The Void French-English translation by Jules Buffet / Ariane Dudych

voluntarily omits this fifth out of twenty-six symbols, that many say is vital to writing. What is this, if not audacity?

translated by Jules Buffet/Ariane Dudych

Anton Voyl

Which, at first, looks as a book writ long ago, about an individual who naps his fill.

Anton Voyl can’t drop off, and puts his light on. His Jaz clock shows half past midnight. With a big sigh, Anton sits up on his bunk, propping his body on his pillow; taking a book, unfurling it, thumbs through it, grasping but a blurry imbroglio out of it, always stumbling upon a word of which all signification is unknown to him.

Abandoning his book on his bunk, Anton walks to his sink, damps a washcloth and rubs it on his brow, on his throat. His blood is throbbing too strongly, it is too hot for him. Anton lifts his fanlight, gazing into a warm night. An indistinct sound climbs up from his district. A carillon tolls – no tocsin or gong or bourdon bongs as profoundly as its vast, throbbing sound – tolls, and again, and again. From Canal Saint-Martin, a pitiful lapping signals a narrowboat on its way.

Sur l’abattant du vasistas, un animal au thorax indigo, à l’aiguillon safran, ni un cafard, ni un charançon, mais plutôt un artison, s’avançait, traînant un brin d’alfa. Il s’approcha, voulant l’aplatir d’un coup vif, mais l’animal prit son vol, disparaissant dans la nuit avant qu’il ait pu l’assaillir.

Il tapota d’un doigt un air martial sur l’oblong châssis du vasistas. Il ouvrit son frigo mural, il prit du lait froid, il but un grand bol. Il s’apaisait. Il s’assit sur son cosy, il prit un journal qu’il parcourut d’un air distrait. Il alluma un cigarillo qu’il fuma jusqu’au bout quoiqu’il trouvât son parfum irritant. Il toussa.

Il mit la radio : un air afro-cubain fut suivi d’un boston, puis un tango, puis un fox-trot, puis un cotillon mis au goût du jour. Dutronc chanta du Lanzmann, Barbara un madrigal d’Aragon, Stich-Randall un air d’Aida. Il dut s’assoupir un instant, car il sursauta soudain. La radio annonçait : « Voici nos informations. »

On his windowsill, an animal with a bluish thorax, not a cockroach, not an ant, but actually a curculio, is inching forward, trailing halfah grass in its jaws. Anton draws in, wanting to swiftly squash it flat, but it lifts off, flying away into dusk prior to his attack.

His hand taps a military march onto windowsill wood. Prying his built-in minibar ajar, taking out cold milk, Anton pours and drinks a bowlful. This calms him down. Anton sits down on his couch, grabs a journal and scans it nonchalantly; lights a cigarillo, smoking it through although its aroma is irritating to him. A cough.

Anton turns on his radio: out pours an Afro-Cuban air, a boston follows, a tango, a fox-trot, a stylish cotillion follow. Dutronc sings Lanzmann, Barbara a madrigal by Aragon, Stitch-Randall an aria from Aida. Anton springs up with a start – dozing off, possibly. A broadcast plays on his radio: “And now, your daily information.”

Somhairle MacGill-Eain

Choisich mi cuide ri mo thuigse a-muigh ri taobh a’ chuain; bha sinn còmhla ach bha ise a’ fuireach tiotan bhuam.

An sin thionndaidh i ag ràdha: a bheil e fìor gun cual’ thu gu bheil do ghaol geal àlainn a’ pòsadh tràth Diluain?

Bhac mi ‘n cridhe bha ‘g èirigh ‘nam bhroilleach reubte luath is thubhairt mi: tha mi cinnteach; carson bu bhreug e bhuam?

Ciamar a smaoinichinn gun glacainn an rionnag leugach òir, gum beirinn oirre ‘s gun cuirinn i

This poem comes from the cycle Dáin Do Eimhir (Poems for Eimhir) chronicling the poet’s unrequited love for his Muse. In this poem, the poet

gu ciallach ‘na mo phòc? Cha d’ ghabh mise bàs croinnceusaidh an èiginn chruaidh na Spàinn is ciamar sin bhiodh dùil agam ri aon duais ùir an dàin?

Cha do lean mi ach an t-slighe chrìon bheag ìosal thioram thlàth, is ciamar sin a choinnichinn ri beithir-theine ghràidh?

Ach nan robh ‘n roghainn rithist dhomh ‘s mi ‘m sheasamh air an àird, leumainn à neamh no iutharna le spiorad ‘s cridhe slàn.