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Sylvia's on the back (October 2005)

READIN

Jeremy's journal

Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.

— Sir Francis Bacon


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Saturday, December 8th, 2012

🦋 Two metaphors for the sun

I'm working further on my translation of Hernán Rivera Letelier's El arte de la resurrección... Vague plans to write an interesting cover letter for the first four chapters in rough draft translation and see if I could find a publisher who'd be interested in having me work on the book.

Obviously there is a lot of sun to describe in this book, taking place as it does in the Atacama desert. I found this metaphor just gorgeous:

The Christ of Elqui left the station. The town of Sierra Gorda, nailed down here on the bottom of purgatory, seemed to be completely empty. It seemed an oasis, a mirage in the desert -- indeed its only inhabitant appeared to be the sunshine, stretched out lazy on its four dirt roads, a giant, yellow mongrel dog.
(still not certain about "sunshine" there for "sol"...) -- This came just two pages past a darker image:
Many of their dear ones -- as they themselves would say, their voices low -- had probably died in a work accident, or in a barroom brawl, or infected by one of the epidemics which regularly tore through the north, or had fallen in one of the Army’s massacres of the saltpetre workers -- most had simply vanished into thin air, like the reverberating sun of mid-day vanishes into the desert. They rode the trains in hopes of meeting up with their kin, even if it were to be in a graveyard.

posted morning of December 8th, 2012: Respond
➳ More posts about The Art of Resurrection

Thursday, December 6th, 2012

🦋 Brand new

A journey through labyrinths of identity, of degradation and oblivion. Donoso's opus magnum, says the back jacket
(rubbing my fingers in antici-pation, as Frankenfurter might say) -- on Bolaño's recommendation, that to call Donoso the best Chilean novelist of the century would be to insult him.

posted evening of December 6th, 2012: 1 response

Sunday, December second, 2012

🦋 Rivera Letelier glossary

Nice find! (via a wordreference thread referencing The Art of Resurrection.)

posted morning of December second, 2012: Respond
➳ More posts about Hernán Rivera Letelier

Saturday, December first, 2012

🦋 Current reading material

posted evening of December first, 2012: Respond
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🦋 Lullaby for Laura

Midnight's oil is inky black, it shimmers
in the orange glow of the match you've struck
Midnight's oil is an inky puddle in your cerebellum
There is no wick in midnight's oil
but will it burn? Hesitant
you drop the match
it hisses and dies
in your moist consciousness
and you feel the dark embrace
of midnight's oil
midnight's oil swells, becomes
itself
the fabric of your consciousness
no claustrophobia here nor displacement, indeed
the opposite
a warmth one might say, a carnal pleasure
in the closeness of midnight's oil
you get a pleasant contact high from midnight's oil
indeed in its glow you sense a new path
new vision
come quickly to love the way it burns
pale blue flame, dim flame, warm flame
illuminates you, passes through the membrane
separating self and your surroundings
And so you're out there now and everything's burning
burning in quiet joy, in dim blue ecstasy
but what can you do when everything's on fire
but fiddle
take your cue
the camera pans in close on Nero's graying braided hair
and the hair of his bow slides quickly
sometimes sloppy on the strings
which are burning too
and none of it consumed like Rome was
and from this ubiquitous burning bush hear the voice
of midnight's oil deep and resonant asemic
hear the syllables
neither skatting nor as they might appear
some ancient language dead and never traced
nor yet a new invention
timeless nonsense tripping
from the nonexistent lips of transcendent midnight's oil
what madness will this incantation work?

posted afternoon of December first, 2012: 1 response
➳ More posts about Poetry

Wednesday, November 28th, 2012

🦋 A couple of things about Joaquín Pasos

  • I spent a few weeks in October working on a translation of his "Canto de guerra de las cosas" that I had started and abandoned a couple of years ago. What a great poem this is!
  • Searching for more about him led me to find some of Chris Brandt's translations -- I was particularly floored by his version of "Hotel Tremol", which you can hear John John reading on YouTube.
  • From Brandt's translations I was inspired to buy Pasos' Poesía completa, which is available in a very nice edition being remaindered at Amazon.es -- with shipping included it is ~$12. (You should buy it if you read Spanish.)
  • I'm just blown away by the poems -- it is premature to talk about favorites at this point but already with the very second poem in the book, "Cook «Voyages»," we are among the very highest ranks of poetic imagery.
  • Three of Pasos' books are called Poemas de un joven que no ha viajado nunca, Poemas de un joven que no ha amado nunca, and Poemas de un joven que no sabe inglés. This last one, "Poems by a kid who doesn't know English," is not in the collected edition I got but you can read it online at The University of Utah's site. "Hotel Tremol" and "Voyages" are both in the first one, "Poems by a kid who has never travelled." They are together quite enough to put Pasos among the best poets I've read.

posted evening of November 28th, 2012: Respond

Sunday, November 18th, 2012

🦋 Opportunistically Present

Opportunistically lying in wait and grinning, giggling lamely
at the ashy glow of the painted wall in the streetlamp and suddenly
hear a dead man walking round the corner and the dying fall

You're making up your mind and nervous, humming inanely
snatches of the anthem of your good old school out west;
forgotten the words and meanings
subtle meaninglessness,
your time has not yet come so you play the fool

And suddenly crumpling and falling, lifeless,
playing a wrinkled fool, to an audience of jaded friends

You're running now frantic feel the rhythmic pace
and all the scenery's the same just one repeated shot flickers past
and you could swear you've been out here before
Mr. Hitchcock; and this stupid mistake will not be your last
not the last of such creatures entrusted and painted and lined
with precious gems, heirloom for a generation
of bureaucrats --
you switch back now and look him full in the face
and suddenly you find you cannot recognize this familiar caricature,
this crudely sketched archetype of disquiet, or you do not want to
(and so you fail to), unfamiliar expression you know so well,
could trace it out in the dark you reckon soft ivory fingers
on imaginary skin
and so you stare into his absent eyes and identify yourself
with his absent character and longing

And you so long to be there, to be present.

posted afternoon of November 18th, 2012: Respond
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Monday, November 12th, 2012

🦋 Sessiz Ev

Surprised I missed this! Pamuk's second novel has been published in English translation as Silent House. Nice to hear. NY Times review here.

posted afternoon of November 12th, 2012: Respond
➳ More posts about Orhan Pamuk

Sunday, October 28th, 2012

🦋 noted

(walking with Pixie the morning of the storm)
the textures and sounds of Autumn, and the foreboding, are easily as invigorating as the gorgeous colors.


Crunchy autumn sidewalk in Maplewood?
Or the world's most frustrating jigsaw puzzle?

posted morning of October 28th, 2012: Respond
➳ More posts about the Family Album

Thursday, October 25th, 2012

🦋 El amor es una forma de ausencia; siempre se convierte el amador en fantasma

Four takes on absence.

Dónde vives
by The Modesto Kid

Nada sé de ti, oh Ávala, salvo que eres
        mi hermano poeta
   y que vives
en casa callada

Al departamento frío
by Peter Conlay

Al departamento frío
llegamos
y salimos otra vez;
de ti no sé nada
salvo de que
eres mi hermana.

Ausencia
by Maximiliano Josner Ávala

Nada sé de ella
salvo que es mi hermana
y es muerta
La encontré a ella en el jardín
pero no hablaba.

La Soledad
by Roberto Bolaño

¿Te divierte que escriba en tercera persona?
¿Te divierte que a veces diga que dentro de 100 años
estaremos completamente solos?
Nada sé de ti salvo que eres mi hermana
En los fríos departamentos junto al barrio gótico
A veces escuchando la lluvia
O besándonos
O haciendo muecas delante del espejo

posted morning of October 25th, 2012: 7 responses
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