EMIL COIRAN, cursing his translators.
Every time I see my texts translated, reduced to intelligibility, degraded by everyone’s usage -
COIRAN, cursing his translators.
He’s wrong.
Every time I see my texts translated, reduced to intelligibility, degraded by everyone’s usage, I fall into desolation and doubt. Is everything that I write only in words? Brilliance does not pass into another language; it passes even less than the poetry. What a lesson in modesty and discouragement to read ones own words in the style of a report, having toiled for hours over each word! I want no longer to be translated, to be dishonored in my own eyes.
Cioran Journal 1960
He’s wrong.
It captures.
I mean translation from his french into english is only different in personal pronoun-ing, and articles like de and en. There is a simplicity to how he writes in his journal that shines right through. Even with very complex motives.
His last entry for 1960, is pretty long. Its taking me over two weeks to translate. I’ll finish this week. Not much left.
Discussion going on while translating, rubs right up against Empsons discussion of articles for me, and how many meanings they contain.
Ambiguity in articles, is in the variety they can assume — as a link with an adjective or verb even — and still make complete sense.
Coiran’s french articles are taking me for a LOOP!!
I have had to let my understanding of french — loosen up around the meaning of articles, its mimicry ?
He kicks them around, like he is swatting at them with a bit of glee? yes but consternation of joy. And you can feel it!!
Can I only get in a little of that, really?
His swapping articles is all over the place. Tho it doesnt matter because it means what it means. The articles are just links with ambiguous enough meaning to translate the french using english phrasing for same application. Which is true about articles.
I fight that out… actually.
There’s so many luscious articles in french. Have simply had to expand my view and notion of what articles even are, especially with him. His phrasing is fantastic. It tingles with necessity.
Almost done reading 600-700 pages of Marcel in a dual language edition, word by word, to teach me how to translate too… Marcel’s articles are varied! but they feel much less addictive, more tightly contained around a phrase of common usage.
Whereas Cioran is on a different hunt…
Lately, in dialogue, Marcel, in the voice of a princess, has exploded with ce que and que ce. And I am trying to figure out the difference….this that or that this… and its filler, its the character stopping between thoughts and filling with this’ and thats’ — its adorable.
Ohhhhh novel. Just send it.
Six chapters that I have driven to the wall. They all move toward an ending.
Some endings trying to pull off what trickstser calls an Emily kick — into a question mark, with more than one answer.
Translation, has brought a methodical-ness to having toiled for hours over each word! That it accords the same willingness to let the narrative breathe, lead into itself.
Is it as simple as Cioran’s journals. Only at times. Not always. No. And it gets pretty compacted. Like a brick? Like my poems turn into bricks? Throwing bricks….
No. Its filled with switches. And its draped out. And there is some ground. Right from the top starts with ground. I cancelled out the poetical tumbling intro and let the fiction of the novel sit up top, for a good quarter of a chapter. Before descends into LuLu’s espirit, which means mind as much as it does spirit.
That said its also engages with a feminine subtext, and there doesn’t appear to be a way for me to outdistance that. Even though, it does also outdistance it. Kind of like how Cioran’ talks about his origins…
Many people will not have the stomach for it. Cioran for instance is a particular outlet and once found is treasured. Either your there or your not with Cioran. Same could be said of Joyce.
I think that way about my novel, your there or your not, its thick but also, in moments, cuts across, captures a breeze after a shudder.
Pessoa planted that in me…
Translating Cioran has been a real boon. His narrative understands poetic occurrences and addresses them without need for constraint however he may, now and again, moan about it.
And he too loves the Emily monster.
Two or three more days and I am done with 1960.
