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Monday, August 5th, 2013
One more Bogotano poem -- this is the final image in the book, from Aurelio Arturo's poem "Dream City" (previously untranslated -- in her note, Anne McLean thanks Lillian Nećakov for help translating it. I wonder if Anne or Lillian wrote this post at WordReference?*) Searching for the full text of the poem brought me to the pdf of GuÃa Literaria de Bogotá, which seems like a useful resource to have at hand; the website is Museo Fuera de Lugar which itself looks pretty interesting.
Ciudad de sueño 
Yo os contaré que un dÃa vi arder entre la noche
una loca ciudad soberbia y populosa,
yo, sin mover los párpados, la miré desplomarse,
caer, cual bajo un casco un pétalo de rosa.
Muros que yo formé con mi sangre hecha esfuerzo,
puertas al sol doradas que elevé a mis espaldas,
ciudad de mil mujeres de ojos dorados, brazos
lentos y bocas rojas que en su silencio cantan.
Asà como en la sombra desciende una cabeza
al fondo de una idea, rápida como piedra,
aquella ciudad loca, oh rúas de mi júbilo,
se hundÃa en silencios duros y en soledades negras.
ArdÃa como un muslo entre selvas de incendio,
y caÃan las cúpulas y caÃan los muros
sobre las voces queridas tal como sobre espejos
amplios...¡diez mil chillidos de resplandores puros!
Y eran como mis mismos cabellos esas llamas,
rojas panteras sueltas en la joven ciudad,
y ardÃan desplomándose los muros de mi sueño...
¡Tal como se desploma gritando una ciudad!
 * Or hm, no, it appears that message was posted by the translator of Falling into Turkish! Düşen Şeylerin Gürültüsü is in Everest Yayınları's Dünya Edebiyatı Dizisi series and is translated by Süleyman Doğru.
posted evening of August 5th, 2013: Respond
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Sunday, August 4th, 2013
Speaking of Antonio, and thinking as always about identification with the narrator, I just want to note that Antonio's description, at the beginning of chapter 2, of his stay in the hospital reminds me very strongly of my own extended stay as a child after an auto accident -- the circumstances obviously quite different but the feeling of being kept in the bed not fully understanding what's going on around you is instantly recognizable.
I don't remember, however, the three days of surgery: they have disappeared completely, obliterated by the intermittent anesthesia. I don't remember the hallucinations, but I do remember that I had them; I don't remember having fallen out of bed due to the abrupt movements that one of them provoked, and, although I don't remember that they tied me down in the bed to prevent that from happening again, I do remember quite well the violent claustrophobia, the terrible awareness of my vulnerablility.
 (Incidentally: Is Antonio 42 or so at the time of writing? is a question I find intriguing.)
↻...done
posted afternoon of August 4th, 2013: Respond
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The sound of things falling is a book about Bogotá, and poetry is a huge part of that city's history. A part I don't know much about at all... Looks like I am going to be learning a bit as I make my way through the book. Early in the second chapter we find a reference to León de Greiff, Antonio quotes from his "Admonición a los impertenentes" as he says he doesn't want his family visiting him.
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio. Non me peta mormurio
ninguno a la mi vera. Si la voz soterraña
de la canción adviene, que advenga con sordina:
si es la canción ruidosa, con mi mudez la injurio;
si tráe mucha música, que en el Hades se taña
o en cualquiera región al negro Hades vecina...
Ruido: ¡Callad! Pregón de aciago augurio!
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio, mi sóla golosina.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
dejádme solo.
...(Y no un poeta pero) En la aula donde Antonio enseña cuelga retrato de Francisco José de Caldas:
posted afternoon of August 4th, 2013: 1 response
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The tape Antonio listens to in the Casa de PoesÃa while Laverde is listening to his message, is a reading of one of José Asunción Silva's Nocturnes.
Una noche
Una noche toda llena de perfumes, de murmullos y de músicas de alas,
Una noche
En que ardÃan en la sombra nupcial y húmeda las luciérnagas fantásticas,
A mi lado lentamente, contra mà ceñida, toda,
Muda y pálida
Como si un presentimiento de amarguras infinitas,
Hasta el más secreto fondo de las fibras te agitara,
Por la senda florecida que atraviesa la llanura florecida
Caminabas,
Y la luna llena
Por los cielos azulosos, infinitos y profundos esparcÃa su luz blanca,
Y tu sombra
Fina y lánguida,
Y mi sombra
Por los rayos de la luna proyectada
Sobre las arenas tristes
De la senda se juntaban
Y eran una
Y eran una
Y eran una sola sombra larga!
Y eran una sola sombra larga!
Y eran una sola sombra larga!
Esta noche
Solo, el alma
Llena de las infinitas amarguras y agonÃas de tu muerte,
Separado de ti misma, por la sombra, por el tiempo y la distancia,
Por el infinito negro
Donde nuestra voz no alcanza,
Solo y mudo
Por la senda caminaba,
Y se oÃan los ladridos de los perros a la luna,
A la luna pálida,
Y el chillido
De las ranas,
Sentà frÃo, era el frÃo que tenÃan en la alcoba
Tus mejillas y tus sienes y tus manos adoradas,
Entre las blancuras nÃveas
De las mortüorias sábanas!
Era el frÃo del sepulcro, era el frÃo de la muerte
Era el frÃo de la nada...
Y mi sombra
Por los rayos de la luna proyectada,
Iba sola,
Iba sola
¡Iba sola por la estepa solitaria!
Y tu sombra esbelta y ágil
Fina y lánguida,
Como en esa noche tibia de la muerta primavera,
Como en esa noche llena de murmullos de perfumes y de músicas de alas,
Se acercó y marchó con ella
Se acercó y marchó con ella,
Se acercó y marchó con ella... ¡Oh las sombras enlazadas!
¡Oh las sombras que se buscan en las noches de negruras y de lágrimas!...
posted morning of August 4th, 2013: Respond
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Saturday, August third, 2013
Oh boy!
—and in the rich neighborhoods of Bogotá people wore T-shirts saying Save The Hippos...
posted afternoon of August third, 2013: 1 response
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Tuesday, June 5th, 2012
In the array of inexplicable matters which is the universe, which is time, a book's dedication is surely not the least arcane. It is presented as a gift, a boon. But excluding the case of the indifferent coin which Christian charity lets drop into the indigent's palm, every gift is in truth reciprocal. He who gives does not deprive himself of what is given. To give and to receive are identical.
Like every act in the universe, dedicating a book is a magic act. It could be considered as the most pleasant, the most fitting manner of giving voice to a name. And now I give voice to your name, MarÃa Kodama. So many mornings, so many oceans, so many gardens of the East and of the West, so many lines of Virgil.
Jorge LuÃs Borges
inscription to La cifra:
May 17, 1981
Juan Gabriel Vásquez' column from last week is fun: "About a Magic Act" is about dedications, spinning off from his dedication of The Secret History of Costaguana to his daughters, and the difficulty his various translators have had in rendering “que llegaron con su libro bajo el brazo†in their target languages -- apparently, so he learned, it is not the case in every language, that a baby can arrive with a loaf of bread under its arm (it looks at first glance like nacer con el pan debajo del brazo means roughly, "be born with a silver spoon in one's mouth") -- Anne McLean rendered it, "For Martina and Carlota, who brought their own book with them when they arrived." He looks at dedications from GarcÃa Márquez, Juan Carlos Onetti, Camilo José Cela, Joyce, Hervé Guibert, Shakespeare, Borges... My own very rough translation of the Borges dedication Vásquez refers to is above.
posted evening of June 5th, 2012: 2 responses
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Tuesday, May 29th, 2012
"Very well," had said the considerable personage to whom Charles Gould on his way out through San Francisco had lucidly exposed his point of view. "Let us suppose that the mining affairs of Sulaco are taken in hand. There would be in it: first, the house of Holroyd, which is all right; then, Mr. Charles Gould, a citizen of Costaguana, who is also all right; and, lastly, the Government of the Republic. So far this resembles the first start of the Atacama nitrate fields, where there was a financing house, a gentleman of the name of Edwards, and -- a Government; or rather, two Governments -- two South American Governments. And you know what came of it. War came of it; devastating and prolonged war came of it, Mr. Gould."
Somehow I had gotten in mind from The Secret History of Costaguana, that Nostromo held specific allegoric reference to the building of the Panama Canal. That does not seem to be quite right... Certainly the story of the Canal is a relevant line of thought for approaching this book; and the Atacama, too -- nitrate was of huge importance when Conrad was writing this.
posted evening of May 29th, 2012: Respond
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Friday, May 18th, 2012
The beauty of the Virgilian Lottery has little in common with Google’s “I’m Feeling Lucky.â€
My latest translation is up on The Utopian: Juan Gabriel Vásquez' column from two weeks ago, Reading Your Fortune. (Original Encontrar la suerte en los libros, at El Espectador.)
posted morning of May 18th, 2012: Respond
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Tuesday, March 20th, 2012
“War is hell,†said Leon Panetta, Secretary of Defense in the Obama administration:  he said it following the killing of 16 civilians, among them children, by a deranged sergeant in the Afghan province of Kandahar. This massacre unleashed on the world a series of images that one cannot look at without being reminded of similar massacres from the Vietnam War — for instance, My Lai.-- "Shame", by Juan Gabriel Vásquez
The Utopian's blog publishes my translation of Vásquez' latest column for El Espectador: the original is "Los Avergonzados", from last Thursday.
 On the subject of shameful killings: Founderstein's Michael Austin has exactly the right take on the killing of Treyvon Martin in Florida last month. (via Russell Arben Fox)
posted evening of March 20th, 2012: Respond
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Sunday, March 4th, 2012
In Juan Villoro's phrase, the column is the platypus of prose.
These approaches -- and more besides -- are outlined in Jaramillo's introduction: fifty pages determined, with the help of Norman Sims and of the columnists themselves, to bring the reader to the river where this platypus bathes.
Juan Gabriel Vásquez' column this week, La crónica, o cómo ponerle cercas al rÃo, is sending me scrambling to look up references... Vásquez is here a columnist writing about understanding the genre of the column. Some of the references:
posted afternoon of March 4th, 2012: Respond
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