Created a poem using only the vowel “o”.

“Johnny stop—don’t shoot
Oh god! sorry god!”
—only god knows how lost.
doors lock—thorny comfort now.

moms down low on bottom of floors
—no boys sorry.
dolls only known for lost worth
locks on rooms—ghosts born from lost sobs.

dolls look cold, frown—“look jolly!”
no. no. no.
show sorrow—don’t glow joy.
lost words show most.

“look son, mom’s loony
—only born to cook”
sorry Johnny, sorry son
thorny womb holds comfort.

tomorrow follows.
sobs don’t—
won’t stop
lost words know most.

Page 50-51, the last paragraph starting with, “She tried to think of the consequences…” ending on page 51.

This passage, while less confusing than others, still required me to reread it several times in order to even mildly understand what Djuna Barnes is saying. While reading it, I understood it at first as Robin not wanting to have a child, specifically a male child and then she goes off and talks about women she has “connected” with. The language is particularly what I have trouble with, because the sentences within Nightwood are incredibly long and I lose whatever was initially said. This passage exemplifies this, especially in the second half of it when Robin is praying. I still do not know really what she prayed for. On second glance–and with the help of the summary on the back of the book– I start to see Robin explore her sexuality and perhaps understand her prayer as asking for sexual (?) liberation from her husband and the child she was forced to bear. In this passage, she seems to start to recognize that she has always condemned men and found favor in women, “…she had come to connect with women…”(Barnes 51). I find that Barnes’ style is so particular because although the point of view is in third person, the reader still gets this “stream of consciousness” style, where the character rambles on with their thoughts. I think this is where I have difficulty, since as the reader, we aren’t allowed in the head of the characters, but we still get so much information and insight to who they are from the text. We are almost left in the perpetual state of too much information, but at the same time not enough.

Before last week, it never occurred to me to think of translation as an art form. In fact, most students probably take it for granted when reading famous works in their English classes. But Andrew Zawacki’s unparalleled definition of translation shone a beautiful and artistic light on the overlooked art. When discussing his translations of the poet Sébastien Smirou, Zawacki likened his experience to that of a cannibal; he had to consume the precise and systematic mind of Smirou.  Zawacki explained that the process of translating a living person’s work is much more challenging than someone who is dead and cannot defend their work. The author can question and prod the translator and vice versa, which of course has its benefits and its pitfalls.

One thing that particularly struck me though, was the comparison of translating to interpretation. When we think of translating, or at least when I do, I assume it’s mathematical: for every input, you have an output, but Zawacki explained that it is far from being that simple. Poems intention and meaning are altered completely when translated, he explained, but that is the art of translating; the fact that one’s work shines in a different way then before. This was so fascinating to hear, especially because my brother is a French translator. I had always assumed his work was so easy, but now after hearing how complex and meticulous it is, I can appreciate the different ways of translating one thing.

Another thought that occurred to me is how much power translators hold. Nowadays, maybe not so much, but back in early civilization, translators had the gift of connecting different groups of people and if something was mistranslated, that could be the start of a war or create a lifelong enemy. One item that particularly jumps out is the Bible. After being translated so many times and passed down through centuries, how can we be sure that our interpretation is the intention of the first writers? This is an uncomfortable question, but the Bible is so deeply rooted into society and has caused so much turmoil between religions that I am forced to bring up the Bible and how it was translated.

The film clearly draws from Akinari’s stories by incorporating an enchanting beautiful woman and having the main character end up with nothing in the end. This sense of enchantment is quite different from our definition today. Enchantment has this sort of positive connotation to it– think fairy tales– but in these stories, enchantment is more closely related to sorcery and witchcraft (negative). The mystical beings in the movie and in the story were seen as illusions from the devil which had to be exercised by a priest. Both of these stories continue to “enchant” the reader/viewer because they have this sense of morality to them. It is almost as if Akinari is trying to warn the reader against the sinful act of lust and temptation. But these stories don’t enchant the reader, instead I think of them more as, “they are so horrific, but I can’t stop watching/reading”. The stories have this effect of drawing you in just as the devil woman draws in the man with her beauty.

Akinari’s story of a man falling in love with a woman/the devil is stitched into the movie very effortlessly. I think the movie was in fact more powerful than the story, because at the end the man was left with nothing, except for his child. The movie really made it clear how lost the man was in this parasitic relationship with the beautiful woman, especially when he realizes how delusional he had become when he realized his wife had died.

These stories can be applied in our world today in a variety of ways. As humans we struggle with temptation everyday and most of the times, I would say that temptation wins. But this story is more than just temptation; it’s about how humans are so selfish and egotistical. The fact that this man sees a beautiful woman and creates this notion that she is madly in love with him, is a little self righteous.

Eloise Albaret

By switching between prose and poetry, Basho is creating a multilayered description of what he encountered on his journeys. One of the most obvious difference between the two, is the layout of the poetry versus the prose. The poetry, which was segmented into three short lines, created this break in the middle of the page and painted a better visual for the reader. The prose simply described what Basho had seen and encountered, while the poetry had a lighter, more playful feel to it. It incorporated these sort of “inside jokes” or funny little anecdotes, such as the custom of one group of people, who dyed their clothing on a large rock. The fact that Basho went back and edited his travel book after his actual travels, is also a crucial point to understand, since he could have omitted certain details or added things, which he may have misremembered or forgotten. He also might have found that certain poems needed a preface of prose, or vice versa, in order to clarify where he was and what he saw.

For me, the poems acted almost as pictures within the text. Even by looking at the page as a whole, the haikus create this sort of break for the reader and usually they elaborated on what Basho had said in the prose. Since the original text was written in Japanese, the penmanship of the haikus was most likely beautiful and added to the visual, which Basho was trying to create. Maybe by seeing the original, the reader could have gained a greater appreciation for the art of the characters and picture the scenic landscapes better.