Wednesday, June 11, 2008 11:02:15 PM
olesha, russian, prose, translation
An ultramarine vase with a long narrow neck stands within our field of vision. Although it isn't a vase either, if a bit above the blue neck you can also make out a little crown.
The tail is still furled. He'll unfurl it when he's ready. He almost waits for us to ask him to unfurl it. Sometimes he doesn't unfurl it at all. He drags it behind like a rather dry and unprepossessing bundle of twigs, although some of those twigs are thick, thicker than his blue neck with its irridescent blue scales.
He struts on wide feet.
The ancient world was filled with admiration for the peacock. Kings, queens, generals, and senators gazed at him. Now he's lost significance as one of life's adornments. In Europe, by the way, his role was and still is performed by the swan. I like the peacock less than I do the swan. My northern European soul shuns the peacock, which somehow seems hot to it. I get a migraine of the soul whenever I see one.
The peacock is the East. It's just as nakedly without shade, without twilight, as are the buildings of the Alhambra, the ornamental designs of the Registan, the verses of the Eastern poets, or the precise and mistless Eastern fountains, whose streams evoke more a sense of precious stones than of water.
The swan swimming away into a greenish penumbra of ooze and willow is mysterious; the peacock stands in the midst of sunlight - clear, docile, yet harsh like the rule of a tyrant.
Yury Olesha, No Day without a Line: From Notebooks (1998), p. 196.
(Translation Judson Rosengrant)
Monday, September 3, 2007 2:40:00 PM
poetry, translation, herbert, polish
MR COGITO COMES ACROSS A STATUETTE
OF THE GREAT MOTHER IN THE LOUVRE
This little cosmology of fired clay
slightly larger than a hand comes from Boeotia
at the top her head like the holy mountain Meru
from which hair falls - the earth's great rivers
her neck is the heavens warmth pulses there
sleepless constellations
a necklace of clouds
send us the holy water of abundance
you from whose fingers leaves grow
we born of clay
like the ibis the snake and the grass
we want you to hold us
in your mightly palms
on her belly the square earth
under guard of a double sun
we don't want other gods our flimsy dwelling of air
is enough a stone a tree the simple names of things
please carry us heedfully from one night to another
then blow out our senses at the question's threshold
in the display case the abandoned mother
watches with the astonished eye of a star
Zbigniew Herbert, Mr Cogito, 1974. (transl. Alissa Valles)
Wednesday, August 8, 2007 8:50:20 PM
olesha, russian, prose, translation
Birches are truly very beautiful trees. But just because I was born in the south I used to look at them somewhat cautiously and mockingly, rather thinking of literary birches, which bored me, than of real ones.
Some birches are very tall and voluminous. A white trunk and translucent, bright leaves. The black crosswise grooves resemble steamboats, hammers, figures out of diagrams. In the leavage little siskins sit, small and green of themselves and resembling the leaves. One was sitting on a little hill looking at me like a woman who has swept back the borders of her shawl from her face.
I must write a book about the parting from the world.
Yuri Olesha, [autobiographical notes], 1950s.
Saturday, July 14, 2007 10:38:45 PM
prose, tolstoy, translation
"When he had come out into the glade he looked around him; the sun was no longer visible above the tree-tops. It had grown cooler and the place seemed to him quite strange and not like the country round the village. Everything seemed changed—the weather and the character of the forest; the sky was wrapped in clouds, the wind was rustling in the tree-tops, and all around nothing was visible but reeds and dying broken-down trees. He called to his dog who had run away to follow some animal, and his voice came back as in a desert. And suddenly he was seized with a terrible sense of weirdness. He grew frightened. He remembered the abreks and the murders he had been told about, and he expected every moment that an abrek would spring from behind every bush and he would have to defend his life and die, or be a coward. He thought of God and of the future life as for long he had not thought about them. And all around was that same gloomy stern wild nature. ‘And is it worth while living for oneself,’ thought he, ‘when at any moment you may die, and die without having done any good, and so that no one will know of it?’ He went in the direction where he fancied the village lay. Of his shooting he had no further thought; but he felt tired to death and peered round at every bush and tree with particular attention and almost with terror, expecting every moment to be called to account for his life. After having wandered about for a considerable time he came upon a ditch down which was flowing cold sandy water from the Terek, and, not to go astray any longer, he decided to follow it. He went on without knowing where the ditch would lead him. Suddenly the reeds behind him crackled. He shuddered and seized his gun, and then felt ashamed of himself: the over-excited dog, panting hard, had thrown itself into the cold water of the ditch and was lapping it!
He too had a drink, and then followed the dog in the direction it wished to go, thinking it would lead him to the village. But despite the dog’s company everything around him seemed still more dreary. The forest grew darker and the wind grew stronger and stronger in the tops of the broken old trees. Some large birds circled screeching round their nests in those trees. The vegetation grew poorer and he came oftener and oftener upon rustling reeds and bare sandy spaces covered with animal footprints. To the howling of the wind was added another kind of cheerless monotonous roar. Altogether his spirits became gloomy. Putting his hand behind him he felt his pheasants, and found one missing. It had broken off and was lost, and only the bleeding head and beak remained sticking in his belt. He felt more frightened than he had ever done before. He began to pray to God, and feared above all that he might die without having done anything good or kind; and he so wanted to live, and to live so as to perform a feat of self-sacrifice.
Suddenly it was as though the sun had shone into his soul. He heard Russian being spoken, and also heard the rapid smooth flow of the Terek, and a few steps farther in front of him saw the brown moving surface of the river, with the dim-coloured wet sand of its banks and shallows, the distant steppe, the cordon watch-tower outlined above the water, a saddled and hobbled horse among the brambles, and then the mountains opening out before him. The red sun appeared for an instant from under a cloud and its last rays glittered brightly along the river over the reeds, on the watch-tower, and on a group of Cossacks, among whom Lukashka’s vigorous figure attracted Olenin’s involuntary attention."
Leo Tolstoy, The Cossacks, ch. XX-XXI. Translation Louise and Aylmer Maude.[/SIZE][/font][/ALIGN]
Friday, April 6, 2007 7:41:45 PM
interview, polish, herbert, prose
...
This great subject of culture [ie. beauty] - and not only European culture - has to be dealt with. People wanted to express something through beauty - it seems, the good. When sacred art existed, it was simple: A temple was built for the glory of God. Now everything has been stifled. I think the subject will be tackled, and in different areas - architecture, good painting, good poetry, which serves man, gives him courage, and says: "Look, we can sing."
~
Thanks to him [ie. Rodin, who advised Rilke to go to the Jardin des Plantes and study the animals], fine poems arose. Which is to say, one must go out from oneself to the object. I know it from myself - always whining and bellyaching, but going in that direction, along that road: studying the object, not oneself, contemplating something which is outside of me. That philosophical surprise, that something is, just as I am.- Zbigniew Herbert, 'The Art of Empathy; A Conversation with Zbigniew Herbert', from: Polish Writers on Writing (2007), edited by Adam Zagajewski, translation Alissa Valles.
Monday, March 12, 2007 1:03:17 PM
translation, tsvetaeva, poetry, russian
After a sleepless night the body gets weaker,
It becomes dear and not yours - and nobody's.
Just like a seraph you smile to people
And arrows moan in the slow arteries.
After a sleepless night the arms get weaker
And deeply equal to you are the friend and foe.
Smells like Florence in the frost, and in each
Sudden sound is the whole rainbow.
Tenderly light the lips, and the shadow's golden
Near the sunken eyes. Here the night has sparked
This brilliant likeness - and from the dark night
Only just one thing - the eyes - are growing dark.- Marina Tsvetaeva, 'Insomnia', from: Psyche (1923), translation Ilya Shambat.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007 8:40:52 PM
polish, herbert, translation, poetry
All man's organs are bald and smooth. The stomach, intestines, lungs, are bald. Only the heart has hair - reddish, thick, sometimes quite long. This is a problem. The heart's hair inhibits the flow of blood like water plants. The hair is often infested with worms. You have to love very deeply to pick these quick little parasites from you beloved's cardiac hair.- Zbigniew Herbert, from: Study of the Object (1961), translation Alissa Valles.[/size][/font]
Thursday, February 22, 2007 11:10:05 PM
russian, olesha, prose
"I used to think there was no inner world," he mused. "I thought that my sight and my hearing governed all objects. I thought the world would cease to exist when I ceased to exist. But here it is… I see how everything is leaving me, even though I haven’t died yet. I am alive. Why then have objects ceased to exist for me? I thought it was my brain alone that gave them form, weight and colour – but here they have left me, and only their names – useless names that have lost their masters – are swarming in my brain. What use are these names to me?"
Sadly Ponomarev watched the child. The little boy could walk about. Objects rushed to meet him. He smiled at them, not knowing the name of a single one. He walked away and the sumptuous train of objects hurried after him.1929[/size][/FONT]
Tuesday, February 6, 2007 1:08:48 AM
melville, prose, english
Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah's room; and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. "Oh! so my conscience hangs in me!" he groans, "straight upwards, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!"
[Chapter 9][/FONT][/SIZE]
Saturday, January 13, 2007 5:22:28 PM
prose, russian, tolstoy
That same night, Rostov was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front of Bagration's detachment. His hussars were placed along the line in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master the sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our army's campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him; in front of him was misty darkness. Rostov could see nothing, peer as he would into that foggy distance: now something gleamed gray, now there was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy ought to be, now he fancied it was only something in his own eyes. His eyes kept closing, and in his fancy appeared- now the Emperor, now Denisov, and now Moscow memories- and he again hurriedly opened his eyes and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was riding, and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them, the black figures of hussars, but in the distance was still the same misty darkness. "Why not?... It might easily happen," thought Rostov, "that the Emperor will meet me and give me an order as he would to any other officer; he'll say: 'Go and find out what's there.' There are many stories of his getting to know an officer in just such a chance way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave me a place near him? Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how I would unmask his deceivers!" And in order to realize vividly his love devotion to the sovereign, Rostov pictured to himself an enemy or a deceitful German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure but whom he would slap in the face before the Emperor. Suddenly a distant shout aroused him. He started and opened his eyes.
"Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line... pass and watchword- shaft, Olmutz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in reserve tomorrow," he thought. "I'll ask leave to go to the front, this may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It won't be long now before I am off duty. I'll take another turn and when I get back I'll go to the general and ask him." He readjusted himself in the saddle and touched up his horse to ride once more round his hussars. It seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To the left he saw a sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostov could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on that white spot. "I expect it's snow... that spot... a spot- une tache," he thought. "There now... it's not a tache... Natasha... sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won't she be surprised when I tell her how I've seen the Emperor?) Natasha... take my sabretache..."- "Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes here," came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostov was riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostov lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horse's mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. "But what was I thinking? I mustn't forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, that's not it- that's tomorrow. Oh yes! Natasha... sabretache... saber them...Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along the Tverskaya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought about him too, just opposite Guryev's house... Old Guryev.... Oh, but Denisov's a fine fellow. But that's all nonsense. The chief thing is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not.... No, it was I who dared not. But that's nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tasha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That's right!" And his head once more sank to his horse's neck.[Book Three, Chapter XIII][/FONT][/SIZE]
My Opera
