Atelier International 2 - supplemento al nr. 91 by Atelier International

Quarterly of poetry, critics, literature Online supplement to issue 91 (September 2018)

Director: Giuliano Ladolfi (Editor in Chief) Director of International Supplements: Francesca Benocci Editorial Directors: Guido Mattia Gallerani & Chiara Bernini Directors of Atelier online: Clery Celeste & Eleonora Rimolo Editorial Staff Coordinator: Matteo Fantuzzi Marketing Director: Giulio Greco Web Manager: Francesco Teruggi Editorial Board: Michele Bevilacqua (Università “Parthenope” di Napoli, Université d’Artois); Anna Gadd Colombi (University of Western Australia); Angelo Nestore (Universidad de Málaga); Julian Peters; Matteo Pupillo (Universidade Nova de Lisboa); Meredith Paterson; Nicola Verderame (Freie Universität Berlin & Università di Napoli). Management and Administration: C.so Roma, 168 - 28021 Borgomanero (NO) - ph. and fax 0322835681 Website: http://www.atelierpoesia.it E-mail: redazione@atelierpoesia.it Authorisation by the Court of Novara n. 8 of the 23/03/1996. Associazione Culturale “Atelier”

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And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep. Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-five.

Table of Contents

Atelier: Aesthetics in the globalized age (Part II) Giuliano Ladolfi

Retraduire des nouvelles de Khaterine Mansfeld Luc Arnault

Stasera di Giuseppe Ungaretti Julian Peters

Intervista: Maria LĂşcia Da Farra Matteo Pupillo

For a definition of «poetry» Giuliano Ladolfi

Dato Magradze: «Two Sources of a Single Water» Giuliano Ladolfi Translation: Shen Haobo Liang Yujing

Louder Voices or Would a «Beautiful Silence» Be Better? Francesca Benocci

For a definition of «poetry» Giuliano Ladolfi On Thursday April the 12th at the «Sormani di Milano» we held a conference on the theme “Poetry and Mass Media”, organised by the Milan City Council, the Sormani library, the «di poesia» cultural association, the journal «Atelier», and the cultural centre «Don Bernini» in Borgomanero. The proceedings were published in issue no. 90 of the journal. We set out to expand the analysis of contemporary poetry that we had started discussing at the palazzo Medici Riccardi in Firenze on February the 6th 2017. Those proceedings were published on the issue n. 85 of «Atelier» (June 2017). On that occasion, the discourse centered around literary groups, publishing firms, universities, and magazines/journals. Later, at the convention in Milan, the theme became a discussion of the relationship between contemporary poetry and mass media. This initiative did not follow the usual schedule of presentations that culminate in a final debate between panelists, which is typical at such events; rather, after my speech—that was centered on two main themes: the marginalisation of poetry by television, radio, and newspapers, with a few exceptions, and the billing of subsystems (universities, publishing firms, journals, schools, festivals, readings, blogs, et cetera)—, a debate began between the speakers and the audience of experts in attendance. With regards to the more pessimistic views, Mario De Santis, Luigia Sorrentino, Ottavio Rossani and Guido Mattia Gallerani used their research to support how poetry is fully alive in contemporary culture, and how it still finds audiences in conferences, festivals, readings, print publishers and digital media. The facilitator, Giulio Greco, highlighted a phenomenon that is alien to the usual interpretive elements: Francesco Sole’s success. Sole has acquired a considerable following by readings of his distinctively romantic compositions presented on Youtube. Subsequently those poems were published in the «Arcobaleno» series by Mondadori, and have sold more than 15.000 copies. In the face of these often contradictory cultural dynamics where poetry both gains traction and finds audiences, while also seeming more archaic and obscure within the digital age, we must continue asking the essential, ineffable question: «Where is poetry, then? Is there an answer for what defines poetry for each of the millions of individuals who write verse, or the thousands of readers who buy contemporary texts? And if the wider culture is left to see poetry only in the marketing of vapid little phrases, like the verse printed on Italian chocolates, will it be enough to keep poetry alive? Or perhaps is the amateur poet’s self-publication on a blog or website enough to document that poetry is, in fact, alive and kicking? ». Another way we consider whether poetry is actually sustained in the culture, is the fact that Italian high schools and universities very rarely steer their students towards the reading of the great

contemporary poetryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;let alone the rigorous literary criticism (like that supported by publications such as Atelier) needed to bolster the study of poetry further. In Italy, therefore, we find ourselves before a new literary landscape even when compared to fifty years ago. Frankly, we find ourselves in a new literary landscape from five years ago. Yet, the tools we have for reading are new not in an absolute sense, because the distinction between great poetry and writing in verse has always been interwoven in its history. A substantial difference exists now though: until the Decadent movement, poetry required, at least, a measure of preparation. With the introduction of free verse, more writers feel authorised to break a line without a convincing reason. While free verse is truly the opportunity to strike a musical chord that has to find an internal meter, and work in a new kind of harmony with with the preceding chord, and the one that follows. This followed the earnest explorations of prior movements in poetry. During the Renaissance, the phenomenon of petrarchism generated an explosion of poetical production centered on love. In the 18th century, the academies of Arcadia produced an immeasurable series of pastorellerie, or poems typical of that affected and artificial pastoral genre. In contemporary society, the situation has become more complex because of the demands and possibilities of digital media, which allows everyone to publish, and every poster can believe him/herself a great poet. With self-publication there also arises a widespread promotional tool that has never existed for past literary generations. In this current and often confusing status of poetry, our journal also asks readers beyond those of Italian literature, is there a similar situation in other countries? In wondering this, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m reminded of a moment from October 2013 in Florence at the Palazzo Medici Riccardi, where we were presenting the poetry collection Giacomo Ponti by Dato Magradzeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the Georgian poet who is not a celebrity author or internet-famous youtuber. Before the start of the event, we saw a group of about forty students. At first, we assumed that some of the local professors had asked them to attend. But then we came to know that they were young Georgians, who, during a visit to the Capital of the Renaissance, and learning that one of their poets would be reading, abandoned their tour of the city to come an listen. My colleagues and I considered how a similar situation might never have happened with Italian students on a visit abroad, let alone at the prospect of a reading by an Italian poet. From this maybe we can infer that poetry elsewhere is still given a very different consideration. *** Translated by Francesca Benocci & Miles Fuller

Louder Voices, or Would a «Beautiful Silence» Be Better? Francesca Benocci

There are no facts, only interpretations. Friedrich Nietzsche

Iacopo Badoer (1602-1654), who got to us through Dante Alighieri (sic!), tells us that «no one ever wrote a beautiful silence». There are—in every culture—endless refererences to how one needs to assure that silence be embettered by what one sets out to say (or was it only aimed at women, aggravating-me wonders?). Last time, in our first issue, I pondered on the need for us to be united now more than ever, against all these forces working hard to make us feel different from one another, these vicious divisive drifts that traverse the wor(l)d as most of us are busy chasing what we believe our lives should be. This time around, I would like to examine self-expression and the seemingly endless access we currently have to tools to achieve it; reflection that leads to a different concept of noisy silence. From the 17th century to Ronan Keating, we are reminded that one of the best ways to express ourselves might be not speaking. But if it is true that «[we] say it best when [we] say nothing at all», these last few years of social media craze clearly show us we didn’t take the hint, did we? So, it is in this maremagnum of individualism disguised as a sharing of sorts, that we try to impose our presence, our voice, to the rest of the world. We, therefore, turn all our relations into audience to a oneperson-show. Everything we do, everywhere we go, everyone we know, is sacrificed to the altar of the Like, and more often than not made bigger, better, slimmer, pinker, to garner the response we think we should get from our audience. (Wanting to expand, which we don’t, one could say it is more a case of self-definition than of self-expression). Now, what happens to words in this world of tweaking, nip/tucking, and easy access, of shallow that mimics deep for the lenses’ benefit? I would tend to argue that nothing major happens—nothing we should really be afraid of as writers and readers. We have more access to tools that enable us to express ourselves, and so we have more access to the thoughts of others, which can be a nuisance, but is not a disaster per se. I am personally a non-believer in the postulate «less is more»—unless we are talking about design, than sure! «More is more», and more choices do not necessarily equate with poorer ones. How does this translate to literature? It doesn’t matter how many people can self-publish their high school diary reflections on life, their readers would want that anyway and, if not, it is not by taking away options or forcing certain things onto readers that one forges generations of «literary aware» people. It is not by imposition that one gets to good practice.

What we need to do is educate readers by showing them that they can access and appreciate literature of all kinds. We need to let young people (especially) believe that they have a right to write anything, anytime, because writing is fun, is crafty, and is often necessary. Of course, we also need to explain to them that writing does not necessarily mean being read. I started writing poetry at the age of fourteen. Mind you, it wasn’t good, but I was exploring sound, meter, rhythm, alliteration, consonance, and the like. I found it deeply entertaining, and an excellent tool to understand the poetry I was studying at the time. I showed the poems to my literature teacher, who very supportively (and very wrongly so!) printed them out and distributed copies to the whole class to comment on. He thought they were good. Not good good, but a decent effort in trying to practice what we were exploring. He didn’t shame me (at least not that way) into thinking that poetry was too important for me to even dream of trying to write—which is what Italian schools tend to do. A very intimidating pedestal hosts poetry and all the poets, a heigth you can never reach, but if you ever try—remember!—there is you, little you, but then there’s Dante, ok? Don’t get any ideas, and live in his shadow, in saecula saeculorum. Amen. This general attitude, moslty fostered by the Italian intellectual environment, also took an early toll on my experience as a translator, when I panicked the first time I was ever asked to translate poetry—even translating it seemed akin to an act of heresy. By scolding schools for using poetry to terrify us and paralise our creativity with words (at least of my generation) I do not want at all to give the impression that I believe all writing is good writing, or that all words should be read. But I do believe all words have a right to be written, if one so wishes, and put in a drawer. That of not narrowing the horizons of readers worldwide is almost exclusive responsibility of the well established, trustworthy publishers, and all other illustrious members of the market of literature. Talent should flower wherever it finds fertile ground, and not be confined to routes determined by the concrete boundaries of access and privilege. The answer is not in the fear of quantity, but in the quest for quality. So it doesn’t really matter if some people read Fifty Shades of Grey, or a book written by a football player, or my neighbour’s motivational Facebook posts thinking it is good literature, because this sea of words is the new silence. And in silence one can hear. ***

Atelier: Aesthetics in the Globalized Age (Part 2) Giuliano Ladolfi

«Atelier» magazine, aiming at the renovation of Italian poetry, found itself in need of also revising the epistemological principles of critique and art. In this issue we present you the second part of Giuyliano Ladolfi’s reflection on the matter (editor’s note).

Art from Modernity to Postmodernity “Put out the light”, and God’s light is put out. Derek Walcott

2.1 The Divorce between Art and Reality Until the age of Decadence, the substance of linguistic-conceptual discourse — and by the term “linguistic” I include not only verbal expression, but also, rightly, all artistic languages — was based on an act of “faith”, of correspondence between signifier and signified (Ferdinand de Saussure). Moreover, according to Charles Sanders Peirce, “all thought is in signs and participates in an essential way in the nature of language”. Without this “social pact”, religion, metaphysics, history, politics, the economy, aesthetics, science, geometry, painting, sculpture, and etc. would not exist as we know them. The relationship between word and world, between logos and cosmos, was never fundamentally denied, not even by skeptic or nominalist philosophies even if as social convention, as clarified by George Steiner: The covenant between word and object, the presumption that being is, to a workable degree, ‘sayable’, and that the raw material of existentiality has its analogue in the structure of narrative [...] have been variously expressed. [...] in Adamic speech the fit is perfect: all things are as Adam names them. Predication and essence coincide seamlessly. In Platonic idealism, to which the main western metaphysics and epistemology have been satellite, the dialectical discourse, if critically and stringently pursued, will elevate the human intellect towards those archetypes of pure form of which words are, as it were, the transparency. The correspondence between articulate consciousness and the matter of our perceptions and intellection, a correspondence indispensable correspondence to the very possibilities of rational thought and of social modes, is postulated in Descartes’s Third Meditation. How else, asks Descartes, could we inhabit reason? The self-realization of “spirit” (Geist) in Hegel’s Phenomenology is an Odyssey of consciousness, of human understanding and self-understanding via successive stages of conceptualization1.

GEORGE STEINER, Real Presences, Chicago, University of Chicago, Press 1991, pp. 90-91. 11

That semantic inadequacies exist between human expression and reality is a problem that has already been examined by classical rhetoric, but “even the most astringent skepticism, even the most subversive of anti-rhetorics remained committed to language”2. The situation changed radically with the advent of Decadentism: the contract between word and reality was “broken for the first time, in any thorough and consequent sense, in European, Central European and Russian culture and speculative consciousness during the decades from the 1870s to the 1930s. It is this break of the covenant between word and world which constitutes one of the very few genuine revolutions of spirit in Western history and which defines modernity itself”3. The causes are rooted in the seventeenth century, but only at the end of the nineteenth century did it arrive at complete awareness of the consequences produced by the dissolution of the Greco-Christian synthesis, one of the pillars of which was substantiated by the primacy of being over thought. Ordo rerum and ordo idearum coincided. Though Cartesian, introducing the net distinction between res cogitans and res extensa, it upset the situation determining the primacy of thought over being, of subjectivity over objectivity4, and even though the successive speculation was confined to exploring the limits of human reason (I. Kant), the instrument of such action was never put into doubt. Only with Decadentism, a historical-cultural moment during which western civilization arrived at the awareness of not being able “to propose an acceptable interpretation of the real and, consequently, to identify a solution to existential questions”, the crisis of western culture consumes the results of this process, eliminating the fundamental element, emptying the efficacy of the heuristic instrument itself, reason-word, pushing itself to the limit of aphasic nihilism. The first step is represented by rejecting reason as a means to knowledge since incapable of proposing a meaning for existence. One therefore looks for other methods. Art proposes itself as the most authentic form of gnosiological investigation. Dependent on this position is the fundamental aesthetic canon of Decadentism: art = knowledge. As never before in history, this field of human activity took on the honor and the responsibility of discovering the mystery that conceals itself behind phenomenal reality: So the poet is actually a thief of fire. He has taken responsibility for humanity, even for animals; he will have to make it so that his inventions are smelled, touched, and heard; if that which he brings back from down there has form, he gives it form; if it is formless, he gives it formlessness, finding a language [...]. This language will be of the soul and for the soul, covering everything: scents, sounds, colors; thought that grapples with thought and that pulls5.

Nevertheless, the artist is aware that in this operation, too, he or she can no longer set forth an organic and complete interpretation of the world, and so one limits oneself to partial aspects, details, and GEORGE STEINER, Real Presences, Chicago, University of Chicago, Press 1991, p. 92. Ibid, p. 93. 4 Cf. GIULIANO LADOLFI, Per un’interpretazione del Decadentismo, Novara, Interlinea 2001. 5 ARTHUR RIMBAUD, Lettera, Charleville, 15 maggio 1871 a Paul Demeny, in Opere, Milano, Mondadori 1992, pp. 455-456. 2 3

provisional elements, to bringing shreds of reality - “fragments”, “scraps”, “shavings”, “cuttlebones”, back to light through fulgurations. The artist is obligated to abandon the ways of mimetic reproduction of the phenomenal world. In this phase, word, form, and color broaden, or rather, they change their scope: choices come to be made not on the basis of representative value but rather by virtue of a true evocative potential. The next step signals a point of “no return”. The artist eliminates the traditional descriptive, structural, and space-time ties of reality and places him or herself in a dazed present where voice is given solely to the combination of phonic, chromatic sensations and personal psychic impressions. Now, the iconic word, freed from tradition’s support network, no longer plays a communicative role, but tries exclusively to evoke fantastical images, to bind him or herself according to unpredictable analogies, opening up entirely new, never seen, and never imagined views; the artist creates a different reality lacking in any kind of reference to that which is perceived by the senses. Traditional logos, the pact between subject and verb, between he who represents and the community that looks to the artwork as the possibility of placing a middle term between representation and perceived reality, is shattered. At the end of the nineteenth century, “ontological nihilism” was spent. The traditional bases for communication were completely tossed away: Compared to this fragmentation, even the political revolutions and great wars in modern European history are, I would venture, of the surface. The word rose has neither stem nor leaf nor thorn. It is neither pink nor red nor yellow. It exudes no odor. It is, per sé, a wholly arbitrary phonetic marker, an empty sign. Nothing whatever in its (minimal) sonority, in its graphical appearance, in its phonemic components, etymological history, or grammatical functions, has any correspondence whatever with what we believe or imagine to be the object of its purely conventional reference. Of that object ‘in itself’, of its ‘true’ existence or essence, we can, as Kant taught us, know strictly nothing. A fortiori the word rose cannot instruct us. The organization of our senses, the structures which generate intellection and expression are either beyond our cognition or self-referring, or both. Language is embedded in these organizations and structures. There is no external Archimedean point to give it referential autonomy and authority6.

Steiner’s observations in reference to poetry are also applicable to the totality of art, which from that moment is in conversation with only itself. Reason, having lost its fundamental instrument for trying to understand the world, declares “the decline of the West” (Oswald Spengler). The “death of God” announced by Nietzsche sanctions the elimination of all of those values, all of those postulates, all of those axioms that had founded the previous civilization, one loses every point of reference, because

GEORGE STEINER, Real Presences, op. cit., p. 95.

between language and moral activity there is no possibility for contact: “Whatever became of God? I will tell you. We killed him; you and I. We are his assassins”7. Moreover, even scientific linguistics, linked to semiotics, the science of sounds and of signs, excludes all contiguity with that which is represented: “Severed from their transcendental and mytho-poetic claims, the language-acts of man have now been identified as units in a conventional algorithm”8. The divorce between language and reality is a substantial part of nineteenth-century philosophy, so much so that Franca D’Agostini defines this process as a passage from the question of metaphysics to the linguistic turn9. We are at the antipodes of the conception of the adaequatio intellectus et rei or the Gallilean coincidence of ordo idearum con ordo rerum; we find ourselves within the Copernican turn brought about by Heidegger, according to which language is the seat of the emergence of being and no longer being as the “seat” of language: language is the seat of the emergence of being, both from the point of view of the individual, as we always see and understand things within, and thanks to, the determinations of our language, and from the historical point of view, as language is the place in which the individual visions of being express themselves in individual epochs (and latitudes)10.

And in Habermas and Apel the nature of language is constituted by a real “a priori”, a pure form, freed from relationships with experience. Gadamer, developing the Heideggerian conception of being and language, similarly reaches the conclusion of the autonomy and self-sufficiency of language itself. Such “emancipation” is sustained, even if with arguments that differ from those of analytic philosophy. Frege, after having tried to determine the nature of “logical objects,” conjectured the existence of a “third reign next to the internal world of subjective experience and the external world of physical objects, in which logical objects would actually find their place”11. According to Dummet, the philosopher at the beginning of the twentieth century anticipated the linguistic turn, using the analysis of language for the study of thought, to the point at which followers identified the “third reign” as the linguistic reign and elevated it to an object of research. Making the struggle against metaphysics coincide with linguistic corruption, they arrived at a kind of “totalization” of language. Criticism’s point of arrival at metaphysics coincides, therefore, with the absolutization of language, and not only because it is a tool for unmasking the errors of metaphysics, but also because “in a certain way, language ‘takes the place of being,’ constituting itself as a privileged philosophical object”. And this choice is not limited to philosophy, but also involves epistemology, social anthropology, cognitive psychology, psychoanalysis, and, naturally, art. FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, La gaia scienza, in Opere 1882/1895, Roma, Newton Comton 1993, p. 121. GEORGE STEINER, Real Presences, op. cit., p. 107. 9 FRANCA D’AGOSTINI, Analitici e continentali, op. cit., pp. 123-166. 10 Ibid, p. 126. 11 Ibid, p. 143. 7 8

Therefore, even the history of nineteenth-century philosophy demonstrates that the detachment of language from reality is an incontrovertible fact. In painting, abstractionism, non-representational from Mirò to Kandinsky, to Fontana, to Pollock, refused every relationship with kinds of representation that were not research on the expressive tool: color, form, dimension. It was the same situation in sculpture and music. If with Decadentism rationality lost every possibility of finding a credible representation of reality, in the “twentieth century”, art, too, no longer feeling suited to recovering “shreds” of knowledge, limits itself to working on tools. What has been documented here must not lead to the conclusion that the entirety of twentiethcentury culture produced such results; different expressions, which aimed to embrace the totality of the real, are not lacking The presented outline should be considered as an interpretive tool inside of which the expressions were diverse, varied, and blurred, including those of total or partial opposition. “Complexity” should never be forgotten.

2.2 The Epistemological Debate in the Twentieth Century The separation between art and reality constitutes the contemporary tragedy: art represents itself and is detached from life in a sterile self-sufficiency that, above all, justifies all kinds of expression, even the most banal. This is not a matter of opposing representational and non-representational art, nor a matter of opposing figurative art and abstractionism; what is at stake is the very survival of an important expression of the human spirit. No one can indicate the form of expression to the artist, we are not drafting a manifesto, but rather expressing basic reflections. If it is also that, acknowledged and not conceded, even Duchamp’s provocations and Lucio Fontana’s slicing of the canvas want to retain the work of art, then no one should doubt the possibility of formulating antithetical positions. Unfortunately, it is precisely the incapacity to justify the epistemological bases – which is quite different from the justification of individualist and self-referential poetics, characteristic of the twentieth century – that persuaded the primacy of the practical sphere to place itself as a crisis of the theoretical system and be fulfilled in acquisitions of a “descriptive type”, self-justifying and selflegitimizing. Such a procedure carries with it a clear devaluing of theory and a few aporias on which it is important to reflect: a) First of all, one cannot speak of the end of philosophy and of aesthetics by self-surmounting. In the essay, The End of Philosophy and the Task of Thinking, Heidegger submits the image of the “overcoming” of philosophy itself caused by the phenomenon of fragmenting into individual sciences and methods. Every kind of knowledge would found itself on “structural concepts”, valid only in their sphere of

application, which translate into an organized plurality of technically framed operations. Instrumental reason, therefore, would have also destroyed art as a human product. In reality, art became responsible for the fundamental task of opposing itself to instrumental reason toward the end of overcoming the technological “non-thought”. b) The second aporia would reduce art to philosophy (Hegel), for which the idea would be enough to produce an artwork. This position was very widespread in the twentieth century: “Action is the start of things, certainly, but above it stands the idea. And from the moment at which the infinite has no precise beginning, or better still, has none at all, like a circle, the idea is to be considered primary”12. Paul Klee testifies to how painting dissolved its poieén into intuition. In this case a harmonious balance of human reality ended, in which being, thinking, speaking, and doing find fecund synergies of fulfillment. Therefore intention is not sufficient, nor argumentation, nor defense on the part of the author because a work is defined artistic. c) The third aporia, on the contrary, would resolve philosophy into art. Heidegger held that the end of philosophy opens the path to poetry as the only form of knowledge: “But that which remains to be said will be intuited by the poets”13. Before the suicide of logic nothing would remain but art. Nietzsche had already predicted the birth of the philosopher-artists. Derrida envisioned an “artistic” or “literary” philosophy and worked on texts from the philosophical tradition. The end of classical metaphysics would delegate the task of gnoseology to art. But, even reintroducing the cognitive capacity of this superior human activity, it is indispensable to make precise distinctions between the two spheres. There is no doubt that contemporary thought considers the relationship between art and philosophy to be very close, to the point that these fields end with the loss of their identity, as if there is no doubt that they are extremely entangled to the point that the destiny of one becomes the destiny of the other. It is legitimate, or better still proper to the end of classical, romantic, and “twentieth-century” aesthetics, to reformulate an aesthetic, but is also opportune to underline is character of provisionality tied to the current situation. This is not a matter in the most absolute way of endorsing skeptical relativism, but rather of proposing a position of mindful humility that involves not only a single person, but a whole series of scholars who, on a common course, accept the human limits and do not absolutize any conquest.

12 13

PAUL KLEE, Teoria della forma della figurazione, Milano, Feltrinelli, 1959, p. 77. MARTIN HEIDEGGER, La poesia di Holderlin, Milano, Adelphi, 1988, p. 49.

2.3. Art in Postmodernity If the complexity of our time, a time of ends and beginnings, a time of the conclusion of a parabola, the arc of which spans more than 2500 years, can be intuited almost exclusively in the “negativity” of described phenomena, it is necessary to ask ourselves why current work differs from that of Giotto or of Raphael. Or better still, how are we different from the people of the Middle Ages or the Renaissance? The postmodern period is characterized by “complexity”, a phenomenon that favored the emergence and the affirmation of a systemic and transdisciplinary hermeneutical perspective. Only starting from the 1960s was criticism, at the simplification of knowledge and of its history – typical of modern and positivist culture, led by the founder of phenomenology, Edmond Husserl – acknowledged in methodological terms, leading to setting the problematics in a pluralistic and reticular way and spreading the complexity model throughout all fields of knowledge, which invites incessant, arduous multi-directional research and induces interpretation of the real according to a diversity of perspectives. The structures themselves are no longer led back to mere causality, but exposed to multifactorial and probabilistic angulations. We find ourselves in a decisively new situation: it is necessary, in fact, to identify original paths in order to build a new cognitive synthesis, never definitive however, overcoming the temptation to anchor ourselves to solid certainties, or better still, making provisionality the most stimulating tool for development. Totalizing ideologies of both political and scientistic character demonstrated their inadequacy in dealing with the problematics of Postmodernity and the result is right before everyone’s eyes: simplificatory reductionism, superficiality in diagnosis, and lack of gnoseological and interpretive perspectives. Complexity, plurality of approaches, and diverse angulations of comprehension must not be confused with the relativism that proclaims the absence of any truth, the debatability and subjectivity of every personal judgment. Of course the path from complexity to ethical relativism is very short; a great deal of caution is necessary, therefore, in distinguishing the diverse phases in the development of thought. Moreover, the entire twentieth century declared that the absence of shared horizons leads to lack of communication and of comprehension (Pirandello, the avant-garde, nihilism), to the triumph of violence in the political, social, and economic fields, to struggle between individuals each carrying their own “truth”. In the first place, it is fundamental to distinguish the content from the method of investigation and from the interpretive perspectives. It is one thing to recognize the complexity of a situation, comparing, or better, seeking the integration of diverse methods of finding solutions, and another thing to be paralyzed by the lack of a single, universal, and necessary solution. The diverse angulations, when considered in their limits, can rise to be a fertilizing stimulus for knowledge, literary criticism, the

sciences, philosophical, historical thought, etc. All constructive dialectics produce diverse models of knowledge. In the second place, daily reality is testimony that basic values do exist in our society, that these are not at all “weak”, that they are shared by the majority of the people and that liberty, comprehension, wisdom, justice, and solidarity might actually be valorized by our precariousness. And so, what sense does it have to inquire into phenomena of art, of poetry, and of literary criticism? The scholar today feels the urgency to pose questions, to formulate provisional answers like a spring board for immediate overtaking; he or she feels the need to spread his or her own ideas because they are pushed by other investigations. The age of globalization, in fact, is the period in which humanity finds a more profound unity of intentions. Although with the necessary caution, today like never before, the scientific community can avail itself of discoveries all over the world, can communicate in real time with every corner of the globe, can establish professional collaborations from a distance. Paradoxically, the age of individualism is producing phenomena of political (the United Nations, the European Union), economic (the global market), social (the abolition of classes), cultural (widespread literacy), and ideal (peace and democracy) sharing never before tested. Certainly, all of this is still limited to the First World, but events such as the fall of the Berlin Wall or the attack of the Twin Towers or the economic crisis have led western civilization to full awareness of the interdependence of the whole planet. According to the sociologist Jean Baudrillard, everything has been said, everything has been done, and we have nothing left to say; we can only mix, cite, allude, rewrite; take the materials from tradition to create our own game. Art has reached the point of no longer distinguishing the real from the virtual. During the Modern period, the artist wanted to scandalize and to provoke – it is enough to think of Marcel Duchamp. Today, this has completely ceased. Lucio Fontana produced a shock effect through the choice of uncommon situations. Only the idea counted: after his famous slashing of the canvas, everything else seemed like a vulgar imitation. Now, since similar found that they no longer astonish us, so it is necessary to raise the bar: Cattelan presents children hanging in the Sempione Park in Milan. In order to understand the dependence of Postmodernism on citations, one can offer the example of Robert Venturi, who wrote a book called Learning from Las Vegas and who proposes reconstructing Venice or the Piazza d’Italia in New Orleans, in a decidedly false context; but it is precisely here that the characteristic lies: even the false possesses the artistic value of the authentic. Carlo Maria Mariani pursues a neoneoneoclassical style and paints two statues painting each other: the Postmodern, therefore, utilizes every idea in a perspective in which one no longer distinguishes that which has value, because, point being, the false has the same value as the authentic. Hu Jieming returns to The Raft of the Medusa by Géricault, but in place of the castaways he puts girls in bikinis and bottles of Coca Cola. The Postmodern, in fact, also cites the Modern and the Avant-gard. In 1977, a naked man and woman

occupied a very narrow passageway, forcing visitors to rub against them to get by. Eva and Franco Mattes produced the same performance in a virtual world. Andy Warhol reproduces Marilyn Monroe, cites the photography and deforms it or embellishes it. Douglas Gordon reproduces the Warholâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s action, but he tears it in an infinite sequence.

*** Translated by Sarah Elizabeth Cree

Intervista: Maria Lúcia Dal Farra Matteo Pupillo

Quando dois passageiros se cruzam num aeroporto, pode nascer uma tradução, além de uma bela amizade, não é verdade, Maria Lúcia? Antes de mais nada, gostava de te agradecer pelo tempo que me disponibilizaste. Todos os tradutores são demasiado curiosos sobre os autores e as autoras que reinscrevem. A primeira pergunta que estou para colocar pode parecer banal, mas na verdade a intenção é a de te apresentar a um club de leitores italianos e, portanto, novo: 1) Quando, como e porquê começou a escrever poemas? Meu pai, que só fez nascer no Brasil, visto que era filho de mãe e pai italianos da região de Veneza (de Farra D´Alpago, Belluno), era professor, desenhista, heraldista e músico. Além de pescador e caçador, claro. Quando era jovem, pertencera àquela geração de futuros brasileiros de São Paulo e do interior de São Paulo que falava uma espécie de dialeto resultante dessa imigração italiana, uma sensível mistura entre as duas línguas pátrias – tudo isso “corrigido” depois pela Escola Normal que ele cursou na sua terra natal e onde se formou professor. Naquela altura, e me refiro a meados do século passado, havia um engenheiro paulista que criara um personagem caricato que usava essa “língua” e que nela poetava, assinando “Juó Bananére”, e que deveras representava essa população linguisticamente indecisa, poemas que se dedicavam, ao mesmo tempo,a essa faixa étnica e aos temas que lhe eram típicos e problemáticos. Esse poeta ganhou grandenomeada junto aos imigrantes italianos, e meu pai, que também era seu fã, adotou aquele “patois” e um pseudônimo também condigno, para produzir ele mesmo os seus poemas versando sobre questões que diziam respeito aos italianos da cidade para a qual a sua família havia migrado – Botucatu, e que eram publicados ali nos jornais do tempo (dos quais ainda guardo recortes). Então, desde criança, eu assistia a meu pai dizer os seus poemas, cantava com ele,que me acompanhava no violão e na sanfona de botão semitonada que meu Nono havia trazido da Itália. E ouvia, com ele me explicando as cenas e os enredos, as grandes óperas italianas, executadas num gramofone da sua Nona (que era professora de italiano e que fundara em Botucatu a primeira escola italiana)que comportava discos de goma-laca imensos, trazidospor ela quando deixara o seu país de origem, da mesma forma como o fizera com uma muda de parreira de uma uva roxa sublime que, frondosa nos nossos quintais, manchava a boca e a mão de quem a tocava.

Por outro lado, na família da minha mãe, havia um tio engenheiro, cuja biblioteca me seduzia. E eu lia ali tudo o que encontrava, tendo começado por Kant, pela Crítica da Razão Pura(sic!), e isso aos treze anos de idade. Não devo ter entendido nada, mas em compensação fui inspirada a escrever poemas desde então. 2) Dentro da sua poética, você estabelece uma evidente relação com a pintura de Van Gogh. Gostava de saber se esta conexão artística, que caraterizou sua poesia como inter-artes, nasceu por mero gosto do pintor ou por outras circunstâncias? Penso que essa mixórdia toda que são as minhas origens - italianos, misturados com espanhol de Andalucia (meu avô) e índia tupi-guarani (minha avó) - não me deixa muito comportada em matéria de escrita. Minha poesia expressa também essa bagunça, essa mistureba que, na verdade, sou eu mesma, como produto dessa miscelânea.É verdade que sou disciplinadíssima,mas a minha mestiçagem é fato íntimo e verdadeiro e autêntico em mim, de maneira que não tenho peias, trato de tudo o que me vem à cabeça sem constrangimento algum e sem botar a vida em compartimentos diversos ou estanques. Ou seja: trato a poesia como uma Arte, onde entra tudo, absolutamente tudo, desde os motivos mais ínfimos e menos privilegiados, os mais fora de propósito, até os de mais alta estirpe e nobreza. A poesia é também o lugar onde eu boto tudo num cadinho, letras, cinema, pintura, escultura, cordel, teatro, tv, música, história, antropologia, sociais, as coisas da domesticidade feminina, e daí por diante. Como também sou ensaísta e professora de Literatura, todo esse material crítico também entra nos meus poemas, assim como as obras dos outros poetas meus confrades mortos e vivos. Por exemplo: descobri, como pesquisadora e graças ao estudo da correspondência de um e de outro, que o Fernando Pessoa e a Florbela Espanca podem ter-se cruzado em Lisboa nuns elétricos que faziam um certo percurso. Daí, fiz uma série de poemas da Florbela para ele, em que tanto entrava essa descoberta e a situava, quanto fazia a Florbela tomar, por assim dizer, as dores das poetisas contemporâneas desprezadas por Pessoa, pedindo-lhe satisfações acerca dessas omissões praticadas por ele, quanto (por meio de um estudo comparativo entre a obra de ambos) oferecia eu a Pessoa o papel daquele “Príncipe Encantado” que a poesia dela espera e nunca chega, e a ela o daquela “Olga” nomeada nos oráculos desde a adolescência do Pessoa. Além disso, dei um jeito de fazer uma montagem da obra de um e de outro para produzir os tais poemas. Enfim, eu me divirto muito escrevendo.

3) Como acha que foi recebida a sua poesia pelos leitores brasileiros? Dizer “leitores brasileiros” é inapropriado, porque eu nunca cheguei a ser assim tão lida e na verdade nem pretendo ser – os meus projetos a respeito são muito modestos. Quero apenas para os meus poemas os leitores que forem tocados por eles, magnetizados – que é o desejo (secreto ou não) de quem escreve. Então, aqueles que me leram e foram por meus poemas (digamos) despertados, me fazem um bem danado quando demonstram essamagia do toque por meio de artigos, ensaios, palavras cúmplices, correspondência, etc. Houve uma boa recepção desde o meu primeiro livro se se constatam os estudos publicados, boa parte destes desenvolvidos mesmo nas universidades (em trabalhos de cursos, teses de mestrado e doutorado) – e me sinto muito privilegiada (e felicíssima) de me realimentar(e de ir sempre me reatualizando, dessa maneira) coma resposta, com o eco daquilo que produzo. O Alumbramentos recebeu o Jabuti de Poesia, e foi uma grande surpresa e uma delícia imensa que tenha se passado assim. Não sou ingênua e não ignoro que tudo isso atravessa difíceis meandros que não os artísticos, e que é o mercado cultural quem decide pela permanência ou não de uma obra. E que qualquer uma, hoje em dia, é tomada, antes, por uma mercadoria, e só depois por uma obra de arte. No entanto, tento nunca fazer concessões porque, creio firmemente, nada valeria a pena se a gente não resistisse às essas investidas tenebrosas das eras atuais. Faço questão de escrever os meus poemas degladiando-me com tais componentes e entraves que, afinal, são a matéria prima do meu tempo, e porque é também, através deles, que os poemas são produzidos e tomam pé neste mundo, ganhando existência. 4) E na Europa, já tem alguma tradução ou alguma clientela de leitores? Na Europa tenho uma ou outra coisa publicada de poesia – me lembro, por exemplo, de uma pequena antologia deles numa edição bilingue da revista da Casa de Fernando Pessoa em 2011, que foi sensacional, editada pela Inês Pedrosa. Trabalhos ensaísticos da minha lavra tem sido publicados em França, Polônia, Portugal, Espanha; embora também haja, nesses dois últimos países, trabalhos publicados sobre a minha poesia, notadamente recensões críticias na Colóquio/Letras.Também foi lançada em Portugal, recentemente, uma Antologia da Poesia Erótica Brasileira (organizada pela Eliana Robert Moraes) e eu faço parte dela. Na Améria Latina minha poética tem sido mais publicada; há mesmo uma antologia bilingue editada no Peru, numa coleção importante (“50 Anos de Poesia Brasileira”), outra no México (pela UNAM), e há poemas publicados numa antologia da ONU, em revistas latinas e até mesmo numa revista na Ásia, em Seul! Estou preparando, agora, uma antologia para a Espanha.

E outra de poemas que estão sendo vertidos para o italiano – e isso porque numa viagem (de avião) de Lisboa para Roma, e outra (de trem) de Roma a Viterbo – encontrei o meu tradutor: você!Eis uma dica para os poetas que estiverem à procura de um tradutor valoroso: avião e comboios e... boa-sorte! É confiar no Destino! Troquei correspondência com um tradutor de grande envergadura (e é isso que almejo para você, caro Matteo, que começa agora essa profissão) na época em que estudava a obra de Herberto Helder. Tratase do Carlo Vittorio Cattaneo, a quem dedico, aliás, um texto da Submarino, que sai agora em março em Turim, consagrada ao grande poeta português. 5) Seus poemas foram objeto de teses de mestrado e de doutorado. Na sua opinião, quais são os aspetos que poderão ter levado os estudantes a incidir sobre seus textos e talvez a estabelecer pontos de contato com outros autores? De certeza, não foi, por assim dizer, a facilidade de leitura – mas eu mesma não tenho opinião alguma a propósito. Observo e leio com assiduidade as críticas e os trabalhos a respeito, e noto que eles chegam de diversos lados, que se originam de vertentes muito diferentes umas das outras. A questão da posse do outro, da transmutação efetuada sobre a obra alheia pela minha leitura, é uma dessas linhagens perseguidas por alguns. A tópica do feminino, da absorção do universo doméstico e daquilo que é coisa de mulher – parece ser outra. A ocupação de temas insólitos, da focagem do inusitado – parece ser outra, e assim por diante.

6) Sua poesia transborda de afetos e de muitas lembranças, mas não me parece ler tristeza nessas memórias, talvez esteja escondida nas entrelinhas. Ao escrever, a poesia passa por um processo de interiorização, como é óbvio. No seu caso, esse momento de passagem, entre a alma e o papel, causa dor ou consegue ser uma sensação agradável que procura aliviar e ajuda a desabafar? Escrever é sempre uma imensa, enorme, transbordante, inimaginável, dolorosa alegria. É o que me torna sempre outra e outra, sendo eu mesma. É o que me faz regressar às fontes e às origens que eu, aparentemente órfã delas, pensava ter desbaratado ou esgarçado durante a existência. Mas, mesmo assim, escrever não é bem um desabafo, nunca é - é muito mais. É como se você estivesse nascendo a cada vez, sendo outra e outra sempre, como se você sempre travasse um litígio total entre vida e morte, uma batalha da qual você nunca é vitorioso, mas que está sempre em vias de oser – que é o que te leva a tentar de novo e de novo e a não parar jamais. Cada poema composto é ao mesmo tempo uma

promessa de alegria ainda mais poderosa, mais vertiginosa,à qual você só pode chegar a roçar no próximo que escrever, e assim por diante. No entanto, há outro componente dessa tão tocante e terna alegria. Quando você escreve, você nunca está só. Todo o universo,não apenas o literário ou artístico, cada pessoa, cada autor, por mais ínfimo ou mais grandioso que seja, o mais próximo ou mais distante que esteja, se encontra, na verdade, sempre ao seu lado, trabalhando com você, pegado à sua mão, à sua caneta, à sua letra, engrossada por tantas e tantas e tantas outras caligrafias e escritas. Por isso esse ato é o cume, o ápice do gesto coletivo, comunitário, porque silenciosamente povoado por todos os que você já leu, por todas as experiências que já teve, por todas as memórias, por todos aqueles pelos quais foi tocada – é coisa de multidões dentro de você. É algo trans-mundo, porque todos em grande conversa em você. É um encontro marcado para morrer e para viver de novo – entende?

Morada do Rio, 13 de março de 2018

Stasera di Giuseppe Ungaretti Julian Peters

Dato Magradze: «Two Sources of a Single Water» Giuliano Ladolfi My law is to unite centuries with the binding of words. Dato Magradze

When reading the verse of Dato Magradze one immediately senses the breadth of great poetry, of that inspiration that from Homer to the present has filled few authors’ minds, who were able to “reveal” in their verse the “spirit” of an entire age. And the writer, not subjugated to either the Western or the Eastern tradition, transcends both the personal and the national dimension to place himself as the aware voice of a troubled time, during which the phenomenon of globalisation is changing the face of humankind. Indeed, if on one hand he is going back to the socio-cultural theme of what the Georgian people are going through now, in this very historical moment, on the other he enriches the perspective of an anthropological contribution that makes this work a perfect synthesis of contemporaneity. Bitterness is grafted in the very title Giacomo Ponti: in Georgian the pseudonym’s surname has the meaning of “pretence”. But what is the “pretence” of an innocent character taken to court and unfairly sentenced like Socrates? Like the Athenian philosopher, Giacomo-Dato only has his words as a defense, words that grant him the awereness of his own dignity: «I think he’s a poet. // This is how the man speaks»; the author unequivocally qualifies himself as “man”, a man who is not bent by a consumeristic society, by the dominant law of the markets, which marginalises whoever does not accept to be labelled a consumer, towards whose indistinct torrent of a voracious present he perceives a substantial estraneity: «– does time march in front of me / or am I ahead of time?». And the first clash with this social and moral system is played on the worth of the word. The poetic word opens a conception of the world to the author, intended not as affirmation or description, but as an exigence on which to build and to seek truth. The word of his accusers and of his judges, on the other hand, does not possess the same truthful vigour, because it is immersed in postmodern “liquidity” (Zygmunt Bauman) and, as such, is located in systematic opposition to the poet’s clear, strong, and morally formed one. Like Socrates, he is taken to court because he had wanted to fight for human noble ideas («I, citizen Giacomo Ponti / descended from the families of Cosimo and Lorenzo») and, like the protagonist of The Trial by Franz Kafka, he does not know much about the charges. He cannot benefit from his merits of having fought in the name of freedom and democracy: he feels at the mercy of a lawyer

wrestling the case as «competently as a belly dancer», capable of producing weird shapes with flexible materials, the symptom of an indistinct present, hard to label, evaluate and interpret, in which, as happened in Athens at the beginning of the 4th century b. C., instigators have good game digging for dirt and marginalising those with a distinct civic and moral sense. Magradze evaluates the current situation with a piercing gaze: the end of ideologies, as argued by the sociologist Jean-François Lyotard, also meant the end of the great narrations able to provide sense and perspective to the present (think, for example, about the Marxist ideology) and this led to living in a contemporaneity that had no depth, indistinct with its related loss of past and future, individualistic and devoid of values. The conquest of freedom became a squalid custom, defaced by vile profiteers. The knowledge of fighting for a right cause cannot not induce the poet to ask himself whether he should dodge unfair laws or, like Socrates, accept them at the cost of his own death-marginalisation. The answer delineates clear and indisputable: «It’s our duty to fight the wind / as it shakes the souls of the paparazzi». And yet guilt does not spare him because he knows his limitations, but responsibly he does not dodge the categorical imperative of proceeding towards redemption; his destiny as a human being and as a poet, «a winged and sacred being» as Plato would put it, is the sky and, as such, « He plays the universe, treacherous and sly, / he plays the wind and the bellying sails, / he plays the shirt opened by rain». Which are the accusations to the writer? He dared (and he still does) to fight the current mentality set to distort man’s own essence of freedom to reduce him solely to a consumer, taking also away his right to dream and to let feelings palpitate. He launched exactly against this degradation of the individual, attacked the logic of the “market”, perceived as the only structural model of human relationships, according to which war is no longer fought to spread a political, social, or cultural ideas but to sell goods. Consumerism, according to Magradze, is having the “market” as the centre of the human relation system, of personal, public, social, internal and international political relationships, also including the cultural models (theoretical, philosophical, ethical and aesthetical), on top of the practical and pragmatic ones: «I am accused of believing in a dream ». Giacomo Ponti is aware of loving poetry, music, art, and beauty and does not accept the idea of living in a «moonlit night, bored / by utility bills». In light of this perspective, the writer analyses the great cultural and social themes of the first decade of the Third Millennium, starting from the mass media, thanks to which life, death, pain and misfortune are trasformed into a show, and giving to his homeland a particular attention, an internal vibration. It is in his homeland, or better in its national politicians, that he sees the betrayal of those ideals for which he fought. Idealists have been replaced by profiteers, merchants, speculators. The poet’s conscience, despite knowing that universally valid solutions do not exist, rebels and does not accept that before instability a person can be ready to constantly change moral direction, neglecting

agreements and plucking occasions when they come, in a real «decomposition of experience» which, if on one hand allows adaptation to contradictory situations, on the other generates suffering and confusion. Before such circumstances there is no space for despair. For the poet and especially for the Christian poet it is impossible to lose hope, because he knows that God is present and acts in history in absolutely mysterious ways and that often the human eye cannot perceive His presence: « Why did you leave me alone, my God? // From here the collapsed riverbank looks pale, / the sun and the sand are hot, / there, where there’s one set of footprints, / you were tired and I was carrying you in my arms». It is in the claim of a hope without failure that one can find the most genuine trait of Magradze’s religiousness, signalled not only by the biblical quotations, not only by the cultural references, but especially by his moral anxiety: «Jesus gave Europe its soul». If authentic art consists of proposing an original vision of man and the world, if authentic art consists of answering existential questions so to involve the globality of human reality, this is great art, great poetry and its depth, determined by the originality with which the poet interpreted the eternal unsolvable existential questions, will emerge when the passing of time will let the lines of the historical period we live in seep into transparency. Magradze chose a kind of poetry strictly anchored to man, his problems, his weakness and his greatness, his limitations and his dignity, anchored to the perpetual struggle between good and evil, between the thirst for justice and the mysterium iniquitatis, between despair and hope, and this places him among the witnesses of a resistance to the “consumeristic” degradation of the human being and the demand for his nobility.

Giacomo Ponti Dato Magradze translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters Victoria Field Dato Magradze, author of the Georgian National Anthem and Knight of the Georgian Order of Honour, was born in Tbilisi (Georgia) in 1962. He graduated as a philologist in 1984 at the Tbilisi State University. He served as Minister of Culture of Georgia from 1992 to 1995 and was elected to the Parliament of Georgia from 1999 until he resigned his position in the legislature in 2001. Since 1997, Magradze is President of the Georgian PEN club. He has been awarded several Georgian and international literary prizes and the Georgian Order of Honour. His poems have been translated into English, German, Italian, Russian, and Armenian languages. He represents a cultural reference point for Georgia both home and abroad. The journal ÂŤAtelierÂť dedicated him their issue no. 70 (June 2013).

Foreword This is how the man speaks, this is how he expresses his concerns, he speaks in this way to nourish his soul, to create a cornucopia of good things. To put it simply, this is just the way he happens to speak. He’s not doing it to impress anyone or become famous. When he speaks in this pleasing way, it’s like escaping the unbearable heat of summer to the cool seaside. And it’s like listening to a story or fable, one that’s familiar, or one that’s from faraway. One person scolded the man, another praised him. What does he want, why does he behave like a victim? He’s expressing his sadness, this is he how he speaks. Who is he? I think he’s a poet.

Prologue to the poem, Giacomo Ponti An alarm clock’s rattle shooting through the morning, individual sachets of coffee offered up in offices, and Pontius Pilate, the plumber who controls the household taps, all bring the exile of this man closer. Questions about time have become my enemy. Does time march in front of me or am I ahead of time? Now, my best suit’s covered in dust, but, who cares, nothing special will happen for me to wear that suit. The fresco of the saint has faded just like my childhood’s disappeared in the mirror, all I see is what remains of what once was me. It’s as if the garden has walked away from the gardener. Everywhere I go, I encounter such sad eyes and before a shaft of sunlight will break through to touch this paper the words I’m sending you teeter like clowns on a tightrope. This Oriental-Western divan will be replaced by shelves laden with books when the poet can make a necklace of water droplets from a spring bursting through leaf-covered rocks, when he’s done up his unbuttoned collar and his stories of kisses have become tired gossip, when the publishers carry his words ashore and lay them down in a sunny spot on the kind bank and a fresco showing your profile remains in the story about a man who slid down the ridge of the mountain, showing something from the past, something

which has yet to appear in print, when the poet’s courage is threaded through the adverts on the posters, battered by wet wind in the open air-cafe on the old square, or scattered among pigeons who strut about among truth and falsehoods. A kind of glue dropped between the words also brings back precisely old shots of an earlier life, your grandmother leaning over the cast iron balcony waiting for you as day breaks. She blesses you with the sign of the cross when you leave sends a guardian angel to take care of you. What sort of women were they, sitting around drinking tea, discussing whether a white collar was really white? I flounder in the darkness of thoughts and memories, like the bow of my violin, trying to make contact with the strings. Like a young man standing on the night shore, I gaze, watching my ship sink over the horizon. I’m the youth from whom fate took away luck, from whom the February sun stole the snow. I’m the one who didn’t turn up for the general rehearsal, and failed to get the leading role. In a wet dawn, he leaned against drenched lines of poetry using them as crutches, the way, during a drought, vines slump against their stakes waiting for the rain to give its verdict. In a wet dawn, he leaned against drenched lines of poetry, carrying the tang of salt from night waves. They have courage, declare ‘What will be, will be!’ to Christ the Lord. In a wet dawn ... I said it again, not just twice, but a third time, because I was saying goodbye to people, like an officer says goodbye to his stripes. Such farewells broke my heart. The tavern suffices to shelter me,

there’s the warmth of a felt hanging behind me, as I sing a song of someone besieged. I’ll force my smoke rings into crowns of thorns. My love, all these Amazonian women in the tavern will create a muddle, fanning themselves forever, in vino, vino, vino veritas ... I say it over and over again, craning my neck. The immoral elite doesn’t know how to behave ... I sit, trying to clear my mind of unpleasant thoughts, those of the-sharp oath and samurai sword can’t bear the wiggle of a bottom. I lived in this town as a callow youth, destiny did not, and could not, turn me into an idiot and now I’m singing, in a new register, bare-chested, my collar unbuttoned - RRRRidi Pagliaccio ... Today’s newspaper informs me the state, this very one, will use its legal processes to bury the great leaps forward made by inspiration and an individual citizen turned into the masses. He will bring into himself the events of outside. He’ll choose something from the bookshelf, it’ll probably be the book for registering complaints. And we, well, we’ll carry on as usual, digging our own trenches drenched in stinky vodka, what else can we do? Huh? We’ll get together a bevy of beautiful wenches. But sometimes the world is so illuminated, I want to put my head under the cold water tap, refusing to allow Pilate to approach the water and let you hear the songbirds, barking like dogs.

Chapter II Courtroom The lights are on in the courtroom, where life is priced according to the waiting, the lawyer by the door takes a last draw on his cigarette. All stand, it’s time for justice! The following case will be heard: Giacomo Ponti stands accused, along with the precipices and pinnacles of his soul, this captain of a fleet of paper boats: I, citizen Giacomo Ponti, descended from the families of Cosimo and Lorenzo have always fought on the front line, while living in fear of life passing me by. Look at the light emanating from this sacred book, I put my hand on what is sacred, and on justice, swearing I will tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I don’t really remember how I got here, I was drunk, and it seemed as if I sat on a stem of cress. Perhaps the stem of cress gave way, I fell off and now stand accused. I citizen Giacomo Ponti, of Cosimo and Lorenzo’s line ... I really don’t remember how I got here, I certainly don’t mean to make a fuss in public. I swear on the names of my ancestors, and of knights loyal to their king, that 1 defended with my blood the land of the Grail, but what’s that got to do with anything? I, citizen Giacomo Ponti, hereby declare, however you put the charges,

whatever you’re accusing me of is completely pointless, there’s no way I will plead guilty. I made myself familiar with this groundless case, with every detail of their accusations, saw the lawyer wiggling his hips on the spot, competently as a belly dancer. I want to defend myself, become my own counsel for the defence, to return to you, for better or worse any accusation you’ve pitifully invented. Please, pay close attention to every statement, any expression of emotion is out of place here, you can receive three years in prison for contempt of court. If I am accused of believing in a dream, or of wishing life is just one long holiday, or if I add some details, or withhold others, let this whole morning go to hell. I admit, I’m guilty of one thing, that I accused you of love. I am in debt, owe much more than a penny, I took my share from crime. I failed to build a nest on your roof top, and I let the curtain drop during your performance, it’s a saving grace when kindness can be seen in a crime. Moses is taking me to the promised tavern where the lines of my old poems, buried in the background of your new epoch will mellow like an old cognac.

Chapter X Presentation on the East-West Divan ... when Zeus noticed how beautiful Europe was, he immediately rushed with the bullskin to the Asia he’d created himself and carried away the virgin on his hack. Own epigraph They’re swindlers along the old trade routes, flt the crossroads of Europe and Asia, my country abandoned to fate by its location, 1 shed tears in the shape of the motherland. My country, veined by the old silk routes weaves through my dreams, nn Oriental appetite striving for the life of a Westerner. These roads were the net of my nervous system, leaching me the wisdom of ancient Athens, illuminated along their lengths by the shimmer of Isfahan’s light. The enemy watched it all with its vigilant eye, how an avalanche fell on the narrow roads, sometimes I think that culture is simply the history of self-restraint. How some people kill their passions at birth, hinking it’s worth curbing every desire, a man following the will of his priest, with sunshine and dreams, practising patience and will-power. Here are three Commanders from Europe, you, Horatio, lend me your ear,

from Athens, rationality! from Rome, justice! and faith belongs to Jerusalem. Jesus gave Europe its soul, he touched Saul, turned him into Paul, and, as if a curtain was opened, the East was bewitched. The East is difficult to fathom, its elegance has its own charisma, waves on the Marmara stitch themselves into knots, the salty Bosphorus gives off ozone caresses. The East advances on the West, I let go of my horse’s reins. If you want, you can call me Bosphorus, I’m like the straits, one water with two mouths. I ignited the tinder with the steel of my poem, moulded destiny in my own way, Inhaled air from the lungs of Christ, 0nd wrote with all the elegance of Islam. So, what? Peter the Great created his window to Europe, his fine city letting in fresh air, here, nine centuries ago, Ferdowsi wrote his epic, Shahnameh. The light of Nizami shone constantly in Giacomo Ponti’s village and city, sometimes his homeland bugled its music through the vertebrae of Byzantium’s spine. ... yet, sadly, I long for honeyed love, I want to fill my heart with it, with rainbows and subtle hues, I want to be convinced by the East. There, colours are more than colours, colours embrace the whole universe, words are too small to contain them,

they offer up a face and a soul on a tray. When colours speak instead of words, an apprentice doing his master’s bidding can manifest Khosrow and Shirin’s mighty empire, telling its story in miniatures. I’m going off the point now, but the reader may be interested to know, if I whisper just one story. Do you want my name? I’m red. My rival’s name is yellow, he killed our blue master, seized the buyer of souls, dipping his brush into red. When in the king’s garden, fruits are ripe, the king makes his own myths, anyone who doesn’t blush red with shame, will find himself red with blood stains. This is a story from far away, told at the fence around the Sultan’s tower and when the autumn came, dry leaves blushed red then yellow. This is a story from far away, a far-away story told in whispers. One artist remained out of two, the story was never printed. As for what concerns Christian Europe, it sometimes runs away like water through fingers, Europe dedicates the church of Delle Grazie to supper, and sometimes lucratively searches for the Da Vinci code. Lilies on the banners of Santa Maria, are teased by a late wind, a Viennese orchestra floats as if at sea and von Karajan lifts his baton like Moses. The chandelier’s switched off, its crystal still ringing,

I’m sitting, ruminating in an all-night café. Emptiness in fine clothes is the poster of our epoch. It’s no good only dancing for tourists, Spanish passion needs more sun, poplar trees have grown over bones buried over bones, Europe’s become an exhibit in a museum case. But this man is such an expert judge of colour, there’s no doubt about his ability to argue his case. He can match a tatty coat perfectly to his shirt. He remembers Michelangelo. If you remove the worn-out exhibits and revive their old glory, tell them what they no longer know, blow the soul into those inanimate objects, after seven days, you must strive for an eighth, in order for the flamenco sun to get hotter, from the stretched nerves, like strings of an instrument, you have to talk to them and let them talk. And to paint the old door in a new way, the old and deep universe waits, as Lazarus waited to be touched, a new life, with his old expression. Doubts still torture you, the ringing of bells frightens you, now and then, its past or current beauty. It is or is not, is or is not. Is not, is, is not, is, but the Pietà, the mountains of Carrara ... Maybe it’s over, or perhaps it’s still going on,

the current celebration of Mass, or the one that’s just past... Hope’s once again hindered by doubt, they’ve announced a great sale of souls, our epoch lies fallen, gnawed at by doubts, surrounded by wounded thoughts. Flesh has been sacrificed to the soul, just as you sacrificed your family to the poem, rain falls on bare breasts, as a sword reaches the loyal Mujahid. I blame no one for what’s happened to me, [ bathed in the steamy waters of the Trevi Fountain, I defended the Grail like a crusader, I wandered like a dervish. The horse’s reins are loosened, the East advances on the West... I am the two mouths of one water, if you want, call me Bosphorus.

Chapter XX Address from the Courtroom Hey, people of Tbilisi, like people of Athens, throw me a glance like sparks from a fire, so that I stay close to base and defend myself like Socrates. The trap was laid this morning, as the mirror watched me doing up my tie. I’ll remember what your face represents, I’ll deal with the strict bones of the law. Rustle up your slander and jealousy, make your sullen forehead tired with thought, turn your listening ear directly to me, and denounce me, you hypocrites. I’m standing in the middle of a storm watching an angel being beaten. It’s our duty to fight the wind, as it shakes the souls of the paparazzi. If a prison cell is dark, the sun will be oppressed by voices of lawlessness, old texts will be rewritten, words in the beginning coming at the end and at the end, the first ones. Now, deal the cards of your laws, until we set out on the road to ruin. My laws are groups of words, I arrange them in phrases and sentences, logical like the centuries.

Chapter XXXIV The Return Out of many roads, only the one marked N has carnations dropped from the funeral cortege. The ancient apartment contains only a Steinway in the room from which the old Maestro was carried out. The ray of sunshine faded on the medal, arguments in the yard also ceased for a minute, the orphaned piano, the neighbours bowing their heads. This once mighty household remembers the graciousness of the Ponti family, there are two rooms in the building that were left to the old masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s descendants. The Pontis had the keys of the house, when they were presented with the list of tenants. He who introduced musical notation to Giacomo is the one whom the procession bore away today. This day coincided with his escape too, Giacomo Ponti ran away from his armed escort, the old fir trees assisted him, protecting him from the whip against the shoulder. He is being hunted for, in the fields, in the wind, just like the wind in the field, by the orderly march of the police, in red and yellow describing a black circle with a compass. He will pray in his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house, and what a fine house this is, where the fragrance of aged walls always gives a sensation of the new. It lives in you, everywhere and always, far from the motherland with her pressing desires.

The taste of granny’s cooking gives a momentary shiver. The damp smell of the old walls you inhale as native air, a constant tour through the archives of memory. It comes and goes. It comes and goes. Sometimes the blue morning will revive, sometimes the warm evening will revive, dawn is breaking, the second part of your destiny is coming, mysterious and in the moment. The duty police were called by my neighbour’s telephone. I can see him, he’s at home, there’s a crack in the party wall. He plays the melody of his first rendezvous, he plays his childhood memories of the Maestro. He’s so attached to the instrument, it won’t be difficult to find Giacomo. He plays the universe, treacherous and sly, he plays the wind and the bellying sails, he plays the shirt opened by rain, using the embankments for shelter. *** You have the right to remain silent, you’re charged with making an escape, you’re charged with all charges without exception, plus you’re charged with attempting to cover your traces. Where were you looking for me? Have all traces of me disappeared? I took delight at being in the bosom of my father’s house. Can’t you see the sign on the doorway? Giacomo Ponti lived here.

Chapter XXXVI Dialogue in Heaven I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel signs of life nor of the grave. Who am I, and where am I, Master? I can see traces only of the two of us, the blue horizon and sandy coast. You were calling me and I followed you, trusting in you, I was brave enough to face the phantom, but then the trace of you would disappear. Why did you leave me alone, my God? From here the collapsed riverbank looks pale, the sun and the sand are hot, there, where thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one set of footprints, you were tired and I was carrying you in my arms.

Translation: Shen Haobo Liang Yujing Shen Haobo, born in 1976, is considered one of the most controversial voices among the new generation of Chinese poets for being both wickedly erotic and politically satirical in his poetry. His first collection Great Evil in the Heart (2004) was banned and he went abroad for a few months to escape arrest. As the leading poet of the Lower Body group, he is the author of five poetry collections. He is also one of the most successful publishers whose company Xiron has produced more bestsellers than any other in China. Liang Yujing grew up in China and is currently a PhD candidate at Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. He is the Chinese translator of Best New Zealand Poems 2014 (Wai-te-ata Press) and the English translator of Zero Distance: New Poetry from China (Tinfish Press).

My Motherland Is Not Made of Love My motherland is not made of love, my motherland is made of hate. My motherland is not made of beautiful souls, my motherland is made of greedy monsters. My motherland is not made of flowers, my motherland is made of guns. My motherland is not made of prayers, my motherland is made of fears. My motherland is not made of penitence, my motherland is made of police. My motherland is not made of runners, my mother land is made of people knocked bent like nails, my motherland is made of black nails. My motherland is made of the bloodstains on the black nails, my motherland is made of wounds. My motherland is not made of kisses, my motherland is made of bites. My motherland is not made of warm chests, my motherland is made of informers. My motherland is made of shooters and those who die by gunshot. My motherland is not made of the sea, my motherland is made of shark teeth. My motherland is not made of light, my motherland is made of bans. My motherland is not made of gods, my motherland is made of snakeskin. My motherland is not made of youth, my motherland is made of the lewd hearts of the elderly. My motherland is not made of bagpipes, my motherland is made of weeping sounds. My motherland is not made of weeping sounds, my motherland is made of endurance. My motherland is not made of endurance, my motherland is made of numbness. My motherland is not made of love, my motherland is made of midnight sobs. My motherland is not made of love, my motherland is made of silence. My motherland is not made of love, my motherland is made of closed eyes. My motherland is not made of love yet what can be done? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so much love in my heart, so much love in my heart for my motherland but my motherland is not made of love.

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Abstract Seawater The sea dashes upon the rocky shore. Through the gaps between rocks seawater rushes in, pushes in, swims in like numerous little silver snakes, worms in, seeps in, ripples out, spreads out, blots, fills the fissures in the rocks. The tides of dancing snakes, the night, the iron-like stones â&#x20AC;&#x201C; just like an abstract painting by some contemporary artist. But they are in themselves an image. They abstract an image from their own image, the way the snake draws out a snake from its own body. Under the starry sky: a group of spineless snakes.

Red Plaid Sweater I was sitting in the living room when my mother-in-law came out of her bedroom, wearing a red plaid sweater. A very peculiar sensation struck me. This sweater visually made me warm. Since my mother-in-law moved in, she had put my wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s threadbare clothes on herself one after another. They appeared again before my eyes. Old days. Old lust. The slowly flowing time my wife and I spent together made these clothes old and warm as well. From the old clothes rose my wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s laughter and her soft words when she hugged and stroked me. The warm red plaid sweater, thickly covered with lust, was now on the decrepit body of my mother-in-law.

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Classic of Poetry What Plato banishes from the Republic is exactly what Confucius deleted when compiling Classic of Poetry. When I suddenly realized that, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help feeling chilled to the bone. The Master did not speak of anything strange, violent, rebellious, supernatural. Those bizarre, rough, sensual, resistant, mysterious, magnificent â&#x20AC;&#x201C; did he remove them all? If this is true, then he is my enemy, an executioner, a bastard.

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The Man Whose Name Is Similar to Mine My name is Shen Haobo. His name is Shen Hao. One syllable fewer than mine. Is that our difference? We both graduated from the Chinese department: Beijing Normal University and Beijing University. One “normal” more than his. Is that our difference? I have always been a poet. He used to be a poet. This “used to” – Is that our difference? I am a book publisher. He is a newspaperman. A book and a stack of paper. Is that our difference? Late last night, via mobile and the web, many people were spreading the picture of his wife – standing at the gate of the procuratorate just to see his husband, a piece of paper in her hands with the words I AM SHEN HAO’S WIFE. For a second my brain was in a mess. I doubted if the Wheel of Fate had turned wrong way and found a man so similar to me to undergo the misfortune for me. I gazed at my phone screen, the weak but unyielding face of Shen Hao’s wife. The paper in her hands was not with the words: I AM SHEN HAOBO’S WIFE.

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Silence How can I know what freedom is since we have never had it? How can I know what lightening is when it abruptly strikes and vanishes in a flash in the dark forest, leaving me confused in a state of shock? How can I know what the woman’s body is when dandelions float among vulvas and love is always blown away. How can I know what love is? How can I know what you are even if you have confessed all your secrets? But that minute has died. You’re still you, excluding me from your new life. How can I know what poetry is? Can’t say. Can’t say. Truths spoken out by the day is denied by the night. A horse merges into the woods.

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Old Tang This country of ours will slowly get better, won’t it? Old Tang said. I coldly replied: I haven’t seen any signs of getting better. The society should always be progressing. Old Tang argued. I replied, again, coldly: In fact, it’s retrogressing. Have faith in the next generation who are more informed. Old Tang said. My cold responses went on: We have already seen what the next generation looks like. In our lifetime we’ll see some changes in this country, won’t we? Old Tang looked a little tense. I quickly calculated Old Tang’s age, said to him, seriously: You can’t see that. Old Tang’s face suddenly turned pale. In fact, the fist in my heart also clenched. Meanwhile, I calculated I was only 14 years younger than Old Tang.

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State Machine I saw 8 police cars, no, 9. Then came another, so the number was 10. This car, which had bloodstains, wasn’t the previous one. So it was 11. Wait, the next one came. 12 in total. At 12 o’clock, on the street, in a small town of only three or four streets, 12 police cars were circling repeatedly. I saw 12 police cars. Each carrying policemen. Each policeman had a baton attached to his waist. It was just yesterday that I saw the dance of batons. I saw 15 batons. Hitting. Chopping with the uniform cuffs. An old woman fell down on the ground. A young guy, hand upon his waist, was running. People retreated, scattered, fled. They were dispersed. Like stray dogs. A group of diseased dogs. Not the mad dog disease but AIDS. A whole village of AIDS victims. Having sold blood for a dozen years, they remained poor. The government said, It’s glorious to donate blood. People from Houhan Hamlet, Wenlou Village, Shangcai County. They got AIDS. They were dying out. They came to the yamen for a petition. They were dispersed. Like a group of stray dogs. They ran away. They escaped. Some didn’t. Those who didn’t will appear in the news. The forbidden news. On the courts. In the jails. In Houhan people’s eyes, those belong to the upper class. They are journalists. Editors-in-chief. Bosses of newspapers. But in this country, no one is not rabble, no one is not unruly. Though they’re still upper than that group of diseased stray dogs in Houhan Hamlet who dare not die crying loud. Apart from police cars, policemen and batons, there are still courts and prosecutors, trials and sentences. They are still humans. Can still be trodden down like a human. Can still enjoy more, the entire, state machine we can think of. The state’s machine, rolling over our flesh and blood, has never been far away. Every day You see it, touch it, hear its rumble around the clock. It has life, living with gusto, more lively than you and me.1

1 Wenlou Village is one of China’s AIDS villages, due to a 1991-1995 plasmapheresis campaign by the Henan provincial government. (t/n).

Paper Boat I am sad. In this warm bleeding bed of the night, holding your breasts, I am sad. I am sad. Kissing your lips, I am sad. Love, like cut marks, makes me sad. You, the heart of my heart, make me sad. The cosmos brims with liquid happiness. I am now falling asleep. Sleep, like a paper boat, makes me sad. My sadness comes from the stars afar, from the never-vanishing, desolate breath. A long life with eternal love makes me sad. I have forgotten cricket chirps. At this moment I love you so and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so sad. A jet-black paper boat floats, on the snow-white sea.

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Lethal Weapon It is I who made her neat bottom plump. It is I who made her plump bottom bulky. It is I who filled her dovelike breasts with milk, who turned her swaying slim arms indolent. I think I have revised the woman I love. A sense of triumphant guilt sweeps over me. But oh, what swings and flies like apes in the valley of love and violence is actually not me but the passing of years.

Retraduire des nouvelles de Katherine Mansfield Luc Arnault

En 2017, dans le cadre de mon doctorat sur la traduction de la poésie néo-zélandaise contemporaine en français (Victoria University of Wellington), j’ai pris l’initiative de contacter quelques maisons d’édition françaises. Mon but était de faire connaître mon travail et permettre à un lectorat francophone de découvrir la poésie si particulière de la Nouvelle-Zélande1. Plutôt que de poésie, les éditeurs de la revue Rue Saint Ambroise à Paris m’ont proposé de m’occuper de nouvelles et de retraduire quelques-unes des « short stories » de Katherine Mansfield. Par chance, l’œuvre de Mansfield m’était familière, j’avais lu puis étudié2 ses nouvelles, mais aussi sa poésie et une partie de ses journaux ainsi que la critique abondante qui lui a été consacrée. Près de quatre-vingt-quinze ans après sa mort précoce à Fontainebleau, celle qui fut interprétée à l’écran par Jane Birkin (Leave All Fair en 1985) ou qui inspira à D.H. Lawrence son Women in Love (1920), fait encore des émules en Nouvelle-Zélande. Les écrivains néo-zélandais actuels s’en inspirent constamment : citons l’excellent « mémoire graphique » de Sarah Laing, Katherine Mansfield and Me, paru en 2016, A Strange Beautiful Excitement de Redmer Yska (2017) qui retrace ses pas à Wellington, ou les nombreux poèmes dans lesquelles elle figure, icône ou alter ego, chez Nina Powles, Hannah Mettner et avant elles, Helen Rickerby ou Anna Jackson. Au moment où j’écris ces lignes, se tient à Wellington le festival KM 130 qui célèbre les cent trente ans écoulés depuis sa naissance en 1888, en présentant diverses pièces de théâtre, expositions ou conférences3. Le poète Gregory O’Brien la compare même audacieusement à l’Amélie Poulain de JeanPierre Jeunet4 et son effigie, placardée sur des affiches gigantesques, embellit les rues de la capitale, Joconde magnétique. Avant d’aborder cette retraduction, j’avais lu les comparaisons de traductions françaises mises en parallèle par des spécialistes tels Michel Ballard en France ou Geraldine Kimber en Angleterre. En 1996, Ballard comparait le travail de Magali Merle (des années quatre-vingt), à celui de Marguerite Faguer (années soixante) ou de Marthe Duproix (années trente) pour illustrer son analyse des énoncés sans verbes et registres en traduction5. Quant à Kimber, elle dénonçait en 2008, dans The View From

A ce jour, la principale publication de poésie néo-zélandaise en France est la revue Europe qui y consacrait la moitié d’un numéro en 2006. Voir mon article « Traduire la poésie de James K. Baxter en français » qui sera publié prochainement aux éditions Classiques Garnier (collection Translatio). 2 Je remercie le professeur Mark Williams pour son enseignement inestimable au département d’anglais à Victoria University. 3 Voir le site internet Katherine Mansfield House & Garden. 4 GREGORY O’BRIEN, News of the Swimmer Reaches Shores A Guide to French Usage, Wellington, Victoria University Press, 2007, p. 83. 5 MICHEL BALLARD, « Énoncés sans verbes et registres en traduction » Palimpsestes, 10, 1996, p. 179-206 1

France, l’image de « sainte nitouche » que la critique française lui avait fabriquée, une hagiographie également perpétuée, selon elle, par les traductions françaises6. Elle va jusqu’à conclure: Je crois que des traductions réussies de la fiction de Mansfield, qui révèleraient à la fois avec précision son talent artistique et sa philosophie personnelle, sont encore à écrire et elles ne pourront l’être que par quelqu’un qui connaisse parfaitement son œuvre en anglais.7

À la suite de quoi, j’ajoute que, pour certaines des plus fameuses nouvelles de Mansfield, une connaissance approfondie de la Nouvelle-Zélande est tout aussi indispensable. Si Kimber a justement critiqué les traductions françaises, du point de vue du rendu de la ponctuation et des registres comme l’a fait aussi Ballard, ou des idiolectes et accents régionaux (en donnant sa préférence aux traductions de Charles Mauron pour A German Pension), elle ne s’est pas arrêtée en détail sur l’Intégrale des Nouvelles publié chez Stock en 2006. Cette « intégrale » n’inclut pas « In the Botanical Gardens » par exemple, une nouvelle extraite du recueil Katherine Mansfield New Zealand Short Stories édité par Vincent O’Sullivan en 2010. C’est pourquoi j’en propose plus loin une première traduction en français comme illustration de mon travail. La méconnaissance des traducteurs en matière de faune et flore endémiques néo-zélandaises a selon toute apparence engendré des omissions ou « maladresses » ensuite colportées dans l’Intégrale. Les premiers traducteurs Duproix ou J.G. Delamain ont pour circonstance atténuante, d’avoir œuvré à une époque où l’information n’était pas accessible d’un simple clic. À la fin du chapitre iv de « Prelude » par exemple, Mansfield écrit : In the garden some tiny owls, perched on the branches of a lace-bark tree, called: “More pork; more pork.”8

Delamain ignorait sans doute que le hibou au cri distinctif que les Māori appellent « Ruru », est, en anglais néo-zélandais, appelé « Morepork », sans le moindre rapport avec la viande de porc donc. Mansfield prend un malin plaisir à reproduire cette translitération fantaisiste la scindant malicieusement en deux mots. La traduction de 1932 semble privilégier le caractère onomatopéique du trait en oblitérant ce qui est une référence évidente pour le lectorat néo-zélandais dans le texte source. Qui plus est, la solution de Delamain, qui ne fait pas grand sens, est retranscrite telle quelle en 2006 : Dans le jardin, de tout petits hiboux, perchés sur les branches d’un bouleau, appelaient : D’aut’ porc, d’aut’ porc.9

Entre autres facteurs, citons aussi le rôle éditorial qu’a joué son mari John Middleton Murry après sa mort. Voir GERALDINE KIMBER, The View From France, Peter Lang, 2008, pp. 178- 229 et pp. 242-258. 7 “I believe that successful translations of Mansfield’s fiction, which would accurately reveal both her artistry and her personal philosophy have also yet to be written, and indeed can only be written by someone completely familiar with her work in English” (Ibid, p. 229). 8 KATHERINE MANSFIELD, New Zealand Stories Illustrated Edition, Auckland Century Hutchinson, 1987, p. 49. 9 KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Les Nouvelles, Paris, Stock, 2006, p. 31. 6

Le cri de la ninoxe boubouk a dû poser tout autant problème à Duproix10, car lorsque celui-ci se refait entendre dans la somptueuse « Her First Ball », en un motif nocturne ostinato, la traductrice choisit de l’éluder complètement : […] sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country

[…] assise sur la véranda de leur maison solitaire, là-

home, listening to the baby owls crying “More pork” in

bas, dans la brousse, à écouter les petits hiboux au clair

the moonlight11

de lune12

Ce n’est par ailleurs pas la seule omission de Duproix, comme au dernier chapitre de « At the Bay »:

But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every

Mais la belle nuit, le jardin, chaque buisson, chaque

leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were

feuille, même les étoiles, étaient des conspirateurs

conspirators too.13

aussi.14

Ce manque de soin est bien regrettable15 mais avant tout, ce qu’il faut encore souligner, c’est la nécessité d’une connaissance du contexte néo-zélandais pour mener à bien cette traduction. Par exemple, le « bush » néo-zélandais est bien plus spécifique dans la culture source que « la brousse » (aux consonances africaines) que proposait Duproix ou qu’un simple « bois »16 comme l’écrit récemment Fabrice Hugot dans Prélude, suivi de Sur la baie (2009). Dans ces récentes traductions, Hugot semble avoir davantage amplifié le mythe hagiographique que fustige précisément Kimber, en considérant Mansfield comme une figure de « l’optimisme tragique »17. La préface du traducteur insiste bien sur le pathos d’épisodes biographiques marquants comme la mort de son frère Leslie durant la Grande Guerre. En revanche, peu de choses sont dites sur son extraordinaire émancipation, ses mœurs de femme libérée. À l’heure où le final de « At the Bay » pourrait être perçu comme un écho précurseur aux revendications du mouvement #MeToo, au combat pour le consentement, la présence de ce féminisme d’avant-garde dans l’œuvre de Mansfield paraît aujourd’hui encore occultée dans les traductions successives. Si Hugot est, à bien des égards, un traducteur astucieux et sa traduction est assurément plus « vivante » que les précédentes, le problème me semble peut-être venir du style, tout en étoffements et emphase. Fabrice Hugot, en 2009, propose, avec « mau po », une solution plutôt habile qu’il explicite dans un glossaire. Une autre solution serait aussi d’utiliser le nom māori « ruru », peut-être francisé en « rourou », pour suggérer le cri de l’animal. 11 KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Les Nouvelles, Paris, Stock, 2006, p. 155. 12 Ibid, p. 407. 13 Ibid, p. 114. 14 Ibid. p. 283. 15 Ajoutons à cet oubli quelques coquilles apparues lors de la réédition, par exemple dans l’introduction de « At the Bay » où, pour « the sleepy sea », Duproix proposait bien justement « la mer ensommeillée » devenue dans la version de 2006 le lieu commun « la mer ensoleillée » (Ibid, p. 237). 16 KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Prélude suivi de Sur la baie, Paris, Motifs, 2009, p. 163. 17 Ibid, p. 13. 10

Le portrait qu’il brosse d’Harry Kember lui fait des « lèvres vermeilles »18 quand Mansfield écrivait simplement « red lips ». Les fuschias du jardin ne sont pas froids mais « transis »19 quand Mansfield écrivait « cold ». Les cheveux de Stanley Burnell sont « rouge feu »20 alors qu’il s’agissait de « bright ginger hair ». Le spleen de Linda Burnell est dû au « destin […] venu comme le vent se lève »21 lorsque la Néo-Zélandaise proposait le lapidaire: « Along came Life like a wind ». Même un mot aussi commun que « rubbish » devient chez Hugot : « billevesées » 22 . Si Mansfield a inauguré le modernisme en Nouvelle-Zélande, son style demeure, malgré les frasques de sa vie privée, doté d’une certaine réserve toute victorienne. Tout y est nuances subtiles, suggérées, en filigranes. Cette trompeuse simplicité, cette réserve d’apparence ne se retrouve pour moi que trop peu dans la version de Hugot qui accentue l’aspect dramatique, qui exagère la sophistication du registre. On se souvient alors du conseil d’Antoine Berman : « ne jamais produire une surtraduction déterminée par la poétique personnelle du traduisant. »23 Cela dit, tout n’est pas dans la surenchère, plus rarement, lorsque Mansfield est minutieuse et précise, comme dans cette description d’une boîte à épingles qui ferait pour Kezia « a very nice place for a watch to curl up in », Hugot me paraît neutraliser l’image par un quelconque : « pour ranger une montre »24. Lorsque la mer se fait, chez Mansfield, maternelle : « as if [the sea] would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom », Hugot la réduit quelque peu en un cliché : « comme si elle avait voulu engloutir toute cette fragile et joyeuse beauté »25. Question de musique donc, et en quelque sorte, la partition toute en finesse de Mansfield est jouée clairons sonnants et tambours battants par Hugot qui en sape aussi parfois le minimalisme délicat. Une connaissance solide du contexte néo-zélandais est donc indispensable, ce qui semblait manquer aux premiers traducteurs tels Duproix ou Delamain. Il est tout aussi nécessaire de prêter une oreille attentive à la « petite musique » de la grande dame des lettres néo-zélandaises, ce qui fait peut-être aussi parfois défaut chez Hugot. Dans mes traductions, j’ai donc veillé à bien respecter ces deux aspects. Si l’on considère la nouvelle « At the Bay » par exemple, le titre fait référence à une localité imaginaire « Crescent Bay », petit regroupement de bungalows (aujourd’hui « bach » en anglais néo-zélandais) que la critique attribue en général à Day’s Bay, où la famille de Katherine se rendait en été. Tous les traducteurs jusque-là semblent avoir préféré considérer la baie en tant que bord de mer plutôt qu’en tant que hameau, en choisissant « Sur la baie ». Pourtant, si l’on veut être exact, il s’agit bien de « At the Bay », abréviation pour « Crescent Bay » et non « On the Bay ». Je choisis donc « A La Baie » (les

KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Prélude suivi de Sur la baie, Paris, Motifs, 2009, p. 129. Ibid, p. 118. 20 Ibid, p. 135. 21 Ibid, p. 134. 22 Ibid, p. 140. 23 ANTOINE BERMAN, L’Epreuve de l’étranger, Paris, Gallimard, 1984, p. 58 24 Ibid, p. 141. 25 Ibid, p. 163. 18 19

majuscules signalant le nom d’une localité) et traduis le toponyme, comme le faisait Duproix : « La Baie du Croissant », une pratique moins courante ces jours-ci mais qui me semble justifiée ici. Ainsi, au chapitre v, Mrs Harry Kember était « la seule femme de La Baie » à fumer par exemple et « les femmes de La Baie pensaient qu’elle était très, très légère. » L’attachement de Mansfield à inscrire son texte dans une réalité néo-zélandaise est aussi bien marquée par le « bush » que j’emprunte donc en offrant une explication en note, mais aussi comme le fait bien Hugot , « toetoe » (nom māori pour l’austroderia), « whare » (maison en māori), « manuka », « pāua » (mollusque gastropode) auxquels j’ajoute aussi « tussocks », végétation composée de larges et épaisses touffes d’herbes de diverses variétés endémiques. En ce qui concerne la « petite musique » du texte, je me suis efforcé à rester « au plus près » du phrasé de Mansfield pour privilégier les subtilités de ton et de rythme. Qu’on en juge plutôt dans cette description au début du chapitre vii : The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it bleached the pink convolvulus that thread through and through the sandhills.26

Kimber considère ici comme symboliques le soleil et la mer, il s’agit pour elle d’une domination sexuelle du masculin sur le féminin : Le soleil est pour Mansfield le masculin, son pouvoir est évident à nouveau dans « At the Bay », hommage personnel de Mansfield à la mer et toute sa symbolique. Face au soleil, la mer n’a aucune énergie, aucune force de vie, celle-ci a été aspirée, s’est évaporée dans la chaleur accablante du soleil. Les références sexuelles sont aussi clairement présentes dans l’utilisation symbolique des coquillages arrondis et humides et du liseron et son intentionnelle et évidente référence au sexe féminin.27

La cadence de la phrase de Mansfield, accentuée par la répétition de « beat down » et les allitérations de fricatives « fiery / fine » et de toniques « beat down / baking / blue / black / bleached », suggère cette domination par un martèlement et un « échauffement ». Ce phrasé percussif me semble atténué chez Hugot :

ANTOINE BERMAN, L’Epreuve de l’étranger, Paris, Gallimard, 1984, p.155. “The sun for Mansfield is […] the male, its power evident again in ‘At the Bay’, Mansfield’s own personal homage to the sea and all its symbolic meaning. […] In the face of the sun the sea has no energy, no life force, this has been sucked up, evaporated by the searing heat of the sun. Sexual references are also clearly present in the symbolic use of the curved, damp shells and the convolvulus with its obvious intended reference to female genitalia (Ibid, p. 168). 26 27

Le soleil sans merci écrasait le sable fin de toute l’ardeur de ses rayons brûlants, cuisant sous son feu les galets gris, bleus, noirs et veinés de blanc. Il suçait la dernière goutte d’eau cachée au creux des coquillages ; il décolorait les liserons roses qui couraient partout sur les dunes.28

S’il y a bien un inéluctable écart de connotation sémantique (par exemple « convolvulus » peut rappeler le mot « vulva » en anglais), je propose de préserver toute la nuance de la rythmique de Mansfield en restituant répétitions et allitérations suggestives: Le soleil cognait fort, fort et chaud, brûlant le sable fin, cuisant le gris et le bleu, le noir et le blanc sur les veines des galets. Il aspirait la petite goutte d’eau tapie au creux des coquillages arrondis ; il blanchissait les liserons roses dont le fil parcourait les dunes.

La « petite musique » de Mansfield tient aussi à son talent de « ventriloque » et l’on trouve dans cette même nouvelle, toute une gamme contrastée de voix et d’idiolectes, par exemple chez le personnage de Jonathan Trout et son éloquence désuète. Au chapitre viii, c’est le plaisir et l’amusement de Mansfield que je vise en retranscrivant l’accent appuyé ou les fautes d’expression de Mme Stubbs et d’Alice : « de nouvelles pheutos » pour « photers », « au moins trois deuzaines » pour « dozzing » et « un agrondissement » pour « enlargemint ». Je me concentre aussi sur le kitsch des répliques : « le v’la » pour « That’s ’im », ou « c’d’un bon genre » pour « It is a nice style ». C’est aussi une question de musique et de plaisir que de rendre les jeux de mots facétieux de Mansfield. Quand les enfants appellent le roi de pique « the King of Spain » (pour « King of Spades »), Duproix proposait le « roi d’Afrique », Hugot, le « roi te pique » et je propose l’enfantin « le roi de bique ». Au chapitre v, Hugot choisit d’expliciter le jeu de mots « Gladys / glad eyes », que Duproix traduisait littéralement « Gladys les Yeux Doux ». Il propose en note : ù Jeu de mots intraduisible : Mrs Kember prononce le y de Gladys comme une diphtongue et appelle sa bonne Glad-Eyes, ce qui signifie mot à mot les yeux heureux et fait allusion à l’expression anglaise « to give someone the glad eye » : faire de l’œil à quelqu’un ou faire les yeux doux.29

Il traduit : « Gladys Réglisse ». Plutôt que de modifier « les yeux doux », je choisis simplement de rebaptiser Gladys : « Liza ‘Les Yeux Doux’ », conservant la proche homophonie et le jeu de mot qui sous-tend la promiscuité « hors norme » des deux femmes. En guise de conclusion, si je critique beaucoup les traductions de Hugot ici, je tiens à tempérer mes propos en soulignant par ailleurs l’habileté et l’ingéniosité de son travail. Son ornementation me semble plus largement le signe d’une interprétation biaisée de la part de la critique française considérant Mansfield comme victime tragique. Cette interprétation, décriée par Kimber, il me tient à cœur de la 28 29

ANTOINE BERMAN, L’Epreuve de l’étranger, Paris, Gallimard, 1984, p. 139. Ibid, p. 174. 96

subvertir dans mes traductions. Je propose donc de mettre en lumière la spécificité de sa vox poetica toute en nuances et sous-entendus suggestifs ainsi que l’inscription néo-zélandaise de son œuvre toujours pleine de vie. En attendant la parution prochaine des nouvelles traductions aux éditions Rue St Ambroise, je propose ci-dessous en exemple celle inédite de la brève « In the Botanical Gardens » (1907).

Retranslating Katherine Mansfield’s Short Stories Luc Arnault

In 2017, as part of my doctoral project on the translation of New Zealand poetry into French (Victoria University of Wellington), I initiated contact with a few publishing houses in France. My aim was to give my work some exposure and find a readership for New Zealand poetry in French1. Rather than poetry, the publishers of the periodical Rue Saint Ambroise in Paris offered that I translate short stories, and in particular that I retranslate some of Katherine Mansfield’s Short Stories. Fortunately, I was familiar with Mansfield’s work; I had read and studied2 her fiction as well as her poetry, her journals and the extensive critical work devoted to her writing. Nearly ninety five years after her premature death in Fontainebleau, she, who was later incarnated by Jane Birkin on the big screen (Leave All Fair in 1985) and who inspired D.H Lawrence his Women in Love (1920), is still a source of inspiration in New Zealand today. Contemporary New Zealand writers are constantly drawn to her character: see for instance the remarkable “graphic memoir” by Sarah Laing, Mansfield and Me (2016), A Strange Beautiful Excitement by Redmer Yska (2017), which retraces her steps in Wellington, or the numerous poems in which she features, as an icon or as an alter ego, in Nina Powles or Hannah Mettner works and before them Helen Rickerby or Anna Jackson. While I am writing these lines, the festival KM 130, celebrating the hundred and thirty year anniversary of her birth in 1888, is held in Wellington, presenting various plays, exhibitions and conferences3. The poet Gregory O’Brien once compared her to Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Amelie4 and her portrait, on gigantic posters, embellishes the streets of the capital city, like a magnetic Mona Lisa. Before approaching the retranslation, I had read the work of specialists Michel Ballard in France and Geraldine Kimber in England who had both compared some of the French translations of her oeuvre. In 1996, Ballard put in parallel the works of translators Magali Merle (in the eighties), Marguerite Faguer (in the sixties) and Marthe Duproix (in the thirties) to illustrate his analysis of nominal clauses and registers in translation5. In 2008, Kimber denounced in The View From France, the “saint like” image tailored by French critics for Mansfield, a hagiography also conveyed, according to her, by the French translations6. She goes on to conclude:

1 To this day, the main publication of New Zealand poetry in France was in the periodical Europe in 2006. See also my article “Traduire la poésie de James K. Baxter en français” to be published later on this year in collection Translatio (Classiques Garnier). 2 I would like to thank Ass. Prof. Mark Williams for his lectures and tutorials on New Zealand literature at Victoria University. 3 See the internet website Katherine Mansfield House & Garden. 4 GREGORY O’BRIEN, News of the Swimmer Reaches Shores A Guide to French Usage, Wellington, Victoria University Press, 2007, p. 83. 5 MICHEL BALLARD, “Énoncés sans verbes et registres en traduction” Palimpsestes, 10, 1996, p. 179-206 6 Among other factors, for instance the editorial role played by John Middleton Murry after her death. See GERALDINE KIMBER, The View From France, Peter Lang, 2008, pp. 178- 229 and pp. 242-258.

I believe that successful translations of Mansfield’s fiction, which would accurately reveal both her artistry and her personal philosophy have also yet to be written, and indeed can only be written by someone completely familiar with her work in English.7

To which, I add here, that for some of her most famous pieces, a deep knowledge of New Zealand is just as indispensable. If Kimber has rightfully criticised the French translations, on the level of punctuation and registers – as did Ballard – or idiolects and regional accents (while giving her preference overall to Charles Mauron’s work for A German Pension), she has not yet commented on the publication of the Intégrale des Nouvelles, a “complete collection” of her short stories published by Stock in 2006. This “intégrale” does not include “In the Botanical Gardens” for instance, a short story taken from the collection Katherine Mansfield New Zealand Short Stories, which Vincent O’Sullivan edited in 2010. This is the reason why I offer further, a first translation in French of this short piece as an illustration of my work. In my opinion, French translators’ lack of familiarity with native flora and fauna in New Zealand has led to a number of omissions and “faux-pas”, which can still be found in the Intégrale. First translators Duproix or J.G. Delamain were, in their defense, working at a time when information was not just a click away. At the end of chapter IV in “Prelude”, for instance, Mansfield wrote: In the garden some tiny owls, perched on the branches of a lace-bark tree, called: “More pork; more pork.”8

Delamain no doubt ignored that the little owl with a distinct shriek – called “ruru” by Māori – is, in New Zealand English, called “morepork”. No relation to pork meat then. Mansfield delightfully reproduced this whimsical transliteration by splitting it shrewdly in two words. The 1932 translation seems to prioritise the onomatopoeic dimension of the trait while obliterating what is an obvious reference in a New Zealand context. What is more, Delamain’s rather non-sensical solution is reproduced as is in 2006: Dans le jardin, de tout petits hiboux, perchés sur les branches d’un bouleau, appelaient : D’aut’ porc, d’aut’ porc.9

The shriek of the Ninoxe boubouk must have been also problematic to Duproix10, for, when it reappears in the sumptuous “Her First Ball”, as a nocturnal ostinato motif, she completely erases it: GERALDINE KIMBER, The View From France, Peter Lang, 2008, p. 229. KATHERINE MANSFIELD, New Zealand Stories Illustrated Edition, Auckland Century Hutchinson, 1987, p. 49. 9 KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Les Nouvelles, Paris, Stock, 2006, p. 31. 10 In 2009, Fabrice Hugot offers “mau po”, a rather skillful solution, which he explains in glossary. Another solution would be to use the māori name “ruru”, perhaps as “rourou” in French to suggest the animal shriek. 7 8

100

[…] sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country

[…] assise sur la véranda de leur maison solitaire, là-

home, listening to the baby owls crying “More pork” in

bas, dans la brousse, à écouter les petits hiboux au clair

the

moonlight11

de lune12

This is not, by the way, the only omission by Duproix, as in the last chapter of “At the Bay”: But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every

Mais la belle nuit, le jardin, chaque buisson, chaque

leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were

feuille, même les étoiles, étaient des conspirateurs

conspirators too.13

aussi.14

Despite this regrettable lack of care15, what ought to be underlined overall, is the need for an authentic knowledge of the New Zealand context for the translation to work. For instance, the New Zealand bush is, in the source culture, much more specific than “la brousse” (with its African connotation) offered by Duproix, or the mere “bois”16 that Fabrice Hugot recently offered in Prélude, suivi de Sur la baie (2009). In these recent translations, Hugot seems to have amplified further the hagiographic myth denounced by Kimber; he considers Mansfield as a figure of “tragic optimism”17. In his preface, he insists well on the pathos of significant biographical episodes such as the death of her brother Leslie in World War I. Little is said however, on her extraordinary emancipation at the time, her lifestyle as a liberated woman. While, in retrospect, the conclusion of “At the Bay” might be perceived as a pioneering echo to the demands of the #MeToo movement, and the struggle for sexual consent, it seems the presence of this avant-garde feminism in Mansfield’s work, is concealed again in the French successive translations. If Hugot is, in many ways, an astute translator and his translation is assuredly more “lively” than his predecessors’, the problem seems to come from style, in padding and emphasis. The portrait of Harry Kember, drawn by Hugot, gives the character “des lèvres vermeilles” (vermilion lips) when Mansfield simply wrote “red lips”. The garden’s fuchsias are “transis” (numb) when Mansfield wrote “cold”. Stanley Burnell’s hair becomes “rouge feu” instead of “bright ginger”. Linda Burnell’s mood is caused by “le destin […] venu comme le vent se lève” (destiny like rising wind) when Mansfield offered the lapidary “Along came Life like a wind”. Even a word as common as “rubbish” becomes in Hugot’s translation “billevesées” (balderdash, poppycock). If Mansfield launched Modernism in New Zealand, her style remains, despite the mischief of her private life, still endowed with some sort of Victorian reserve. Everything is subtle and nuanced, implicitly suggested. This false simplicity, this apparent reserve is for me too scarcely found in Hugot’s version exaggerating the sophistication of register and KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Les Nouvelles, Paris, Stock, 2006, p. 155. Ibid, p. 407. 13 Ibid, p. 114. 14 Ibid. p. 283. 15 Let us add to this, some typos that have appeared in the reedition, for instance in the beginning of “At the Bay”, the “sleepy sea”, was translated by Duproix as “la mer ensommeillée”, which became in 2006 “la mer ensoleillée” (Ibid, p. 237). 16 KATHERINE MANSFIELD, Prélude suivi de Sur la baie, Paris, Motifs, 2009, p. 163. 17 Ibid, p. 13. 11 12

101

stressing out the most dramatic aspects. One is then reminded of Antoine Berman’s advice: “never produce an over-translation determined by the personal poetics of the translator.”18 However, all is not on a higher bid mode, and more rarely, when Mansfield is precise and meticulous, as in this description of a pin-tray, which, for Kezia, would make “a very nice place for a watch to curl up in”, Hugot seems to neutralise the image with an ordinary “pour ranger ma montre” (to put my watch away). When the sea is “maternal”: “as if [the sea] would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom”, Hugot somewhat reduces it with a stereotype: “comme si elle avait voulu engloutir toute cette fragile et joyeuse beaute” (as if the sea had wanted to engulf all this fragile and joyful beauty). It may be a matter of music then and, in a way, the finesse of Mansfield’s score is played with trumpets blowing and drums beating by Hugot who also sometimes saps its delicate minimalism. A solid knowledge of the New Zealand context is therefore required, something that seemingly lacked Duproix or Delamain. It is also deemed necessary to lend an attentive ear to the “little music” of this great New Zealand lady, something which Hugot also misses in my view. In my translations, I therefore make sure to respect these two aspects. If we consider “At the Bay” for instance, the title is a reference to the imaginary “Crescent Bay”, a small huddle of bungalows by the sea – we would perhaps say “baches” in New Zealand English today. It is generally believed to stand for Day’s Bay in Wellington where the family would holiday. All translators have until now chosen to consider the bay as a sea formation rather than the name of a small hamlet, by choosing “Sur la baie”. However, to be precise, it is “At the Bay”, perhaps short for “At Crescent Bay” and not “On the Bay”. I therefore choose “A La Baie”, with capitals indicating the name of a locality, and translate the toponym as “La Baie du Croissant” as did Duproix. This is a less common strategy these days but nevertheless justified here. In chapter V, Mrs Harry Kember was the only woman in “La Baie” who smoked for instance, and “les femmes de La Baie pensaient qu’elle était très, très légère.” Mansfield’s attachment to the New Zealand setting of her text is evident in her use of words such as “the bush”, which I borrow in my translation and explain in a note, as well as the Māori “toetoe”, “whare”, “manuka”, or “pāua”, and I add “tussocks”, which refers to native vegetation species. Regarding the “little music” of the text, I wish to remain “as close as possible” to Mansfield’s prosody in order to emphasise her subtleties in tone and rhythm. Let us consider this description at the beginning of chapter VII for instance: The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the little drop of water that lay in the hollow of

“Ne jamais produire une surtraduction déterminée par la poétique personnelle du traduisant.” ANTOINE BERMAN, L’Epreuve de l’étranger, Paris, Gallimard, 1984, p. 58.

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the curved shells; it bleached the pink convolvulus that thread through and through the sandhills.19

Kimber regards the sun and the sea as sexual and gender symbols: The sun for Mansfield is […] the male, its power evident again in “At the Bay”, Mansfield’s own personal homage to the sea and all its symbolic meaning. […] In the face of the sun the sea has no energy, no life force, this has been sucked up, evaporated by the searing heat of the sun. Sexual references are also clearly present in the symbolic use of the curved, damp shells and the convolvulus with its obvious intended reference to female genitalia.20

The cadence of Mansfield’s sentence is marked by the repetition of “beat down”, fricative and tonic alliterations “fiery / fine” and “beat down / baking / blue / black / bleached”, suggesting heat and thus sexual domination with hammering and simmering sounds. This percussive style seems subdued or toned down in Hugot: Le soleil sans merci écrasait le sable fin de toute l’ardeur de ses rayons brûlants, cuisant sous son feu les galets gris, bleus, noirs et veinés de blanc. Il suçait la dernière goutte d’eau cachée au creux des coquillages ; il décolorait les liserons roses qui couraient partout sur les dunes.21

If there is unavoidably a semantic gap (for instance “convolvulus” might remind one of “vulva” in English), I propose to preserve the nuance of Mansfield’s rhythm with repetitions and suggestive alliterations: Le soleil cognait fort, fort et chaud, brûlant le sable fin, cuisant le gris et le bleu, le noir et le blanc sur les veines des galets. Il aspirait la petite goutte d’eau tapie au creux des coquillages arrondis ; il blanchissait les liserons roses dont le fil parcourait les dunes.

We may also say that Mansfield’s “little music” comes from her talent as a ventriloquist, and in the same story, one finds a range of contrasted voices and idiolects, for instance in the obsolete eloquence of character Jonathan Trout. In chapter VIII, I intend to inspire the same sense of fun, as when Mansfield reproduces Mrs Stubbs’ thick accent or Alice’s errors of expression. I propose “de nouvelles pheutos” for “photers”, “au moins trois deuzaines” for “dozzing” and “un agrondissement” for “enlargement”. I also think in terms of derision and kitsch at the lines “That’s im” – I propose “le v’la” – or “it is a nice style”, “c’d’un bon genre”. Translating Mansfield shrewd wordplay is also a matter of music and fun. For instance, in chapter ix, the children call the king of Spades (in French “le roi de pique”) “the King of Spain”. Duproix offered ANTOINE BERMAN, L’Epreuve de l’étranger, Paris, Gallimard, 1984, p.155. Ibid, p. 168. 21 Ibid, p. 139. 19 20

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“le roi d’Afrique”, Hugot offers “le roi te pique” and I choose the childish “le roi de bique”. In chapter v, Hugot chooses to explain the pun “Gladys / glad eyes”, which Duproix translated literally as “Gladys les Yeux Doux”. He writes: “An untranslatable pun: Mrs Kember pronounces the y of Gladys as a diphthong, and calls her maid Glad-Eyes, which refers to the English expression ‘to give someone the glad eye’.”22 He then translates as “Gladys Réglisse” (licorice). Instead of transforming the reference to glad eyes, I simply choose to give Gladys a new name: “Liza ‘les Yeux Doux’”, keeping the near homophony and the pun underlying the unconventional proximity of the two women. In lieu of conclusion, if I copiously criticise Hugot’s translations here, I wish to temper this predicament by highlighting again his work’s skills and ingenuity elsewhere. His ornamentation seems more largely symptomatic of a misinterpretation by the French critique considering Mansfield as a tragic victim, something Kimber had signaled and criticised. In my translations, I therefore wish to subvert this interpretation by highlighting the specificity of her vox poetica – in nuances full of life and suggestive undertones – as well as the New Zealand setting of some of her pioneering work. Before some new translations are published by Rue St Ambroise, I now propose an example of my work with an unpublished translation of “In the Botanical Gardens” (1907).

22 “Jeu de mots intraduisible : Mrs Kember prononce le y de Gladys comme une diphtongue et appelle sa bonne Glad-Eyes, ce qui signifie mot à mot les yeux heureux et fait allusion à l’expression anglaise ‘to give someone the glad eye’: faire de l’œil à quelqu’un ou faire les yeux doux” (Ibid, p. 174).

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In the Botanical Gardens They are such a subtle combination of the artificial and the natural – that is, partly, the secret of their charm. From the entrance gate down the broad central walk, with the orthodox banality of carpet bedding on either side, stroll men and women and children – a great many children, who call to each other lustily, and jump up and down the green wooden seats. They seem as meaningless, as lacking in individuality as the little figures in an impressionist landscape. Above the carpet bedding, on one hand, there is a green hedge, and above the hedge a long row of cabbage trees, now high, now low, have become an arrangement of notes – a curious, pattering, native melody. In the enclosure the spring flowers are almost too beautiful – a great stretch of foam-like cowslips. As I bend over them, the air is heavy and sweet with their scent, like hay and new milk and the kisses of children, and, further on, a sunlit wonder of chiming daffodils. Before me two great rhododendron bushes. Against the dark, broad leaves the blossoms rise, flamelike, tremulous in the still air, and the pearl rose loving-cup of a magnolia hangs delicately on the grey bough. Everywhere there are clusters of china blue pansies, a mist of forget-me-nots, a tangle of anemones. Strange that these anemones-scarlet, and amethyst, and purple-vibrant with colour, always appear to me a trifle dangerous, sinister, seductive but poisonous. And, leaving the enclosure, I pass a little gully, filled with tree ferns, and lit with pale virgin lamps of arum lilies. I turn from the smooth swept paths, and climb up a steep track, where the knotted tree roots have seared a rude pattern in the yellow clay. And suddenly, it disappears – all the pretty, carefully-tended surface of gravel and sward and blossom, and there is bush, silent and splendid. On the green moss, on the brown earth, a wide splashing of yellow sunlight. And everywhere that strange indefinable scent. As I breathe it, it seems to absorb, to become part of me – and I am old with the age of centuries, strong with the strength of savagery. Somewhere I hear the soft rhythmic flowing of water, and I follow the path down and down until I come to a little stream idly, dreamily floating past. I fling myself down, and put my hands in the water. An inexplicable, persistent feeling seizes me that I must become one with it all. Remembrance has gone –this is the Lotus Land – the green trees stir languorously, sleepily – there is the silver sound of a bird’s call. Bending down, I drink a little of the water, Oh! is it magic? Shall I, looking intently, see vague forms lurking in the shadow staring at me malevolently, wildly, the thief of their birthright? Shall I, down the hillside, through the bush, ever in the shadow, see a great company moving towards me,

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their faces averted, wreathed with green garlands, passing, passing, following the little stream in silence until it is sucked into the wide sea… There is a sudden, restless movement, a pressure of the trees – they sway against one another – it is like the sound of weeping… I pass down the central walk towards the entrance gates. The men and women and children are crowding the pathway, looking reverently, admiringly, at the carpet bedding, spelling aloud the Latin names of the flowers. Here is laughter and movement and bright sunlight – but behind me – is it near, or miles and miles away? – the bush lies hidden in the shadow. Katherine Mansfield

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Dans les jardins botaniques Une si subtile combinaison d’artificiel et de naturel : c’est là, en partie, le secret de leur charme. Depuis la grille d’entrée le long de la grande allée centrale, avec de chaque côté la banalité orthodoxe des parterres de fleurs, se promènent hommes, femmes et enfants : bien des enfants qui s’interpellent vigoureusement et sautent de haut en bas depuis les bancs en bois vert. Ils ont l’air aussi insignifiant, aussi dépourvu d’individualité que les petites silhouettes d’un paysage impressionniste. Au-dessus des parterres de fleurs, d’un côté, il y a une haie verte et au-dessus de la haie, une longue rangée de cordylines. Je lève les yeux et soudain la haie verte est une portée et les cordylines, tantôt en haut, aigues, tantôt en bas, graves, sont devenues tout un arrangement de notes : une curieuse mélodie autochtone qui tambourine. Dans l’enclos, les fleurs de printemps sont presque trop belles : une grande étendue mousseuse de coucous. En me penchant sur elles, l’air est sucré et lourd de leur parfum, comme du foin, du lait frais, des baisers d’enfants et, plus loin, une merveille de jonquilles ensoleillées tintinnabule. Devant moi, deux grands buissons de rhododendron. Contre de larges feuilles noires, s’élèvent leurs fleurs telles des flammes tremblotant dans l’air figé et les coupes de mariage rose perle du magnolia sont suspendues délicatement sur leurs rameaux de gris. Il y a partout des pensées en grappes bleu de chine, une brume de myosotis, un enchevêtrement d’anémones. Etrange que ces anémones (écarlates, améthyste et violettes) aux couleurs éclatantes me semblent toujours un tant soit peu dangereuses, sinistres : séduisantes mais vénéneuses. Et, en quittant cet enclos, je passe devant un petit ravin, couvert de fougères géantes et éclairé par les lampes pâles vierges des arums. Je m’écarte des sentiers lisses et balayés pour grimper une piste raide, où les racines sinueuses des arbres ont saisi un motif grossier dans l’argile jaune. Et soudain, tout a disparu : la jolie surface soigneusement tenue de graviers, de gazon, de fleurs et il n’y a plus que le bush, splendide, silencieux. Sur les mousses vertes, sur la terre brune, la large éclaboussure jaune du soleil. Et partout cet étrange et indéfinissable parfum. En l’inspirant, elle semble m’absorber, faire partie de moi et me voici vieille de l’âge des siècles et forte, avec la force de la sauvagerie. J’entends quelque part la douce rythmique d’une eau qui coule et je descends encore et encore le chemin jusqu’à trouver un petit ruisseau qui paresse là flottant rêveusement. Je m’y élance, plonge mes mains dans l’eau. Un sentiment persistant, inexplicable me saisit : je dois ne faire qu’une avec tout ça. Le souvenir m’échappe : c’est là le pays du Lotus, les arbres verts ondulent langoureusement, ensommeillés : il y a le son d’argent du chant d’un oiseau. Penchée, je bois un peu d’eau, oh ! Est-ce magique ? Devrais-je voir, en regardant bien, des formes vagues se tapir dans l’ombre m’observer fixement, sauvagement, avec malveillance, moi la voleuse de leur droit de naissance ? Devrais-je voir à

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flanc de colline, à travers le bush, à jamais dans l’ombre, une large troupe se diriger vers moi, les visages détournés, ornés de colliers verts, passer, passer, suivre en silence le petit ruisseau jusqu’à être aspirés dans l’immensité de la mer… Il y a un mouvement brusque, tourmenté, un souffle presse les arbres : ils se balancent les uns contre les autres, on dirait comme des pleurs…. Je passe l’allée centrale vers la grille de l’entrée. Hommes, femmes et enfants forment une foule sur le sentier, l’air révérencieux, admiratif envers les parterres, énonçant à voix haute les noms des fleurs en latin. Il y a là rires et mouvements, lumières vives mais derrière moi, est-ce proche ou à des kilomètres ? Le bush s’étend caché dans l’ombre. Katherine Mansfield

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