shivered now sleeps in the seeds.

Singurătăți... Nu mi te-arăți, nu-mi trimiți vești. Cât fără rost. Oare ai fost? Oare mai ești?

Barren days overlap… You never show up, or write if you’re ill. Dead-end affair. Were you ever there? Are you there still?


ENGLISH

RUSSIAN

‘Contrast’

« Отличие »

Emily Dickinson

translated by Dana Bagirova

Not only does Dickinson’s punctuation assist the rhythm of both stanzas, but the dashes also serve to draw the reader deeper into her mental landscape, so that

the minimalist lines convey much emotion. Simple by Dickinson’s standards, the poem points us to what I feel is a very wintery mood, with aid of ellipsis.

A door just opened on a street – I, lost, was passing by – and instant’s width of warmth disclosed, and wealth, and company.

Блуждала я по улице – Вдруг, распахнулась дверь – Богатства раскрывая мне, Тепло, и компанию друзей.

The door as sudden shut, and I, I, lost, was passing by, – Lost doubly, but by contrast most, Enlightening misery.

Закрылась снова дверь, и я, Вдвойне уж потерявшись, – В главном отличии от них, Просвещаю несчастье.

‘Ragaire’, Alexander Fay 45


FRENCH

‘La grasse matinée’ Jacques Prévert

In this poem, Jacques Prévert walks us through the story of a man who’s starving and who ends up killing someone else to

Il est terrible le petit bruit de l'œuf dur cassé sur un comptoir d'étain il est terrible ce bruit quand il remue dans la mémoire de l'homme qui a faim elle est terrible aussi la tête de l'homme la tête de l'homme qui a faim quand il se regarde à six heures du matin dans la glace du grand magasin une tête couleur de poussière ce n'est pas sa tête pourtant qu'il regarde dans la vitrine de chez Potin il s'en fout de sa tête l'homme il n'y pense pas il songe il imagine une autre tête une tête de veau par exemple avec une sauce de vinaigre ou une tête de n'importe quoi qui se mange et il remue doucement la mâchoire doucement et il grince des dents doucement car le monde se paye sa tête et il ne peut rien contre ce monde et il compte sur ses doigts un deux trois un deux trois cela fait trois jours qu'il n'a pas mangé et il a beau se répéter depuis trois jours Ça ne peut pas durer ça dure trois jours trois nuits sans manger et derrière ces vitres ...


ENGLISH finally be able to eat. He uses an ellipsis to express that a man was murdered.

‘La grasse matinée’ translated by Eléonore Maréchal

It's terrible the small sound of a broken boiled egg on a tin counter it's terrible, that sound when it stirs in the memory of the man who's hungry it's terrible also, the head of the man the head of the man who's hungry when he looks at himself at six o'clock in the morning in the window of the department store a head coloured like dust yet, it's not his head that he looks at in Potin’s storefront the man, he doesn't care about his head he doesn't think about it he thinks he imagines another head a calf 's head, for instance with a vinegar sauce or a head of anything edible and he gently moves his jaw gently and he gently grinds his teeth for the world plays tricks on his head and he can't anything against this world and he counts on his fingers one two three one two three it's been three days since he has eaten and he may have been telling himself since three days It can’t go on it goes on three days three nights without eating and behind these windows 47


FRENCH

...

ces pâtés ces bouteilles ces conserves poissons morts protégés par les boîtes boîtes protégées par les vitres vitres protégées par les flics flics protégées par la crainte que de barricades pour six malheureuses sardines… Un peu plus loin le bistrot café-crème et croissants chauds l'homme titube et dans l'intérieur de sa tête un brouillard de mots un brouillard de mots sardines à manger œuf dur café-crème café arrosé rhum café-crème café-crème café-crime arrosé sang !… Un homme très estimé dans son quartier a été égorgé en plein jour l'assassin le vagabond lui a volé deux francs soit un café arrosé zéro franc soixante-dix deux tartines beurrées et vingt-cinq centimes pour le pourboire du garçon. Il est terrible le petit bruit de l'œuf dur cassé sur un comptoir d'étain il est terrible ce bruit quand il remue dans la mémoire de l'homme qui a faim.


these pâtés these bottles these cans dead fish protected by cans cans protected by glass glass protected by cops cops protected by fear So many barricades for only six unhappy sardines… A bit further away, the bistrot café-crème and warm croissants the man staggers and in the inside of his head a fog of words a fog of words sardines to eat hard boiled egg café-crème coffee laced with rum café-crème café-crème coffee-crime laced with blood!... A man well esteemed in his neighborhood Had his throat slit in broad daylight the murderer, the vagabond, robbed him two francs so one laced coffee zero franc seventy two buttered slices of bread and twenty-five cents for the garçon’s tip. It's terrible the small sound of a broken boiled egg on a tin counter It's terrible that sound when it stirs in the memory of the man who's hungry.

ENGLISH

‘Unentitled’, Penny Stuart 49


ARABIC

ENGLISH

‫أنا قطار الحزن‬

‘I am the Train of Sorrow’

Nizar Qabbani The device of ellipsis is obvious in the repetition of dots; thus, indicating a sort of hesitation and ..‫أركب آالف القطارات‬ ‫وأمتطي فجيعتي‬.. ‫وأمتطي غيم سجارايت‬ ‫ أحملها‬.. ‫حقيبة واحدة‬ ‫فيها عناوين حبيبايت‬.. ‫ حبيبايت‬، ‫ باألمس‬، ‫من كن‬.. ‫ مرسعا‬..‫مييض قطاري مرسعا‬ ‫ميضغ يف طريقه لحم‬.. ‫املسافات‬ ‫يفرتس الحقول يف طريقه‬ ‫يلتهم األشجار يف طريقه‬ ‫يلحس أقدام البحريات‬.. ‫يسألني مفتش القطار عن‬ ‫تذكريت‬ ‫وموقفي اآليت‬.. ‫وهل هناك موقف آيت ؟‬.. ‫فنادق العامل ال تعرفني‬ ‫وال عناوين حبيبايت‬.. ‫ال رصيف يل‬.. ‫ يف كل رحاليت‬.. ‫أقصده‬ ‫ هاربة‬.. ‫أرصفتي جميعها‬ ‫ مني محطايت‬.. ‫هاربة‬.. ‫ مني محطايت‬.. ‫هاربة‬..

...

translated by Shireen Moussa pause. The protagonist is lamenting his lack of direction and destination. I onboard thousands of trains Dragging my calamity all the way In my cigarettes’ haze, my head remains My only suitcase, I carry away Inside, my lovers’ addresses stay They used to be so, yesterday My train gallops in an instance Chewing on the burden of distance On the fields and meadows, it preys And the trees on its path, it sways The lakes, it meets at a glance The train inspector asks in dismay Where’s your ticket? What’s your stance? Is there any? Not a chance! Hotel rooms owe me no recognition Nor do my lovers’ addresses as well All along my tiresome expedition I have no pavements on which to dwell My pavements, without an exception, Owe me nothing but farewell My train stops too, owe me nothing but desertion. Indeed. They owe me nothing but desertion.


GERMAN

‘Die Sorge des Hausvaters’ Franz Kafka

In this Kafka text, the House Father meets a mysterious immortal creature Odradek. The piece deals very much with issues of human existentialism; while the human

ENGLISH

‘The House Father’s Concern’ translated by Caroline Loughlin lifespan ends very much with a full stop, Odradek’s lifespan seems to be an ellipsis, continuing with no conclusion.

Übrigens sind selbst diese Antworten nicht immer zu erhalten; oft ist er lange stumm, wie das Holz, das er zu sein scheint.

By the way, these answers themselves are not always obtained; he is often dumb for a long time like the wood that he appears to be.

Vergeblich frage ich mich, was mit ihm geschehen wird. Kann er denn sterben? Alles, was stirbt, hat vorher eine Art Ziel, eine Art Tätigkeit gehabt und daran hat es sich zerrieben; das trifft bei Odradek nicht zu. Sollte er also einstmals etwa noch vor den Füßen meiner Kinder und Kindeskinder mit nachschleifendem Zwirnsfaden die Treppe hinunterkollern? Er schadet ja offenbar niemandem; aber die Vorstellung, daß er mich auch noch überleben sollte, ist mir eine fast schmerzliche.

To no avail I ask myself, what is going to happen to him. Can he then die? Everything that dies has previously had a kind of goal, a kind of function with which it has ground itself away; that doesn’t concern Odradek. So, in days to come would he perhaps still rumble under the stairs with grinding thread at the feet of my children and children’s children? He hurts admittedly no one; but the idea that he would also outlive me is one which almost hurts.

51


SPANISH

El luto humano José Revueltas

After many hazards, four people return home. However, the endless storm has flooded everything and it is unclear whether they are alive or dead. In this phantasmal scene, the

Podía ser la luna, tan pálido, apenas una mancha de luz. Sol enfermo que de pronto estaba ahí en el cenit, reblandecida su fuerza por las nubes grises; sol nocturno, fantasmal. Había cesado el aguacero y una lluvia fría restaba tan sólo sobre aquella inmensidad informe, que no podría ser nada, campo o pueblo o tierra o lugar humano. Un sol irremediable, espectro apenas, como ojo ciego meciéndose de derecha a izquierda dentro del cielo proceloso. La lluvia tiraba a cordel sus rayas verticales y no era lluvia sino manto de palabras repetidas. Un ojo viudo para contemplar la soledad, el martirio, y que a uno y otro lado, cual campana lívida, golpeaba cardinalmente al tocar, sin sonido, la lana negra, verde, gris, torva, de las nubes. Habrían muerto ya y esto, a lo mejor, era lo que seguía después de la vida: nubes, campanas y un ojo de cíclope en mitad del universo, acaso Dios. Caminaban, en efecto, dentro de su ataúd y la carne viva se les había tornado de madera funeral, crujiente. Detuviéronse todos: Úrsulo, Marcela, Calixto, Cecilia, ante un obstáculo. Caminaron antes sin otra oposición, casi libremente. Pero de súbito aquello, duro un tanto, que condensaba todo y que, a la vez, masa detenida, perpendicular, seca, aunque pudiera ser tocada inducía a la incertidumbre, pues cómo su presencia, después de tanto. Y el sol, de un lado a otro, caballo celeste. Cual si de pronto el aire tuviese puertas o muros o fronteras. Sí, un sol terrible, de otro planeta, no de la tierra, bailando como el sol de los barcos, negros a veces. Como el sol de los náufragos y la luna, a la vez, siniestra, amarillo sol enfermo de azafrán. [...] No se movieron de su sitio, sin sentir siquiera angustia o desolación. Estaban muertos, se sentían muertos y ya para qué todo. Sobrevino un silencio enorme e intenso. Era pavoroso ver cómo el agua corría sin el menor rumor, avanzando en un sueño mudo y pétreo. Ser pensante, de monstruosa consciencia, el agua sin piedad. De no morir aquellos hombres, se suicidarían, a tal grado se había hecho noción dentro de sus almas la muerte: la deseaban e iban hacia ella con pasos fatales y seguros; nada más deseaban solemnidad, una solemnidad interior que les diese tiempo de recibirla familiarmente, amorosamente, dentro de la casa inexorable del cuerpo. Ella entraba sin causar miedo, y jamás podría oírseles un grito, un lamento, mientras, poco a poco, se deslizase por las habitaciones resignadas. ...


ENGLISH ‘nocturnal’ sun symbolizes uncertainty, the futility of human struggles and the absence of God. Ellipsis manifests itself through these themes.

Human Mourning translated by Octavio Pérez Sánchez

It could be the moon, so pale, barely a blotch of light. Ailing sun there, suddenly at the zenith, its strength diminished by grey clouds. Nocturnal, ghastly sun. The downpour had ceased and a cold drizzle alone remained over that shapeless immensity. It couldn’t be anything, neither field nor town nor land nor human dwelling. An irredeemable sun, barely a shadow, like a blind eye rocking from right to left in the tempestuous sky. The rain strung its vertical lines, and it wasn’t rain but a mantle of repeated words. A widowed eye to contemplate the solitude, the martyrdom, striking cardinally against both sides, like a livid bell, as it touched soundlessly the black, green, grey, baleful wool of the clouds. They might have died and this, perhaps, was what came after life: clouds, bells and a cyclops’s eye in the middle of the universe, perchance God. Indeed they walked, within their coffins, and their living flesh had been rendered funerary, creaking wood. They all stopped: Ursulus, Marcella, Calixtus, Cecil; in front of an obstacle. Before they had walked without any other hindrance, almost freely. But all of a sudden, that thing, somewhat hard, an all-condensing thing, simultaneously a static, perpendicular, dry mass, that even if tangible led to uncertainty, for how could it be, how there, after so much. And the sun, from one side to the other, a celestial horse. As if the air suddenly had doors or walls or borders. Yes, a terrible sun, from another planet and not earthly, dancing like the sun of the ships, occasionally black. Like the sun of the shipwrecked and, simultaneously, a sinister moon. A sickly yellow sun of saffron. [...] They didn’t move from their spot, they didn’t even feel anguish or desolation. They were dead, they felt dead and what was the point of everything. An enormous and intense silence ensued. It was dreadful to watch how the water ran without the slightest murmur, moving along in a mute and stony dream. An intelligent being of enormous conscience, merciless water. Were those men not to die, they would kill themselves, such was the degree that death had imbued itself into their souls. They wished for it and went towards it with fateful, steady steps; solemnity was all they desired, an inner solemnity that would give them time to receive death in a familiar, loving way, within the inexorable house of the body. She would enter without causing fear, and never would a cry or lament be heard, as she would slither through the acquiescent rooms. 53


ENGLISH

‘r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-ag-r’ E.E. Cummings

E. E. Cummings’ elliptical narrative could not only be seen/ read in his fictions but also visual poems. His poetic ellipsis of any descriptive or illustrative

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r who a)s w(e loo)k upnowgath PPEGORHRASS eringint(oaThe):l eA !p: S a (r rlvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs) to rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly ,grasshopper;

...


CHINESE

languages, in this experimental work of art, enables the reader to observe the leap of a grasshopper directly on and out of the twodimensional page.

虫-虫-子-虫-虫-皿虫-虫-乍-虫-虫 translated by Bowen Wang

虫-虫-子-虫-虫-皿-虫-虫-乍-虫-虫 它 当) 我 (们盯) 着 看时此刻变 虫皿虫虫子虫虫虫虫乍虫 成了 (一 个某种) : 足 兆足 ! 夭: 着 来 (到 了面前 。 虫虫乍虫虫子虫虫皿虫虫 去 重新 (变) 组合 (成) 了起来 , 一只蚱蜢;

55


ENGLISH

RUSSIAN

«Написать мелким ‘To Be Closely Written шрифтом на клочке on a Small Piece of Paper Which Folded бумаги, который, если его плотно скатать в into a Tight Lozenge шарик, поместится Will Fit Any Girl's в медальон любой Locket ’ девушки»

William Carlos Williams With the unusual combination of an ellipsis followed by an exclamation mark, Williams conveys the simultaneous perturbation, excitement and fleeting beauty of Lo the leaves Upon the new autumn grass— Look at them well . . . !

translated by Anastasia McAuliffe everyday life and its little things. The title hints that it is a small and seemingly insignificant idea which we should nevertheless carry with us at all times. Взгляни на листья На молодой осенней траве— Присмотрись к ним как следует … !

‘Garden Number 7’, Meghan Flood ...


‘Ellipsis’, Meghan Flood 57


IRISH

‘ An Chéad Oíche ’ Pádraig Ó Cíobháin

This excerpt describes the first night a young man and woman spend together. We perceive in their conversation a kind of ellipsis, as we become aware

Bhí sí tamall ag machnamh. ‘Cad atá ar t’aigne?’ ‘Bhíos ag cuimhneamh anois díreach.’ ‘Cad air?’ ‘Is tú an chéad fhear riamh a thug bean orm. Is gnáthaí go dtugann daoine cailín orm. Is maith liom é sin. Bean. Bean is ea mise. Nach iontach an mhotháilt í. Téann criothán tríom nuair a thugann tú bean orm. Sin rud nár tharla riamh dom. Cuimhneoidh mé ar an oíche anocht go deo, fiú amháin má scaraimíd. Braithim gur bean anocht mé, den gcéad uair riamh. Fé mar gur fear tusa agus nach buachaill. Bhraithfinn i gcónaí im chailín beag scoile nuair a thugadh daoine cailín orm. Fiú amháin Aindrias. Cailín a thugadh sé orm.’ ‘Cé Aindrias?’ bhraith sé buille fé mar a bheadh lascadh fachta aige ó mhiúil san ucht. ‘Sin é an buachaill go rabhas ag dul ina theannta i Luimneach. Bhí sé sa choláiste corpoideachais ach bhí aithne againne, cailíní, ar na buachaillí go léir, ní nach ionadh!’ ‘Is dócha é. Conas a bhuailis le Aindrias, nó cad as é?’ Bhí sé tugtha suas ar fad anois aige dhi. Cheap sé siúralta go gcaithfeadh sé an oíche a thabhairt ag éisteacht léi ag caint ar a cuid fear. Bhraith sé saghas ina amadán aici, ach níor lig sé air é sin. Bhí an chaint seo ar fad an-mhíchompordúil dó. Chorraigh sé sa ghainimh fé mar a bheadh sé ag druidim uaithi. Domhan eile ina saol ab ea é seo ná raibh aon bhaint aige féin leis ach chaithfeadh sé éisteacht a thabhairt di. B’fhearr leis ná faic go n-éisteodh sí a béal agus scéal éigin eile a tharraingt anuas. ‘Loscadh ar Aindrias, pé hé féin,’ a dúirt sé ina chroí istigh. ‘Ó Chontae Laoise ab ea é. Fear mór ard, sé troithe go leith ar aoirde. Nach ait é go fir arda a bhíonn agamsa i gcónaí ach amháin tusa! B’ait leis na cailíní eile é sin anocht.’ Dhearg sé go bun na gcluas. B’fhearr leis a bheith na mílte ó bhaile. ‘An-lúthchleasaí ab ea é sa choláiste. Ní raibh éinne eile chomh hábalta leis. Bhí sé féin agus ceathrar dá chairde i dtigh ag fanacht. Bhí an tigh ar cíos acu. Théinnse agus cúpla cailín eile ó mo bhliain ar cuaird go minic chucu. Is mar sin a chuireas aithne air. Ansin thosnaíomair ag dul amach le chéile. Agus rud a bhí an-ait mar gheall air, ní air a bhíos ag faire in aon chor ach ar leaid eile. Tom an ainm a bhí air sin. Leaid aoibhinn ab ea é, ach bhí sé an-chúthaile...


ENGLISH of things left unsaid. The story invites us to consider the gulf that often exists between our words and what is in our hearts.

‘ The First Night ’ translated by Peter Weakliam

For a while she was lost in thought. ‘What’s on your mind?’ ‘I was just thinking.’ ‘About what?’ ‘You’re the first man to ever call me a woman. People usually call me a girl. I like that: a woman. I’m a woman. It’s a great feeling. Something inside me trembles when you call me a woman. That hasn’t ever happened to me before. I’ll remember this night forever, even if we separate. I feel that I’m a woman tonight, for the first time ever. Just as you’re a man and not a boy. I’d always feel like a little schoolgirl when people called me a girl. Even Andrew – he used to call me a girl.’ ‘Who’s Andrew?’ He felt a blow as if he’d got a whack in the chest from a mule. ‘That’s the guy I was seeing in Limerick. He was in the P.E. college, but we girls knew all the boys, as you’d expect!’ ‘I suppose. How’d you meet Andrew, or where’s he from?’ He had given in to her completely now. He thought he’d definitely have to spend the night listening to her talk about her men. He felt like she was making a bit of a fool of him, but he didn’t let on. All this talk was very uncomfortable for him. He moved in the sand, as if he was slipping away from her. This was a whole other world in her life which had nothing to do with him, but he’d have to listen to her. He wished more than anything that she’d shut up and talk about something else. ‘Fuck Andrew, whoever he is,’ he said to himself. ‘He was from County Laois. A big, tall guy, six and a half feet. Isn’t it strange that I always go for tall guys, apart from you! The girls thought that was funny tonight.’ His whole face went red. He wished he were somewhere else, miles away. ‘He was a great athlete in college. No one else was as good as him. He and four of his friends were staying in a house. They were renting the place. I used to go visit them a lot with a couple of other girls from my year. That’s how I got to know him. Then we started going out with each other. And the funny thing about it was that I wasn’t even after him at all, but another lad. He was called Tom. He was a great guy, but he was very shy. I’d say he thought he didn’t 59


IRISH

ach. Déarfainn gur cheap sé ná raibh aon tseans aige i gcomparáid le Aindrias. Ó! Dá mbeadh a fhios aige. Bhíos fiain mar gheall air!’ Stop sí den gcaint. Bhí a dhá láimh anois aici ag fáscadh a glún lena hucht agus í ag féachaint anairde sa ghealaigh. B’é Tom fear na gealaí anocht. Dhruid sé féin leathtroigh uaithi. Lean an sos tamall fada. An bhean ag cuimhneamh ar an leannán a chuaigh di, agus an fear a bhí le bheith ina leannán anocht aici, dearmadta. N’fheadair sé anois cad a chuirfeadh sé ina leabhar. Ach thuig sé go gcaithfeadh sé rud éigin a rá sara ndearmadfaí ar fad é. ‘Cad mar gheall ar Aindrias. An raibh a fhios aige mar gheall ar an bhfear eile?’ Gheit sí. D’fhéach sí cliathánach uaithi air fé mar gurbh ait léi é a bheith in aon chor ann. ‘Ó sea Aindrias! Ní raibh a fhios aige sin faic. Ní dúrt aon ní leis mar bhí sé an-fhormadúil. Níor mhaith leis mé a bheith ag caint le aon fhear eile. Is toisc san i ndáiríribh a bhriseas suas leis!’ ‘Cathain a bhrisis suas leis?’ ‘Níl sé ach seachtain ó shin. Tháinig sé anseo chun bualadh liom. Bhíos tar éis a rá leis i Luimneach go raibh deireadh linn, ach ní ghéillfeadh sé. Ní shásódh faic é gan teacht anseo ag argóint arís liom. Ó! Fuair sé an-chrosta liom mar gheall air!’ Bhraith sé saghas báidh anois aige le hAindrias. Thuig sé go mbeadh sé i féin i mbróga Aindriais fós b’fhéidir. Ach nuair a labhair sé cheapfá gur mó le báidhiúlacht lena cás san é. ‘Cad a thit amach?’ ‘Bhuel, tháinig sé anseo. Chuamar amach ag rothaíocht. Bhíomair ag siúl suas i gcoinne aird Chaisleán Ráth Fhionáin. Nuair ná fanfainn ag dul amach leis sháigh sé uaidh mo rothar sa tslí go leag sé anuas ar an mbóthar mé. Ghearr sé sa ghlúin seo mé.’ Thosnaigh sí ag tochas a glúin fé mar a bheadh an ghearb ag cneasú agus tochas inti. Chuir críochnú an chaidrimh ar an gcuma so eagla air. Ní foláir nó go raibh drochmhianach in Aindrias ach b’fhéidir go raibh smut de chúis aige leis. Ní bheadh a fhios agat. D’fhéach sé arís uirthi. Cheap sé go bhfaca sé rud éigin ná raibh róchneasta ina haghaidh ar feadh soicinde. Tháinig scamall ar an ré, rud go raibh sé buíoch de, mar gurbh fhearr leis an fhéachaint sin a bhualadh féna chois. Ina dhiaidh sin thuigfí dó gurb ann a shamhlaigh sé é. Dhruid sé isteach arís léi. Chuir sé a lámh timpeall uirthi. ‘Ná habair a thuilleadh, a stór. Ná bí ’od shuaitheadh féin leis. Féach raghaimíd abhaile.’ Chuadar. Níor chaith sé faic a rá mar gheall ar a chúrsaí féin. Ní móide go dtuigfeadh sí dhó pé scéal é, mar go mb’fhéidir go raibh an iomad béime ar an gcollaíocht ina chaidreamh le mná go dtí so. Fear ab ea é go raibh a ghabhal ...


ENGLISH

have a chance compared to Andrew. Oh, if he’d only known! I was crazy about him!’ She stopped talking. She was squeezing her knees against her chest with her arms and looking up at the moon. Tom was the man in the moon tonight. He pulled half a foot away from her. There was a long silence. The woman remembering the lover that got away, and the man who was to be her lover tonight, forgotten. He didn’t know what to make of it all now. But he knew he had to say something before he was forgotten altogether. ‘What about Andrew? Did he know about the other guy?’ She started. She looked over at him as if she found it strange that he was there. ‘Oh yeah, Andrew! He didn’t know anything. I didn’t tell him anything because he was very jealous. He didn’t like me talking to other guys. That’s really the reason I broke up with him.’ ‘When did you break up with him?’ ‘Only a week ago. He came here to meet me. I was after telling him in Limerick that we were done, but he wouldn’t listen. All he wanted was to come here and argue with me again. Oh, he got very cross with me about it!’ He felt a kind of sympathy for Andrew now. He knew that he could yet be in Andrew’s shoes. But when he spoke, it seemed more out of sympathy for her situation. ‘What happened?’ ‘Well, he came here. We went out cycling. We were heading up the hill towards Rahinnane Castle. When I didn’t agree to keep going out with him he shoved my bike and knocked me onto the road. He cut my knee, just here.’ She started scratching her knee, as if the scab was healing and had become itchy. The way the relationship had ended like this worried him. Andrew must have had a temper, but maybe he had a bit of a point too. You wouldn’t know. He looked at her again. He thought he saw something not very pleasant in her face for a second. A cloud covered the moon, and he was grateful for this, because he’d rather get rid of that sight. Later he would think he had imagined it. He drew close to her again. He put his arm around her. ‘Don’t say any more, darling. Don’t be getting worked up about it. Look, let’s head home.’ They did. He didn’t have to say anything about himself. She probably wouldn’t have understood him anyway, as there had perhaps been too much focus on sex in his relationships with women up to now. He was a man living two lives – working in Cork in the winter, and home in Corca Dhuibhne in the summer – and he hadn’t got to know women properly the way she had known

61


IRISH

leata aige ar dhá shaol – ag obair i gCorcaigh sa gheimhreadh, agus ag baile i gCorca Dhuibhne sa tsamhradh gan aithne curtha aige i gceart ar mhná fé mar a bhí aici seo ar leithéid Aindriais d’fhear. Bean aige seachtain, b’fhéidir coicíos, craic leathair, í imithe agus ansan bean eile. Níor dhóigh leis anois, tar éis an slí inar ghortaigh Aindrias í, go mbeadh puinn suime aici ina eachtraí féin. Thug an méid sin an-fhaoiseamh dó. Bhíodar anois i mbuaile an tí ina raibh sí ag fanacht i gCathair Bó Sinne. Bhíodar ag fágaint oíche mhaith ag a chéile. ‘Scanraigh Aindrias mé,’ a dúirt sí ‘an lá sin. D’imigh sé an lá ina dhiaidh sin agus ní fhaca ó shin é. Tá sórt leisce orm tosnú ar chaidreamh grá eile chomh tapaidh arís. Ní dócha gur ceart dom é a dhéanamh, mar ní bheadh sé féarálta ortsa.’ ‘Más maith leat. Is dócha go bhfuil an ceart agat,’ arsa é sin, tocht ina ghlór. ‘Níl aon leigheas air.’ Phóg sé í. D’athraigh san í. ‘Ó! Cad ina thaobh gur tharraingíos anuas an scéal san in aon chor? Loit sé an oíche orainn. Cad a tháinig orm? Ach bhí sé ar m’aigne agus chaitheas é a rá leat.’ ‘Tuigim a stór. Ná bac é. Is dócha go bhfuil sé chomh maith agamsa imeacht.’ ‘Ó ná himigh anois. Fan go fóill. Cuir do lámha timpeall orm arís mar déanann sé maitheas dom.’ Dhein sé amhlaidh. ‘Mar seo?’ ‘Sea, mar sin.’ Bhí deora anois lena súile. Thóg sí amach seál póca agus thriomaigh na deora. ‘Is dócha ná teastaíonn uait mé a fheiscint go deo arís.’ Bhí sí anois fé mar a bheadh leanbh go mbeadh rud éigin déanta as an slí aici, ag lorg maithiúnachais. D’oscail a chroí di. ‘Bhreá liom bualadh leat arís oíche amáireach.’ Chuir sí a lámha timpeall air, bhuail a ceann i gcoinne a uchta. ‘Ó,’ arsa í, agus í ag crithíl ag an ngol, fé mar a bheadh pian uirthi ag an aithreachas a bhí uirthi mar gheall ar an Súilleabhánach… ar Tom… agus ar Aindrias. ‘Tuigim!’ arsa é sin ina aigne féin.

...


ENGLISH

men like Andrew. He’d have a woman for a week, maybe two, have a bit of fun, then she’d be gone and he’d be on to the next one. He didn’t think, after the way Andrew had hurt her, that she’d be at all interested in his own adventures. That much was a big relief to him. They were now in the yard of the house where she was staying in Caherboshina. They were parting ways for the night. ‘Andrew scared me,’ she said, ‘that day. He left the day after and I haven’t seen him since. I’m kind of reluctant to start another relationship as quickly again. I don’t think it’s right for me to do that, because it wouldn’t be fair on you.’ ‘If you like. You’re probably right,’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. ‘It can’t be helped.’ He kissed her. That changed her. ‘Oh! Why on earth did I bring up that story? It’s ruined the night on us. What was I thinking? But it was on my mind and I had to say it to you.’ ‘I understand, darling. Don’t worry about it. I suppose I’d better go.’ ‘Oh, don’t go now. Stay. Put your arms around me – I like that.’ He did. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah, like that.’ There were tears in her eyes now. She took out a handkerchief and dried the tears. ‘You probably don’t want to see me ever again.’ She was now like a child who had done something wrong, asking for forgiveness. His heart opened up to her. ‘I’d love to see you again tomorrow night.’ She put her arms around him, placed her head against his chest. ‘Oh,’ she said, trembling as she cried, as if pained by regret about O’Sullivan… Tom… and Andrew. ‘I know!’ he said to himself.

‘Elle’, Evie Kyrozi 63


ITALIAN

‘Il Gelsomino Notturno’ Giovanni Pascoli E s’aprono i fiori notturni, nell’ora che penso ai miei cari. Sono apparse in mezzo ai viburni le farfalle crepuscolari. Da un pezzo si tacquero i gridi: là sola una casa bisbiglia. Sotto l’ali dormono i nidi, come gli occhi sotto le ciglia. Dai calici aperti si esala l’odore di fragole rosse. Splende un lume là nella sala. Nasce l’erba sopra le fosse. Un’ape tardiva sussurra trovando già prese le celle. La Chioccetta per l’aia azzurra va col suo pigolìo di stelle. Per tutta la notte s’esala l’odore che passa col vento. Passa il lume su per la scala; brilla al primo piano: s’è spento… È l’alba: si chiudono i petali un poco gualciti; si cova, dentro l’urna molle e segreta, non so che felicità nuova.

‘Evanescence’, Ella Sloane ...

Written for the wedding of one of Pascoli’s friends, the structure of this highly symbolistic text is inherently elliptical, as it is built on an alternance of said


ENGLISH

and unsaid. Indeed, parallel to the natural events, Pascoli alludes to the newly-weds’ first night, interweaving themes of conception, death, and exclusion.

‘The Nocturnal Jasmine’ translated by Martina Giambanco

And thus the nocturnal jasmines open, at the hour in which I think about my dear, lost ones. Among the viburnums have appeared the crepuscular butterflies. Since a while ago the cries have fallen silent: down there a house alone murmurs. Under the mother’s wings the nests sleep, like eyes under the eyelashes. From the open chalices of the flowers exhales the scent of plump red strawberries. A light shines there in the room. Grass sprouts on the graves. A tardive bee buzzes around finding his cells already occupied. The little mother hen* across the blue farmyard goes with her chirping of stars. For the whole night it breathes the odour that is carried by the wind. The light is carried up the stairs; it twinkles on the first floor: it has been blown out… It is dawn: the petals can close a tad crumpled; brooded, within the secret and soft urn, some new happiness still unknown. *Please note: the constellation of the Pleiades, which constitutes the term of comparison in the metaphor here, in Italian is nicknamed the ‘Chioccetta’ or, indeed, ‘little mother hen’. 65


RUSSIAN

«Мы встречались с тобой на закате...» Alexander Blok Мы встречались с тобой на закате. Ты веслом рассекала залив. Я любил твое белое платье, Утонченность мечты разлюбив. Были странны безмолвные встречи. Впереди — на песчаной косе Загорались вечерние свечи. Кто-то думал о бледной красе. Приближений, сближений, сгораний — Не приемлет лазурная тишь... Мы встречались в вечернем тумане, Где у берега рябь и камыш. Ни тоски, ни любви, ни обиды, Всё померкло, прошло, отошло... Белый стан, голоса панихиды И твое золотое весло. 13 мая 1902

...

This poem is an excellent example of Blok’s light and elegant style, where ellipsis is used to convey a distant eerie memory. As one of the most influential Russian


ENGLISH

‘Our Meetings Would Happen At Sundown…’

Symbolist poets, Blok discloses far less than what can be seen, thought or experienced, leaving the rest a secret for the reader to uncover.

translated by Anastasia McAuliffe Our meetings would happen at sundown. You would paddle the boat down the bay. I had fallen in love with your white gown As my delicate dream slipped away. There was strangeness in our silent meetings. Far ahead – on the long spit of sand Several candles lit up in the evenings. Someone thought of a pale beauty’s hand. The cerulean quiet rejected All the closeness and fire we bore… We would meet in the fog of the sunset By the ripple and reed of the shore. There’s no sadness, no love and no grudges, All has faded, departed and gone… The memorial service, your white dress, And your golden oar rowing along. May 13, 1902

‘Quay’, Anonymous 67


ENGLISH

‘F–’ Suzanne Dumesnil

Many details are missing from this enigmatic short story. Not least the true identity of its author: it was published in English under Suzanne Dumesnil’s name, but many

I was on my way. The man struck hard against me. My God, what is it now, he said. We had stumbled, both of us, and I fallen finally the way things finally fall that are moved without heed from their place, without heed or love. He did not understand what was happening. Nor I. We were on the same road at the same moment, that was the only certainty. No, there was another. I was in front. He struck against me from behind. He must have been advancing head down and fairly fast, faster at all events than I. His eyes closed probably. If they had been open he would have seen me in front of him, in spite of the night. Dimly no doubt. But it seems to me that even without seeing me he might have heard the sound of my steps. But then the wind. But then walking I make no sound. Strange. But it seems to me that I might have heard the sound of his steps. I hear very well as a rule. And yet I had heard nothing, up to the time of my fall. Afterwards yes. As before. My God, what's happening to me now, the syllables resounded in my ears. And yet the voice was not resounding. Oh by no means, by no means. I said warily, I am not hurt. A silence. Have I hurt you, he said. He had not really hurt me. I felt myself. I was whole. I was on my feet against the wind, the wind assailed me as before. My skin stung. But the other parts, the sheltered parts, were cold only, suffered from the cold only. I moved my joints, my joints moved as before and creaked as they moved. It was still night. Those great rifts I saw, filled with black shadow, were the night. It was with his help that I had been able to rise. I should say rather with his desire to help me. In his desire to raise me, and having done so partially, he had fallen. I too. Again. And so on. Again and again. It came about at last that we were on our feet, both of us. I was whole, I have said so. He was not. He had lost something very important, I don't know. That, something he had put in his hip pocket, or thought he had. He was distressed. I found it strange that he should be distressed over a loss. For me who had lost nothing it was easy to find this strange, when in fact it was not at all strange. Easy. But what could I have lost. I had helped him look for the object to the best of my ability. Beyond my ability. But it ...


FRENCH scholars have speculated that it was originally written by her husband, Samuel Beckett, who was ‘certain’ of having translated it from the original French.

‘F–’ translated by Clare Healy

J'étais en route. L'homme me bourra dedans. Mon Dieu, qu'y a-til encore, dit-il. Nous avions tous les deux trébuché, et j'étais enfin tombée comme tombent enfin les choses qu'avec insouciance, on ôte de leur place, avec insouciance et sans amour. Il ne comprenait pas ce qui se passait. Moi non plus. Nous étions sur la même route au même moment, c'était la seule certitude. Non, il y en avait une autre. J'étais devant. Il m'avait percutée par l'arrière. Il devait avancer tête baissée et assez vite, plus vite que moi en tout cas. Il avait sûrement les yeux fermés. S'ils étaient ouverts, il m'aurait aperçue devant lui, malgré la nuit. Vaguement sans doute. Mais il me semble que même sans me voir, il aurait pu entendre le bruit de mes pas. Mais, là encore, le vent. Mais, là encore, en marchant, je ne fais aucun bruit. Étrange. Mais il me semble que j'aurais pu entendre le bruit de ses pas. J'entends très bien, en règle générale. Et pourtant je n'avais rien entendu, jusqu'au moment de ma chute. Après, oui. Comme avant. Mon Dieu, qu'est-ce qui m'arrive maintenant, les syllabes rétentissaient à mes oreilles. Et pourtant la voix n'était pas retentissante. Oh pas du tout, pas du tout. J'ai dit prudemment, je ne suis pas blessée. Un silence. Est-ce que je vous ai fait mal, a-t-il dit. Il ne m'avait pas vraiment fait mal. Je me sentis de part et d’autre. J'étais entière. J'étais debout contre le vent, le vent m’assaillissait comme avant. Ma peau me brûlait. Mais les autres parties, les parties à l'abri, avaient simplement froid, ne souffraient que du froid. J'ai bougé mes articulations, mes articulations bougeaient comme avant et craquaient en bougeant. Il faisait encore nuit. Ces grandes fissures que j'ai vues, remplies d'ombre noire, étaient la nuit. C'était avec son aide que j'ai pu me lever. Ou plutôt devrais-je dire avec son désir de m'aider. En voulant me relever, et après l'avoir fait partiellement, il est tombé. Moi aussi. Encore. Et ainsi de suite. Encore et encore. Il arriva enfin que nous nous relevions, tous les deux. J'étais entière, comme je l'ai dit. Lui non. Il avait perdu quelque chose de très important, je ne sais pas ce que c'était, quelque chose qu'il avait mis dans sa poche arrière, ou qu'il croyait y avoir mis. Il était secoué. Je trouvais étrange qu'il soit secoué 69


ENGLISH was not in my power to help him really. I did not know the nature of the object and the dark, the wind, the cold, were against me. I heard him call me. And yet I was close to him. But in the dark: we soon lose track. Was I as close to him as I thought. I am here, I said, don't be afraid. Louder, he said, louder, I don't hear what you say. People don't bear me when I speak. Strange. He shouted, Where are you, don't leave me. I had not intended to go on, to continue on my way without him. But I was struck by the thought he thought was mine. The cloak of night. I approached him. His voice guided me. His hand touched me. He seemed to calm himself. I have found nothing, I said. You were looking for something, he said. Why, the thing. Ah yes, the thing. He seemed to brood, then he said, It's of no importance. Ah. He took my arm and we moved away. It was as though the wind bore us a spite. Furious it threw us from side to side. But welded as we were from shoulder to elbow we offered a greater resistance. Than if. To stand up to the wind, to such a wind, was now a labour, a heavy labour. It almost sundered us, again and again, but it did not sunder us. My arm caught under his remained fast under his. We advanced as one in the wild wind, as one recoiled. My free arm was useless, the other stiffened as though dead. It is true there were moments of lull. We loosened our hold, ready to tighten it again at the next onslaught of the adversary. Was this road the right road. Had I not gone wrong when I had turned left after the last turn. I was on my way to F—. Are we on the road to F-, he said, I am on my way to —, he named a locality in the neighbourhood of F —. Since the last turn I had seen nobody but him. I thought, Have we lost our way, he and I, is it possible we are alone on a so frequented road. For the road to F— is frequented indeed in spite of the situation, far from salubrious, of that locality. Swept by the ocean wind. Listen, he said, isn’t that the sound of the sea. It was the sound of the sea or the sound of the wind afar. I love the sea, I said. Having said that I loved the sea I laughed. I laugh at times. Oh laugh again. He was asking me to laugh. Could I again. The wind would seem to be dropping, he said, what if we retraced our steps. We should never find them, I said, it is so dark. In the end the night must end, he said. What should we do. What could we do. We were silent, still. I saw us turn back. I saw us go on. I. Us. And I was still. The cold all about. It repelled my blood, my blood deprived of motion. I thought, Before all else I must get warm. What do you think, he said. God, he had spoken and I had not listened. He had spoken perhaps bloodgiving words and I had not heard. He pursued, It won't be long, you'll see, I walk fast, rest till I return. I said, I don't know, he did not let me finish saying ...


FRENCH par une perte. Pour moi qui n'avais rien perdu, il était facile de trouver cela étrange, alors qu'en fait, ça n'avait rien d'étrange. Facile. Mais qu'estce que j'aurais pu perdre. Je l'avais aidé à chercher l'objet au meilleur de mes capacités. Au-delà de mes capacités. Mais il n'était pas en mon pouvoir de l'aider vraiment. Je ne connaissais pas la nature de l'objet et le noir, le vent, le froid, étaient contre moi. Je l'ai entendu m'appeler. Et pourtant j'étais proche de lui. Mais dans le noir, on perd vite le fil. Étais-je aussi proche de lui que je le pensais. Je suis là, j'ai dit, n'ayez pas peur. Plus fort, a-t-il dit, plus fort, je n'entends pas ce que vous dites. Les gens ne m'entendent pas quand je parle. C'est étrange. Il a crié : Où êtes-vous, ne me quittez pas. Je n'avais pas l'intention de continuer, de reprendre ma route sans lui. Mais je fus stupéfait par cette pensée qu'il croyait être la mienne. Le couvert de la nuit. Je me suis approchée de lui. Sa voix me guida. Sa main me toucha. Il semblait se calmer. Je n'ai rien trouvé, j'ai dit. Vous cherchiez quelque chose, a-t-il dit. Eh bien, la chose. Eh oui, la chose. Il sembla ruminer, puis il a dit : ça n'a aucune importance. Ah. Il prit mon bras et nous sommes partis. C'était comme si le vent nous en voulait. Furieux, il nous lançait d'un côté à l'autre. Mais soudés comme nous l'étions de l'épaule au coude, nous offrions une plus grande résistance. Que si. Résister au vent, à un tel vent, était maintenant un travail, un lourd travail. Il nous a presque scindés, encore et encore, mais il ne nous scinda pas. Mon bras, coincé sous le sien, y est resté fermement. Nous avancions comme une seule personne dans le vent sauvage, comme une seule personne nous reculions. Mon bras libre était inutile, l'autre s’était raidi comme mort. Il est vrai qu'il y eu des accalmies. Nous avions lâché notre emprise, prêts à la resserrer au prochain assaut de l'adversaire. Cette route était-elle la bonne. Ne m'étais-je pas trompée lorsque j'avais tourné à gauche après le dernier virage. J'étais sur le chemin de F—. Sommes-nous sur la route de F—, a-t-il dit, je suis sur le chemin de —, il nomma une localité dans le voisinage de F—. Depuis le dernier virage, je n'avais vu personne d'autre que lui. J'ai pensé, Avons-nous perdu notre chemin, lui et moi, est-il possible que nous soyons seuls sur une route aussi fréquentée. Car la route de F— est effectivement fréquentée malgré la situation, loin d'être salubre, de cette localité. Battu par le vent de l'océan, Écoutez, a-t-il dit, n'est-ce pas le bruit de la mer ? C'était le bruit de la mer ou le bruit du vent au loin. J'adore la mer, dis-je. Ayant dit que j'adorais la mer, je me suis mise à rire. Parfois je ris. Oh, riez encore. Il me demandait de rire. Pouvais-je encore. Le vent semble tomber, a-t-il dit, et si nous revenions sur nos pas. Nous ne les trouverons jamais, lui ai-je dit , il fait si sombre. 71


ENGLISH what I did not know, he drew me towards the edge of the ditch that ran alongside the road. He went down into it first. Then I crept down into its bed. It was indeed a kind of shelter. I sat down with my back against its wall, my head on one side. l heard him climb back on the road and say, Be brave, don't despair, it won't be long. He left me. I heard the sound of his steps. He was walking fast. The wind must have turned. His steps resounded in my ear, in my ear pressed against the earth. When I heard his steps no more I said, He has arrived, now he has only to return. This thought gave me great pleasure. Winter nights are long. In the sorry light of dawn I rose. There was nobody on the road. My eyes stung. I closed them. When I opened them again I saw the roofs of the first houses of the outskirts of F—. I knew without ever having seen it that it was F—. So. There I was. Or nearly.

...


FRENCH A la fin, la nuit doit se terminer, a-t-il dit. Que devrions-nous faire. Que pouvions-nous faire. Nous étions silencieux, immobiles. Je nous ai vus faire demi-tour. Je nous ai vus continuer. Je. Nous. Et j'étais immobile. Le froid partout. Il repoussait mon sang, mon sang privé de mouvement. J'ai pensé : Avant toute autre chose, il faut que je me réchauffe. Qu'est-ce que vous en pensez, a-t-il dit. Mon Dieu, il avait parlé et je n'avais pas écouté. Il avait dit des mots qui donnent peut-être du sang et je n'avais pas entendu. Il a continué, Ce ne sera pas long, vous verrez, je marche vite, reposez-vous jusqu'à mon retour. J'ai dit, je ne sais pas, il ne m'a pas laissée finir de dire ce que je ne savais pas, il me tira vers le bord du fossé qui longeait la route. Il y est descendu le premier. Puis j’ai glissé en son fond. C'était en effet une sorte d'abri. Je me suis assise, le dos contre la paroi, la tête penchée de côté. Je l'ai entendu remonter sur la route et dire : Soyez courageuse, ne désespérez pas, ce ne sera pas long. Il m'a quittée. J'ai entendu le bruit de ses pas. Il marchait vite. Le vent a dû tourner. Ses pas résonnaient à mon oreille, à mon oreille collée au sol. Dès que je n'entendais plus ses pas, j'ai dit : Il est arrivé, maintenant il n'a plus qu'à revenir. Cette pensée me donna un grand plaisir. Les nuits d'hiver sont longues. À la triste lumière de l'aube, je me suis levée. Il n'y avait personne sur la route. Mes yeux brûlaient. Je les ai fermés. Quand je les ai rouverts, j'ai vu les toits des premières maisons de la périphérie de F—. Je savais sans l'avoir jamais vu que c'était F—. Alors. J’y étais. Ou presque.

73


Contributors TRANSLATORS Sarah Sturzel is the former Art Editor of JoLT 2019/20. She is an M.Phil in Literary Translation student and a graduate of French & English Literature at Trinity. Her translations, writing and artwork have appeared in Childlike, Suas Magazine, Trinity News and JoLT. She is interested in creatively transposing supposedly untranslatable experimental literature. Mathilde Irigaray is a current Literary Translation M.Phil student. Born and raised in Paris, she has studied literature and classic languages before graduating in English literature. She was part of a dance company for many years, explaining her interest in rhythm and musicality, even in translating. Anna Tomlinson is currently studying an M.Phil in Literary Translation at Trinity after graduation with a degree in French from the University of Bristol. After living abroad in Geneva, Nice and Quebec, she is especially interested in translation in different francophone cultural contexts. David Eduardo Torres Alvarez is 28 years old and a 2nd year PhD student in Philosophy, currently writing a thesis on the junction between ordinary language and metaphysics; he is deeply interested in the interface between semantics and pragmatics, contemporary classical music, and the philosophy of literature. Lucy McCabe is an M.Phil. in Screenwriting student with a love for French and Italian and literature in all its forms. Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill is a final year student of Irish who is minoring in French. Álanna Hammel’s fiction writing has been published in over twenty newspapers, magazines and anthologies both in Ireland as well as abroad. This is her first piece of literary translation. She is currently studying French and Irish in Trinity College Dublin. Yian Zhang, born in Shanghai. Used to study literature and sociology. Currently pursuing an MPhil degree in Gender and Women's Studies at TCD. Rebecca Coxon is a fourth year student in Trinity College Dublin. She is majoring in Nua-Ghaeilge (Modern Irish) and minoring in English literature. Amábile Alice Deretti, born and raised in Southern Brazil. Graduated in Languages at UFRGS, Brazil, and now doing MPhil Literary Translation at Trinity College Dublin to enhance her skills and be challenged in new fields, new perspectives. Translating Oona was one of those challenges. Rafael Mendes is a writer and translator from Brazil. He lives in Dublin. His work has appeared in The Poetry Programme, The Irish Times, FLARE, The Blue Nib, “Writing Home: The New Irish Poets” (Dedalus Press, 2019), “Arrival at Elsewhere” (Against the Grain, 2020) and elsewhere. Ciara Fennessy is a Senior Sophister Student of English Literature and Italian. She lived in Italy for two years of her studies. She translates from English, Irish and Italian and writes some original poetry, predominantly in English. ...


Shireen Moussa is a translator, graphic designer, artist, and a staunch believer in the value of the arts. Currently, she is pursuing a master’s degree in translation studies in Beirut, Lebanon. Anile Tmava is an Economics student obsessed with ketchup and otter memes. Her original poetry has been awarded and published. Khushi Jain believes that punctuality is the virtue of the bored and thus, is always late to things. Amidst overflowing book-shelves and due-essays, she spends her time having massive existential crises, watching old Bollywood films and re-reading Ovid. If not attending lectures, you'll find her in 1937, pretending to study. She is pursuing a Masters at Trinity College Dublin. Alexandra Corey is a fourth-year PhD candidate in the Department of French at TCD. She has some professional experience in translating from French into English. She is currently working on translating a short story from French into English, ‘Le Baiser’ or ‘The Embrace’ by Manuela Dumay. Elena Poletto is a Postgraduate student at Trinity attending the M. Phil. in Literary Translation. She graduated in Modern Literature at the University of Siena in 2021. She took part in the European Erasmus+ project at the Freie Universität Berlin (2019-2020). Her languages are Italian, English, and German. Natasha Remoundou is an academic lecturer, researcher, writer, critic, and translator living in Ireland since 2003. Ioana Răducu has a different personality in each of the languages she speaks. She is currently a Junior Fresher student of English Literature and French, and misses her cats a lot. Dana Bagirova is a Senior Sophister who translates, or rather interprets for a living… Loves a good beach… And she really feels for the cows. Eléonore Maréchal is a final year Philosophy and Economics student at Trinity from Rueil-Malmaison in France (don’t tell her she’s from Paris, she isn’t). Also, she wants you to know that she admires anyone attempting to learn French. Caroline Loughlin is a Senior Fresher student from Belfast, who is currently studying German and Italian. She enjoys reading literary works in these languages and the challenges of translating from one language to another. Octavio Pérez Sánchez is a Mexican writer and translator currently undertaking postgraduate studies at Trinity College. He is particularly fascinated by the relationship between literature and music and, when translating, prioritizes reproducing the musicality of the source text. Bowen Wang is a PhD student in the School of English and Early Career Researcher based at Trinity Long Room Hub. He holds an MSc in Literature and Modernity at University of Edinburgh. His literary translations have previously been published by the Washington Square Review, Trinity JoLT, and Penguin Books. Anastasia McAuliffe, hailing from Moscow, Russia, is currently a master’s student in Trinity College Dublin’s Literary Translation program. She has been doing translations since 2017, working with Russian, English and Spanish. Peter Weakliam is a PhD student in the TCD Irish department. His thesis will be on the theme of freedom in the work of contemporary prose writer Pádraig Ó Cíobháin. 75


Martina Giambanco was the Editor-in-Chief of JoLT 2020/21. She holds a BA from Trinity in English Literature and Classical Civilisation. She is a part-time translator, spreading the love for Italian literature around the world. When she falls back from daydreaming, she is also a full-time English language teacher in training. Clare Healy studied English and French at TCD and was the editor of JoLT in 2019/20. ARTISTS @crocksart is a self-taught spray paint artist whose work features cultural icons. He uses handmade stencils to create unique portraits and murals. His work predominantly consists of greyscale and monotones but often pulse with an explosion of vibrant colour to create contrast in order to capture the emotion of his subjects. Naemi Dehde is in her early twenties and studies film (which gives her the great opportunity to call “binge-watching” “research for academic purposes”). She draws in her free time. A proud native of Dublin’s North Inner City, Alexander Fay studies physics and entered Trinity through the Access Programmes (TAP). Alexander finds meaning from the Latin form of Greek name Alexandros; alexo (defend), aner (man). He's currently fascinated by leaves, The Dø, and making posh people uncomfortable. Cristina Keiko Tomita was born in Rio de Janeiro Brazil, from Japanese parents, raised between Brazil and Japan, educated in the International School. She received her Bachelors in Art, Masters in Cultural Anthropology in USA. After graduation she lived in Helsinki Finland for 12 years and pursued her artistic activities and had two children. She moved to Annecy France 18 years ago and work as illustrator. She has published two children’s books and is working on her third publication project. Judy Carroll Deeley’s art practice encompasses painting, drawing, mixed media, and collaborative projects. She has a BA Honours in Fine Art (Painting) from NCAD, 2008, and an MA Honours in Visual Art Practices from IADT, Dun Laoghaire, 2011. She’s had six solo exhibitions. Her work features in many group shows. Penny Stuart, an experimental and published Dublin artist, draws from life using a variety of mediums including charcoal/pastels and watercolour/acrylic paint. She also does very large abstract acrylic paintings that are strong colour and textural statements. Exhibitions include a collaborative event with the Whispering Trees Collective in May 2019 and an exhibition with Trinity Arts Workshop in June 2019. She is also showcased in the first edition of the Bloomer Magazine 'The role of the new artist in Contemporary World' 2021. Ellecia Vaughan went to college in Brighton for a bit to study Fine Art, but it took the fun out of painting for her, so she settled on Trinity, and now she is in her fourth year studying Classics and Art History. She has always found it easier to translate her innermost thoughts into little pictures rather than speaking aloud, so that’s why she loves art, the history of it and how it can mean so much to different people. Meghan Flood is a fourth year English Literature and History student. This year she’s a co-editor for the historian magazine. She also has art published in TN2. She likes to think she’s witty but is pulling an absolute blank on something to say. Check out @floodme on Instagram.

...


Evvie Kyrozi is a visual artist from Greece. She studied animation, is a member of various artistic societies and has taken part in many group exhibitions in Greece and abroad. Works of hers can be found in private collections, public spaces such as museums and hospitals, and several publications. Ella Sloane is a Senior Fresher currently studying English literature and sociology. Her work has been included in various Trinity publications such as Trinity News and Misc. Magazine. This is Ella's first time contributing to JoLT. Patrick Balfe is a third-year student of English and History at Trinity College Dublin. Art has been one of his main hobbies since he was a child, and he has always had a love for illustration.

‘The Magician’, Patrick Balfe 77


Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Volume 10, Issue I (winter 2021) www.trinityjolt.org Cover art by @crocksart and Daniela Williams


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Articles inside

artwork by Patrick Balfe

1min
pages 79-80

Notes on Contributors

7min
pages 76-78

English-French translation by Clare Healy

12min
pages 70-75

photograph by Anonymous

1min
page 69

Russian-English translation by Anastasia McAuliffe

1min
page 68

artwork by Evvie Kyrozie

1min
page 65

Irish-English translation by Peter Weakliam

11min
pages 60-64

German-English translation by Caroline Loughlin

1min
page 53

French-English translation by Eléonore Maréchal

2min
pages 48-50

English-Chinese translation by Bowen Wang

1min
pages 56-57

Romanian-English translation by Ioana Răducu

1min
page 46

artwork by Penny Stuart

1min
page 51

English-Hindustani translation by Khushi Jain

2min
pages 42-43

German-English translation by Anile Tmava

1min
page 37

artwork by Christina Keiko Tomita

2min
pages 26-27

Spanish-English translation by David Eduardo Torres Alvarez

4min
pages 14-17

Irish-English translation by Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill

5min
pages 20-21

Irish-Italian translation by Ciara Fennessy

1min
page 35

Portuguese-English translation by Rafael Mendes

1min
pages 32-33

Editorial

7min
pages 4-6

Chinese (Shanghai)-English translation by Yian Zhang

2min
pages 24-25

artwork by Naemi Dehdes

1min
pages 12-13
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