Working on three things at once. No don’t think of that way. Novel and poetry and translation are all an extension of each other. As being something that occurs, for me, as working on writing.
Feeding one into the other. And here too where I can mash things out in lit commentary over how it all relates for me, engages, and with whom.
Translation — puts me into mind of Language Searching for Itself. Translation requires research into language. In all its forms.
Fiction lets in all sorts of forms. Poe played in form… So did Marcel.
Influences are allowed to be something of a “royal marcel sickness” for my Miss Psyche —
Miss Pysche is from Edgar. I believe deep in my heart, its not unwise to sometimes steal off Edgar’s humor, temperament. Baudelaire embraced Edgar translated him with his mom. Marcel took trips based on Ruskins discussions about beauty, especially in cathedrals. Paintings too.
George Painter’s Bio presents Marcel as having gone through a serious over-the-top Ruskin thing. Who then, along with mother and two other writers, translates Ruskin into french, books and writings.
He published translations before he even started writing A La Research.
He also published in all the major paris france rags. About his friends and what they were doing. And went after them - to make mention of him in return. Published gossip, in reviews, about salons or a woman friend of his acting in plays.
The writers who helped him translate, all were women, having “affairs” with him in a way, would help him finish.
Marcel in his way had “affairs” with people, Ruskin was like an “affair”. He was always on about love in his letters.
Mlle Nordlinger who helped with most of his translations, lived abroad some of the time. England and America both, she’d come to Paris to help in finalizing his translations, they’d sit up all night going over words. Translation forces you to think about language and interpretation.
Marcel was political. Passionate too about some of it. Discussions went on in the salons. Judiasm in France shows up in half the princesses lineage. Also his mom was. Many were halfsies. Especially the royalty relations, princesses who were related to wealth on both sides.
Politically. Does not hide his opinions from anyone who knew him. He is touchy as can be, thin-skinned and blurt, generous, took everything to heart, wrote letters to everybody. Exchanged presents. Gave dinners.
Marcel is into community however much he isn’t. A night crawler, he did salons to all hours. And as his asthma gets worse, more and more during the day he sleeps. Eventually that completely takes over. He holes up writing during the nights and during his endless asthma attacks.
When my writing first shows up in others mailboxes I was a night crawler. The day was labour. Night a place writing could exist as one with me, and on our own terms.
Writing letters terrified me. But then I would do it anyway. At edges of prevarication and gush.
I like the sun now. Night time in New York is and always has been especially full of it. Night was for me fugitive from the day.
I no longer even attempt to do social occasions where I don’t sit over a drink of some kind, wine, beer, or a coffee — or a desert coffee that’s spiked. Liquor is about transformulations, being able to leave discipline of the day behind. I don’t drink liquor at all at home. But I do at bars once in a while, dinners and parties.
Marcel and all his medicines. Bed surrounded by dictionaries. Mom watched over him. And his dad never stopped supporting him as everybody knew his son. They were both pretty famous. Dad was an expert in immunology.
In Painter’s bio Vol 2 am just now up to Marcel’s starting to write A La Research. Biographer is digging into “lit theory” too — as Marcel’s work thickens into ideas about time, beauty, mechanics even. Alas, his mom is about to die.
