El modesto misterio

Reading Change My Three true stories By Beth Johnson.

La Lectura Cambio Mi Vida por Beth Johnson

An orange marigold planted in a tin cup isn’t much. It’s just a spot of color, a touch of beauty. But to Maria Cardenas, the marigold was precious.  

Una  naranja caléndula  plantada en una pequeña taza de lata  no es mucho. Es solamente una mancha de color, un toque de belleza.  Pero para María Cárdenas, la rosa fue preciosa.

To understand why, you must know something about Maria’s life.

Para entender  por qué, tienes que entender la vida de María.

Marias was born in Mexico, the second oldest of what were eventually eight children. When she was four, she went to live with an aunt and uncle. Her mother and father had left Mexico to become migrant workers in the United States. They had paid someone eight hundred dollars to smuggle them across the border. When Maria was seven,  her parents sent for the children to join them in Texas.

 Ella nació en México, la segunda de lo que eran  eventualmente ocho niños. Cuando ella tenía cuatro años, se fue a vivir con una tía y un tío. Su madre y papa tenían  que dejar México  para convertirse trabajadores migrantes en los Estados Unidos. Ellos pagaron a alguien $ 800 dólares para cruzarlos a la frontera. Cuando María tenía 7 años sus padres enviaron a  los niños para juntarse en Texas.

Migrant workers cant afford much of a childhood. Within a short time. Little Maria was working in the fields .Her days were filled with backbreaking, labor hunger, bug bites, sickness, drunken men cursing and fighting, hands stained with tomato oils, scary snakes hiding among the crops ,and constant travel.

 Migrantes no pudieron obtener mucho para su niñez. Dentro de mucho tiempo la pequeña María, pequeña María estaba trabajando en los campos. Sus días fueron llenos con horas de trabajo agotador, hambre, mordidas de mosquitos, enfermedades, hombres embriagados, insultos y peleas, manos sucias con aceite, miedosas culebras escondidas entre las frutas y mucho viaje.

Her hard life had made Maria very shy and quiet. She did what she was told, speaking only in a whisper. At school, she was like a silent ghost sitting in the back of the room. “When the teacher told the class, “Read this book and write a report,” I just didn’t do it, she says, “I knew she wasn’t talking to me.

La vida dura le  ha hecho a María muy tímida y callada, Ella hizo lo que le dijeron que tenía que hacer, hablando solo con un suspiro. En la escuela, ella era como un  fantasma silencioso  sentado en la parte de atrás del cuarto. Cundo la maestra le dijo a la clase, lee este libro y escribe un reporte, ella no lo hizo, ella dijo, “Ella sabía no estaba hablándome a mí.

Maria worked at the store for two years .The month of her sixteen birthdays, Mrs. Mercer recommended her for a job in a local supermarket. Six weeks later, the manager told her he was promoting her to head cashier. Maria was beside herself with happiness.

María trabajo en la tienda por 2 años, El mes de sus dieciséis cumpleaños .Mrs. recomendó a ella un trabajo en una tienda local. Seis semanas más tarde, el jefe le dijo a ella que estaba promocionándole a ella a jefe de ventanilla. María estaba fuera de sí de alegría

In the course of one awful night, Maria hopeful visions of the future were snuffed out, seemingly forever. She had been kidnapped, beaten, and reaped. But according to the rules of her old fashioned Mexican society, none of that mattered.

En el curso de una espantosa noche, los visones de María del futuro se apagaron, se desaparecieron por siempre. Ella fue acuchillada, golpeada y violada. Pero de acuerdo a las antiguas reglas de la sociedad Mexicana, ninguna de ellas importa

Ruth Morocho

An Israeli tradition tells the story of a prophet who was passing by a net when a bird nearby said to him “ Have you ever seen a man so simple as the one who hung this net to trap me?” The prophet walked away. On his way back he found the bird trapped in the net. “How strange” he said “Weren’t you just saying something to me a few moments ago?” “Prophet” the bird replied, “ when the time comes we can’t see nor hear.”

Above you’ll find, in all its glory,  group 4′s translation. Good team work =)

This essay by Eliot Weinberger gives us, in great detail, an explanation of how complex is the necessity of translation. It shows us the complexity of translations from different language around the world and in different times. It also shows us the importance of translation for many countries such as Germany and China. The necessity of understand other cultures to better communicate with people from different part of the world makes translation so important according to Weinberger. It also mentions how translation is one of the most anonymous of professions and the relationship between authors and translators. This part of his essay makes me remember the conference that Professor Allen invites us during this semester where I had the opportunity to meet authors with their translators. I think the strongest the relationship between author-translator, the outcome would be better based on the experience that authors and translators shared that day.  However, according to Weinberger, the relationship author-translator has no story most of the time. This is a great essay to understand the importance of translation.

José María Arguedas

He was born January 18, 1911, Andahuaylas, Peru. He was novelist, short-story writer, and ethnologist whose writings capture the contrasts between the white and Indian cultures.

La Agonía de Rasu Ñiti
(The Great Dancer’s Farewell)  (Rasu Ñiti’s Farewell)

Estaba tendido en el suelo, sobre una cama de pellejos.  Un cuero de vaca colgaba de uno de los maderos del techo.  Por la única ventana que tenía la habitación, cerca del mojinete, entraba la luz grande del sol; daba contra el cuero y su sombra caía a un lado de la cama del bailarín. La otra sombra, la del resto de la habitación, era uniforme. No podía afirmase que fuera oscuridad, era posible distinguir las, ollas, los sacos de papas, los copos de lana; los cuyes cuando salían algo espantados de sus huecos y exploraban en el silencio. La habitación era ancha para ser vivienda de un indio.

He was lying on the floor level, on a handmade bed. A cowhide was hanging from one of the beams. By the room’s only window, near a slanted area, bright sunlight came in to the room. The shadow made by the hanging leather fell next to the dancer’s bed.  Another shadow, made by the rest of the room was uniform.  You couldn’t tell there was not darkness; pots, sacks of potatoes and wool were still visible; scared guinea pigs came out of their holes and they explored in the silence.  The room was big for an indigenous house.

Tenía una troje. Un altillo que ocupaba no todo el espacio de la pieza, sino un ángulo. Una escalera de palo de lambras servía para subir a la troje. La luz del sol la alumbraba fuerte. Podía verse como varias hormigas negras subían sobre la corteza del lambras que aun exhala perfume.

There was a sleeping-loft area; it didn’t occupy the whole room, only an angle of it.  A wooden staircase was used to go up to the loft. A very bright sunlight shone down, you could even see many black ants going up on the wooden staircase and the wood still exhaled fresh smell.

-El corazón está listo. El mundo avisa. ¡Estoy oyendo la cascada de Sano! ¡Estoy listo! – dijo el dansak’ “Rasu Niti”.

Se levantó y pudo llegar hasta la petaca de cuero en que guardaba su taje de dansak’ y sus tijeras de acero. Se puso el guante en la mano derecha y empezó a tocar las tijeras.

“My heart is ready. The nature announces it. I’m hearing the Sano waterfalls! I’m so ready!” El dansak’ Rasu Niti said.

He got up and was able to get to his leather suitcase where he kept his dansak’ suit and his steel scissors.  He put the right hand glove on and started to play his scissors as a music instrument.

Porque las tijeras sonaron más vivamente, en golpes menudos.

Corrieron las tres mujeres a la puerta de la habitación.

“Rasu Niti” se estaba vistiendo. Sí. Se estaba poniendo la chaqueta ornada de espejos.

-¡Esposo! ¿Te despides?- pregunto la mujer, respetuosamente, desde el umbra. Las dos hijas lo contemplaban temblorosas.

Because the scissors sounded very vividly in tiny strokes, all three women ran to the room’s door.

Rasu Niti was dressing up. Yes. He was putting his jacket with a wide range of mirror applications.

“Dear husband! Is this a farewell?” The wife asked respectfully from the doorway while the two trembling daughters stared at the scene.

Se puso el pantalón de terciopelo, apoyándose en la escalera y en los hombros de su mujer. Se calzo las zapatillas. Se puso el tapabala y la montera. El tapabala estaba adornado con hilos de oro. Sobre las inmensas faldas de la montera, entre cintas labradas, brillaban espejos en forma de estrella. Hacia atrás, sobre la espalda del bailarín, caía desde el sombrero una rama de cintas de varios colores.

Leaning on the staircase and his wife’s shoulders, He put his velvet pants and shoes on. He put “the tapabala” and “the montera” on. The tapabala was embroidered with gold’s threads.  All over the montera’s huge skirts, between carved ribbons, there were shining star-shaped mirrors. On the other side, on the dancer’s back, there were a bunch of multi-colored ribbons hanging from his hat.

http://zienmilmitos.blogspot.com/2011/04/la-danza-de-las-tijeras-recibira.html

When reading the essay, Review The Last Supper of Capitalism by Jose Manuel Prieto where he talks about the translation of the poem “Epigrama contra Stalin.” by Osip Mandelstam. I learned that Prieto felt honor and at the same time challenge. Prieto says that in 1996  when the historian Jean Meyer was about to publish a book title Russia and its Imperious. He was asked to translate this famous poem from Russian to Spanish.

I observed that Prieto used a detail description of the situation in order to chose and translate a word. This method helps him create a link between the history of the situation in which the poem was written and the choice of word he uses.

The poem was a politic satire that cost the life of the author Osip Mandelstam. Prieto knew the poem well and had more than once recite it out loud. He also knew that the poem has been translated into French. According to Prieto, the French version was not good enough compare to the beauty of the original Russian.  So Prieto as the translator  had a big responsibility to capture the magic of the poem and at the same time keep the severity of its verses.

I found interesting to know how a translator feels when reviewing his work. In his essay Prieto says that, even though he translated the poem with caution and patience, he was never complete satisfied with the final results. He says that the poem had an artistic integrity value that when translating loses its aura. He thought for years that his translation never really mingle into Spanish but at the same time he would never change the words he used when he did the translation.

While I was reading Forrest Gander’s essay: “The Great Leap: Cesar and the Caesura,” I found interesting that Gander would teach English and American Literature with some works that were not “literary traditional–British and North American,”  instead he would use translated works. He says that it does not matter since many writers do not care where their influences come from, what matters to them are the “images, rhythms, forms, [etc].” But, if translation works are used, wouldn’t these “images, rhythms,” etc be the culture of the original language, and if so, how much is English and American Literature intertwined or influenced by other cultures?

I found it funny how I’ve never questioned why I always wrote: “me duele la” instead of “me duele mi,” until I read Gander’s essay. Although, I do say and I’ve heard: “me duele mi pierna,” I’ve never seen it written in this format, but I understand why Gander translated “la” to “my.” His readers would question whose leg he is talking about if he went with “the,” the same way, a spanish reader would question what I’m talking about if I translate:”I’m hungry” to” Yo soy hambre,” instead of “Tengo hambre.” Although words might be lost, a translator has to be careful of what he omits in his translation to not confuse his readers nor lose the meaning behind the original work.

When Gander wrote about his “development of caesura”, I had to look it up in the dictionary to understand what caesura means. Although some readers might disagree with me, I like the way how he translated Merry-Go-Round, leaving some Spanish for the readers to enjoy. It gives a mystery and engages the reader as he will have to  go and find out what it means. I know that poetry sometimes is hard to understand but that’s what makes it special; each word has a different meaning for the reader to interpret and leaving it in Spanish as Gander did, it has made it more attractive for both, English and Spanish readers.

There have been many translations of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. Amongst those were the ones discussed in class by Ormsby, Putnam, Rutherford and Grossman.

John Ormsby’s translation was written in 1885. His style of writing is very much different from the other three translators. One of the reasons is that this translation was done nearly 130 years ago. Therefore his English is very different from the English we use today. Another observance is that he keeps the original word “olla” as it is in Spanish. He decides not to translate this word. Ormsby also changes the letter j in Quijada to x in English, written as Quixada.

Samuel Putnam’s translation was written in 1949. Not as old as Ormsby’s translation but still 54 years old. Though this translation is not as old, his English is not of one’s writer today. Putnam does translate the word “olla” to stew in English. He also keeps the words Quijada and Quesada as are written in the Spanish language.

John Rutherford and Edith Grossman are translators of our present time. There English is much easier to read and understand than the other two translators. As for my opinion as a reader, I feel that Edith Grossman does a great job conveying the translation. Not that the other three translators don’t do so, but as for my preference and ease to read through, I feel she does a great job.

That day, I remember very well, (that day,) I decided to steal a book while waiting for the public bus. When it finally arrived, I sat next to a lady who came from the hot springs and then, after turning on the Walkman, I listened to Charly García for the fifteen minute delay to reach the shopping center on Bolivar Avenue.

At the bookstore, I greeted the owner and, as always, he asked about my dad.

“Well, Fernandez, all well,” I told him as I directed myself towards the shelves of South American literature before he began to talk about what has been his favorite subject for exactly sixteen years: why the price of Manchego cheese had increased, what did the devaluation of Bolivar have to do with its price if it was an imitation and it was not imported, etcetera, etcetera.

While in front of the shelves of Argentine literature, I thought about it having to be an important enough book to justify my first theft, and not too large, so I’m able to put it in my sweaters pocket. I glanced at the first few words. Arlt, Borges, Cortázar. Something in the air/environment, perhaps the recent news of his marriage to María Kodama, helped me settle on Borges. Of course, it couldn’t be his storybooks because I already had them all, at least every one I thought was interesting at the time. I wasn’t done thinking about it when I saw the two complete volumes of poetry. I calculated the approximate weight of each volume, six hundred grams, and when the doorbell rang and Fernandez leaned over to push the button and welcome the new customer, I grabbed the two volumes and put them in the pockets of my sweater/ my sweaters pockets.

Ese día, lo recuerdo muy bien, decidí que robaría un libro mientras esperaba el autobús de la alcaldía. Cuando finalmente llegó, me senté junto a una señora que venía de las aguas termales y, luego de encender el walkman, escuché a Charly García durante los quince minutos que demoramos en llegar al centro comercial, en la avenida Bolívar.

Ya en la librería, saludé al dueño y, como siempre, éste me preguntó por mi papá.

-Bien, Fernández, todos bien -le dije dirigiéndome hacia los estantes de literatura sudamericana antes de que comenzara a hablar de lo que hace exactamente dieciséis años era su tema favorito: el queso manchego, ¿por qué había aumentado?, ¿qué tenía que ver la devaluación del bolívar con su precio si se trataba de una imitación y no era importado?, etcétera, etcétera.

Frente al estante de literatura argentina pensé que tendría que tratarse de un libro importante, para justificar un primer robo, y no muy voluminoso, para poder meterlo en los bolsillos del suéter. Pasé revista a las primeras letras. Arlt, Borges, Cortázar. Algo en el ambiente, quizás la reciente noticia de su matrimonio con María Kodama, me ayudó a decidirme por Borges. Eso sí, no podía tratarse de sus libros de cuentos porque los tenía todos, al menos todos los que entonces creía que me interesaban. No había terminado de pensarlo cuando vi los dos volúmenes de Poesía completa. Calculé el peso aproximado de cada volumen, seiscientos gramos, y cuando sonó el timbre de la puerta y Fernández se inclinó para presionar el automático y recibir al nuevo cliente, agarré los dos volúmenes y los distribuí en los bolsillos laterales del suéter.

SPAfinal

Wide Empty Landscape

With a Death in the Foreground

Here are weeds about his mouth;

His teeth are ashes.

Aqui estan las hierbas alrededor de su boca

Sus dientes son cenizas

It is this which succeeds him:

This huge, barren plain.

Esto es lo que le prosigue:

Una immensa llanura vacia.

For him there is no question

Of elsewhere. His place

Para el no hay pregunta

De otro lugar. Su lugar

Is just this reality,

This deep element.

Esta realidad justamente

Este profundo elemento

Now that he is dead he bears

Upon the vision

Haora que el esta muerto el lleva

En la vision

Merely, without resistance.

Death displaces him

Simplemente, sin resistencia.

La muerte lo desplaza

No more than life displaced him;

He was always here.

No mas que la vida lo desplaza;

El siempre a estado aqui.