Modernity (Vol. 12, Term Issue 1) by Trinity Journal of Literary Translation

JoLT Volume 12, Term Issue I

…No es sueño la vida. ¡ Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! Nos caemos por las escaleras para comer la tierra húmeda o subimos al filo de la nieve con el coro de las dalias muertas… Otro día veremos la resurrección de las mariposas disecadas y aun andando por un paisaje de esponjas grises y barcos mudos veremos brillar nuestro anillo y manar rosas de nuestra lengua. - fragmento de Ciudad sin sueño de Federico García Lorca

The Trinity Journal of Literary Translation (JOLT)

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Volume 12, Term Issue I “Modernity” The modern world can at times be portrayed as a futile place, one of blockades and barbarism. Imposed rationality, individualism and alienation are some key elements of our times. The paradox of choosing modernity after a summer issue based on the theme of Tradition is self-evident. Tradition and modernity sit in antithesis of each other. Yet a puzzling paradoxical interplay exists between the two. The modernity of today will of course be the tradition of tomorrow. The following pages are a reflection of what modernity means to our contributors. To all the editorial team, especially Caroline, Ayushmaan and Lara, thank you. Your assistance and receptivity have made this issue what it is. To all contributors, this journal would not exist nor flourish without you. I once again thank you. Le meas, Eoghan Conway

Editorial Staff 2023/24

Editor-in-Chief Eoghan Conway Deputy Editor Caroline Loughlin

General Assistant Editor Oonagh Delargy Alex Payne Art Editor Lara Prideaux

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Language Editors Ilaria Lico Ioana Răducu Ailis Halligan Nicole Battù Eduardo Pinheiro Michelle Chan Schmidt Sinéad Ní Cheallaigh

Layout & Design Editor Ayushmaan Kumar Yadav

Contents

Cover Art

19 Όσο μπορείς

Editorial

20 Shopping with mother

One Woman Pining

Londres

by Lara Prideaux

art by Scarlet Short

French To English transl. by Seoirse Swanton

Din Alwarda

Romanian To English transl. by Ioana Răducu

13 TV Men: Hektor

English To Cantonese transl. by Michelle Chan Schmidt 孫樂澄

15 HOWL

English To French transl. by Agne Kniuraite

Greek To English transl. by Aimilia Varla art by Penny Stuart

21 Mit der 41 in die Stadt German To English transl. by Grace Dolan

23 NOTTURNO

Italian To Englsih transl. by Irene Cavigliasso

24 Tai O

art by Catherine Ding

25 Я — землянин Гагарин Russian To English transl. by Greta Chies

29 Man in Space

English To Italian transl. by Maria Laura Teleuca

Contents

30 Le Tour

photograph by Canice McCarthy

31 Meat Market

English To French transl. by Amy O’Connell

33 Two Women Embracing art by Scarlet Short

34 Le Underground

photograph by Canice McCarthy

35 “Ode to gossips”

English To Spanish transl. by Sam Priego

37 Ja visst gör det ont

Swedish To English transl. by Helena Thiel

39 What the Thunder said

English To Spanish transl. by Octavio Pérez Sánchez

41 this is not how you play

hide and seek

art by Catherine Ding

42 Skyscraper Inis Meain art by Penny Stuart

43 Extract From ‘The Crisi

of the Modern World’ English To Irish transl. by Greta Chies

47 Письмо к учёному

соседу

Russian To English transl. by Jan Andrzej Karpiuk

55 Der Tod in und von der

Gesellschaft

German To English transl. by Theresa Wiesweg

57 Contributors 59 Artists 60 Adulteress in space art by Catherine Ding

French

Londres Paul Verlaine

Paul Verlaine was among the poets most influential in defining a “Modern” art, a fresh, unrestrained poetic response to an increasingly urban, fragmented society. His and his contemporaries’ influence was incalculable—one could argue that English Modernism was to a large degree the transposition of advances made in 19th century French literature.

… « un grave Anglais correct, bien mis, beau linge ». Victor Hugo Un dimanche d’été, quand le soleil s’en mêle, Londres forme un régal offert aux délicats : Les arbres forts et ronds sur la verdure frêle, Vert tendre, ont l’air bien loin des brumes et des gaz, Tant ils semblent plantés en terre paysanne. Un soleil clair, léger dans le ciel fin, bleuté A peine. On est comme en un bain où se pavane Le parfum d’une lente infusion de thé. Dix heures et demie, heure de longs services Divins. Les cloches par milliers chantent dans l’air Sonore et volatil sur d’étranges caprices, Les psaumes de David s’ébrouent en brouillard clair. Argentines comme on n’en entend pas en France, Pays de sonnerie intense, bronze amer, Font un concert très doux de joie et d’espérance, Trop doux peut-être, il faut la crainte de l ’Enfer. L’après-midi, cloches encor. Des files d’hommes, De femmes et d’enfants bien mis glissent plutôt Qu’ils ne marchent, muets, aon dirait économes De leur voix réservée aux amen de tantôt. Tout ce monde est plaisant dans sa raide attitude Gardant, bien qu’erroné, le geste de la foi Et son protestantisme à la fois veule et rude Met quelqu’un tout de même au-dessus de la loi. Espoir du vrai chrétien, riche vivier de Pierre, Poisson prêt au pêcheur qui peut compter dessus, Saint-Esprit, Dieu puissant, versez-leur la lumière Pour qu’ils apprennent à comprendre enfin Jésus. Six heures. Les buveurs regagnent leur buvette, La famille son home et la rue est à Dieu : Et dans le ciel Sali quelque étoile seulette Pronostique la pluie aux gueux sans feu ni lieu. 1876

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English

London

transl. by Seoirse Swanton

…“a serious and proper Englishman, well-dressed, fashionable.” Victor Hugo Some Summer Sunday, when the sun mingles itself in, London forms a fine offer for aesthetes: the trees robust and rounded on frail greenery, tender green, with a look far removed from clouds and gases, Such that they seem planted in rude, peasant earth. A bright sun, a light sun, in the fine sky, barely blue. It is as if one sits in a bath where dances The scent of a slow infusion of tea. Half past ten, hour of long church services. The bells by their thousands sing in the Sonorous and volatile air on strange caprices, The psalms of David are laundered in bright fog. Silver sounds one wouldn’t hear in France— a country of intense alarms, bitter bronze— Compose a sweet concert of joy and hope. Perhaps too sweet. There must be fear of hell. Afternoon and bells once more. Lines of welldressed men, women, and children glide more than march, mute, one could say economical, their voices reserved for amens soon-to-come. All this world is pleasant in its rigid attitude Preserving, even if in error, the gesture of faith And its Protestantism, at once etiolated and rude Puts one above the law all the same. Hope of the true Christian, rich breeding ground of Peter, Fish set for the fisherman who can count on it, Holy Spirit, Almighty God, pour forth light That they might understand Christ at the last. Six o’ clock. The barflies reclaim their bar, The family their home, and the streets are left to God: And in the soiled sky, some solitary star Prognosticates rain for beggars without hearth or home. 1876 Term Issue I

Romanian

Din Alwarda Ruxandra Novac

Alwarda is a book-length prose poem that follows a journey from Bucharest to Brussels and to Detroit, embodying modernity not only through its experimental form and strange, hypnotic language, but also through its posthumanist consideration of globalisation, suffocating urban environments, and mental health in the era of climate emergency.

41 Cînd s-au născut orașele și cînd au murit? Ce sînt aceste modalități necunoscute? Cînd o să poți să le cunoști? O să ajungi să le cunoști? Ce e în spatele stelelor, cum te răpesc ele și unde te duc? Ce fac ele cu inima ta și cum călătorește ea prin lume? Ce este cu acest praf roșu pe degete dimineața după ce dormi? Și cînd o să poți să dormi? Lucrurile pierdute care se întorc, clădirile oamenilor. Bruxelles santiago. Ruine și lumină inversată. Lucrează împotriva ta. Fă totul împotriva ta. Au fost instituții perfecte, acum sînt drumuri gudronate și clean. Stai în mijlocul lor. Fii o ruină. Bruxelles biarritz. Weiten arizona. Rx detroit. 48 Dar te urăști, și nimeni nu îți poate lua forța. Inventezi un limbaj dublu care să o conțină. Depășește acest limbaj, du-l mai departe. Shdjdjdkk. Scufundă-te cu el, redublează-l. Transformă-l în inversul lui. Nimic nu rămîne la fel. Nu mai e limba oamenilor, e a animalelor, a mineralelor care se izbesc unele de altele, a obiectelor sparte de vînt. Nu mai e o casă, s-a transformat în toate casele în care ai stat vreodată și apoi a explodat. Ai depășit panica, prima dintre toate, cea mai greu de explodat. Că vei fi schimbat pentru oricine altcineva, că ai fost deja schimbat fără să știi. Vine de departe, acum a ajuns, e cu tine. E bine acum că știi — nu, nu e bine. Lichidele corpului au dispărut, totul e net. Lichidele lumii sînt după o perdea de mercur. Nu mai poți ajunge la ele. Viața se îmbunătățește, se calmează. Ești impur, în sfârșit. Ai lucrat cu sufletul tău și el a fost distrus. Bruxelles, detroit. Mașinile și păcura. Industria și ruinele ei. Orașul primește tot mai puțini bani federali, va trebui să se autoconsume, și o face, dar tot mai puțin, tot mai puține resurse.

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From Alwarda

English

transl. by Ioana Răducu

41 When were cities born and when did they die? What are these unknown procedures? When will you get to know them? Will you ever get to know them? What lies beyond the stars, how do they abduct you and where do they take you? What do they do to your heart and how does it roam through the world? What’s with that red powder on your fingers after sleep? When will you be able to sleep? Lost things that come back, buildings for the people. Brussels santiago. Ruins and transposed light. Work against yourself. Do everything against yourself. Once there were perfect institutions, now only clean tarred roads. Stand in the middle of them. Be a ruin. Brussels biarritz. Weiten arizona. Rx detroit. 48 But you hate yourself, and no one can take that power away. You invent a double language to contain it. Go beyond this language, take it further. Shdjdjdkk. Sink with it, redouble it. Transform it into its opposite. Nothing stays the same. It isn’t the language of people anymore, it’s the language of animals, of minerals crashing into each other, of things broken by the wind. It isn’t a house anymore, it has turned into all the houses you’ve ever lived in, then it blew up. You’ve overcome your earliest fear, the hardest to annihilate. That you’ll be replaced with someone else, that you already have been but don’t know it. It comes from far away, it’s here now, with you. It’s all good now that you know it — no, it’s not. Body liquids have disappeared. Everything is fixed. All the world’s liquids are hidden behind a mercury curtain. You can’t reach them anymore. Life gets better, calmer. You’re finally impure. You’ve worked on your soul and you’ve destroyed it. Brussels, detroit. The cars, the fuel oil. The industry and its ruins. The city is receiving less and less federal money, it will have to eat itself up, and it does, but with less and less vigour, fewer and fewer resources.

Term Issue I

Romanian

51 Avioane printre stele. Orașe extinse. Timiditate și o forță tactilă. În ultimele tale zile se va concentra acolo, în palme și în vîrful degetelor. Aceeași forță a produs ceva ca o industrie grea, întinsă pe sute de ani, și apoi a distrus-o cu un gest, în lentoarea serii de vară, întoarsă sprea ea însăși. Te vei întoarce și tu în forța economică, în pasta neagră unsă peste lucruri, într-un film intern despre ordine, sulfuros și intact. Vei închide ochii și vei atinge lumea, o să îi reziști? 55 Un desen din gaze de eșapament, din oxizi, din firele lunii în noaptea orașului, o fată melancolică. Apa se retrage, suprafețele sclipesc argintiu, scintilează, e bine și atît. Noaptea lucrează acum în tine, e activă cum ți s-a spus, și totul e făcut ca să te ajute. A fost o călătorie și asta, chinuită ca toate celelalte, o invazie, un raid, dar pentru oameni tăcuți, închiși în ei, e aproape o minune că s-a întâmplat și așa. Coboară acum la rîu cu ceilalți, pe pajiștea spălată de ploaie, în luciu auriu, nu contează dacă nu e din realitate, nu e periculos, coboară.

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English

51 Planes amid the stars. Expansive cities. Shyness and tactile force. In your final days, it will all be stored in there — in the palm of your hand and the fingertips. The same force that brought about some kind of heavy industry, stretched across hundreds of years, then destroyed it with a flick of the hand in the dullness of a summer evening, turned towards itself. You, too, will return to the economic power, to the black goo that spreads over everything, to an inner film about order, sulphurous and untouched. You will close your eyes and touch the world, will you be able to resist it? 55 A drawing made with exhaust fumes, with oxides, with moon-thread through the darkened city, a melancholy girl. The water recedes, the surface gleams like silver, scintillant, it’s okay and nothing else. Now night is moving inside you, alive like you were told it would be, and everything was made to help you. This, too, has been a journey, as troubled as the ones that came before it, an invasion, a raid, but for quiet people, people who keep to themselves, it’s a wonder it happened at all. Come down to the river with the others now, to the rain-soaked meadow, to the golden sheen, it doesn’t matter if it isn’t real, there’s nothing to fear, come down.

Term Issue I

English

TV Men: Hektor Anne Carson

Brilliantly punning on the word “shoot”, Carson subverts both modernity and antiquity. TV Men condenses the Trojan War’s real, murderous violence to the psychic, technological violences committed by contemporaneity. Her languid free verse here transposes Hektor, Prince of Troy, to the California battle scene of a TV show.

I. TV is hardhearted, like Lenin. TV is rational, like mowing. TV is wrong, often, a worry. TV is ugly, like the future. TV is a classic example. Hektor’s family members found themselves engaged in exciting acts, and using excited language, which they knew derived from TV. A classic example of what. A classic example of a strain of cruelty. II. Hektor was born to be a prince of Troy not a man of TV, hence his success. Wrong people look good on TV, they are so obviously a soul divided and we all enjoy the pathos of that. Let us join Hektor on the eve of the Death Valley shoot. Hektor lies on the motel bed in his armour observing himself and his red lips high overhead. The ceiling is mirrored in divine fire. Your Law has got hold of my entrails, he murmurs. His lipstick grins at him upside down. Out the window he can see a horizon of low brown mountains laid end to end. They make a hissing sound. O prince of Troy! Butter and honey shall you eat, that you may know to refuse the evil and choose the good. TV is inherently cynical. It speaks to the eye, but the mind has no eye.

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電視男漢子：赫奇托爾

Cantonese

transl. by Michelle Chan Schmidt 孫樂澄

甲、電視似列寧心硬。電視同芟荑合理。電視—經常—出錯，麻煩。電視似未來醜陋。電視係經典案例。赫奇托爾啲家人發現佢哋自己開給意氣用事、指天畫地，知道係源自電視嘅。什麼的經典案例。桀紂品繫的經典案例。乙、赫奇托爾出生以特洛伊王子非是電視劇明星，因此佢嘅成功。失足者喺熒幕上好搶眼，睇得出佢魂不附體呢種傷感我哋都識享受。我哋去死谷拍戲嘅前夕搵赫奇托爾吧。佢躺喺旅店床上，着緊全身盔甲，觀察着上面的自己及自己的紅唇。天花板輝映着天噴的火焰。你條國法壓住我條小腸，佢喃念地發出嚟。倒掛的嘴唇開大口笑。佢喺窗外瞧到一線天邊嘅山座兩端兩接。山座噝聲四起。特洛伊王子呵！甜嘴蜜舌口蜜腹劍腹飽口福拒劍歸甜。 Term Issue I

English

HOWL

Allen Ginsberg Howl is possibly one of Allen Ginsberg’s most well-known poems. In the second part of the poem, Ginsberg recontextualises the biblical Canaanite deity Moloch to describe the evil of modern, post-WW2 (the poem was published in 1956) American civilisation.

II What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

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HURLEMENT

French

transl. by Agne Kniuraite

II Quel sphinx de ciment et d’aluminium a défoncé leur crânes et mangé leur cerveaux et imaginations? Moloch! La solitude! La saleté! Laideur! Cendriers et dollars indisponibles! Enfants criant sous les escaliers! Garçons pleurant dans les armées! Vieux hommes larmoyant dans les parcs! Moloch! Moloch! Cauchemar de Moloch! Moloch le sans cœur! Moloch le fou! Moloch le juge lourd des hommes! Moloch la prison incompréhensible! Moloch la prison inhumaine d’os croisé et Congrès du chagrin! Moloch dont les bâtiments sont le judgement! Moloch la pierre vaste de la guerre! Moloch les gouvernements étourdis! Moloch dont l’esprit est machinerie pure! Moloch dont le sang courre en argent! Moloch dont les doigts sont dix armées! Moloch dont la poitrine est un dynamo cannibale! Moloch dont l’oreille est un tombeau fumant! Moloch dont les yeux sont mille fenêtres aveugles! Moloch dont les gratteciels se tiennent debout dans les longues rues tel des Jehovahs interminables! Moloch dont les fabriques rêvent et crèvent dans le brouillard! Moloch dont les cheminées et antennes couronnent les villes! Moloch dont l’amour est huile et pierre interminables! Moloch dont l’esprit est électricité et banques! Moloch dont la pauvreté est le spectre du génie! Moloch dont le destin est un nuage d’hydrogène asexué! Moloch dont le nom est l’Esprit! Moloch en quel seul je suis assis! Moloch en quel je rêve des Anges! Fou en Moloch! Enculé en Moloch! Sans amour et sans homme en Moloch! Moloch qui est tôt entré mon âme! Moloch en quel je suis conscient sans un corps! Moloch qui m’a effrayé hors de mon extase naturel! Moloch que j’abandonne! Réveille-toi en Moloch! La lumière coule du ciel! Moloch! Moloch! Appartements robots! banlieues invisibles! trésorières squelettes! capitales aveugles! industries démoniaques! nations spectrales! asiles invincibles! bites en granite! bombes monstrueuses!

Term Issue I

English

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

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French

Ils se sont décarcassés élevant Moloch au Paradis! Trottoirs, arbres, radios, tonnes! élevant la ville vers Paradis qui existe et est partout autour! Visions! présages! hallucinations! miracles! extases! descendus le fleuve américain! Rêves! adorations! illuminations! religions! tout le bateau chargé de conneries sensitives! Percées! sur le fleuve! retournements et crucifixions! descendus l’inondation! Hauteurs! Épiphanies! Désespoirs! Dix ans de cris et suicides animals! Esprits! Nouveaux amours! Génération folle! tombés sur les roches du Temps! Rire saint réel dans le fleuve! Ils ont tout vu! les yeux sauvages! les cris saints! Ils ont fait leurs adieux! Ils ont sauté du toit! à la solitude! agitant les mains! portant des fleurs! Envers le fleuve! vers la rue!

Term Issue I

Greek

Όσο μπορείς Constantine P. Cavafy

This poem was written in 1913 by Constantine Cavafy, a world-renowned Greek poet whose themes often revolve around modernity. This poem describes the struggles of living your life with dignity while staying strong to your beliefs, reminding modern people to be more self-aware about how they live their lives.

Κι αν δεν μπορείς να κάμεις την ζωή σου όπως την θέλεις, τούτο προσπάθησε τουλάχιστον όσο μπορείς: μην την εξευτελίζεις μες στην πολλή συνάφεια του κόσμου, μες στες πολλές κινήσεις κι ομιλίες. Μην την εξευτελίζεις πηαίνοντάς την, γυρίζοντας συχνά κ’ εκθέτοντάς την στων σχέσεων και των συναναστροφών την καθημερινήν ανοησία, ώς που να γίνει σα μια ξένη φορτική.

As much as you can transl. by Aimilia Varla

And if you can’t live your life the way you wanted, at least try as much as you can: not to debase it by too much affinity of this world, by too much wandering and talking. Do not debase it by dragging it, by hanging it around and exposing it to the daily stupidity of gatherings and interactions, ‘til it becomes a strange and obtrusive one.

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English

Penny Stuart - Shopping with mother

German

Mit der 41 in die Stadt Alfred Döblin

Berlin Alexanderplatz is one of the most important modern works in the German language. As this extract, the novel’s opening, illustrates, the story of released convict Franz Biberkampf is that of an ordinary man struggling against modernity itself. Döblin’s innovative style of writing, which vividly captures the chaos and energy of 1920s Berlin, presented an exciting challenge for me as a translator.

Er stand vor dem Tor des Tegeler Gefängnisses und war frei. Gestern hatte er noch hinten auf den Äckern Kartoffeln geharkt mit den andern, in Sträflingskleidung, jetzt ging er im gelben Sommermantel, sie harkten hinten, er war frei. Er ließ Elektrische auf Elektrische vorbeifahren, drückte den Rücken an die rote Mauer und ging nicht. Der Aufseher am Tor spazierte einige Male an ihm vorbei, zeigte ihm seine Bahn, er ging nicht. Der schreckliche Augenblick war gekommen [schrecklich, Franze, warum schrecklich?], die vier Jahre waren um. Die schwarzen eisernen Torflügel, die er seit einem Jahre mit wachsendem Widerwillen betrachtet hatte [Widerwillen, warum Widerwillen], waren hinter ihm geschlossen. Man setzte ihn wieder aus. Drin saßen die andern, tischlerten, lackierten, sortierten, klebten, hatten noch zwei Jahre, fünf Jahre. Er stand an der Haltestelle. Die Strafe beginnt. Er schüttelte ich, schluckte. Er trat sich auf den Fuß. Dann nahm er einen Anlauf und saß in der Elektrischen. Mitten unter den Leuten. Los. Das war zuerst, als wenn man beim Zahnarzt sitzt, der eine Wurzel mit der Zange gepackt hat und zieht, der Schmerz wächst, der Kopf will platzen. Er drehte den Kopf zurück nach der roten Mauer, aber die Elektrische sauste mit ihm auf den Schienen weg, dann stand nur noch sein Kopf in der Richtung des Gefängnisses. Der Wagen machte eine Biegung, Bäume, Häuser traten dazwischen. Lebhafte Straßen tauchten auf, die Seestraße, Leute stiegen ein und aus. In ihm schrie es entsetzt: Achtung, Achtung, es geht los. Seine Nasenspitze vereiste, über seine Backe schwirrte es. »Zwölf Uhr Mittagszeitung«, »B.Z.«, »Die neuste Illustrirte«, »Die Funkstunde neu«, »Noch jemand zugestiegen?« Die Schupos haben jetzt blaue Uniformen. Er stieg unbeachtet wieder aus dem Wagen, war unter Menschen. Was war denn? Nichts. Haltung, ausgehungertes Schwein, reiß dich zusammen, kriegst meine Faust zu riechen. Gewimmel, welch Gewimmel. Wie sich das bewegte. Mein Brägen hat wohl kein Schmalz mehr, der ist wohl ganz ausgetrocknet. Was war das alles. Schuhgeschäfte, Hutgeschäfte, Glühlampen, Destillen. Die Menschen müssen doch Schuhe haben, wenn sie so viel rumlaufen, wir hatten ja auch eine Schusterei, wollen das mal festhalten. Hundert blanke Scheiben, laß die doch blitzern, die werden dir doch nicht bange machen, kannst sie ja kaputt schlagen, was ist denn mit die, sind eben blankgeputzt. Man riß das Pflaster am Rosenthaler Platz auf, er ging zwischen den andern auf Holzbohlen. Man mischt sich unter die andern, da vergeht alles, dann merkst du nichts, Kerl. Figuren standen in den Schaufenstern in Anzügen, Mänteln, mit Röcken, mit Strümpfen und Schuhen. Draußen bewegte sich alles, aber – dahinter – war nichts! Es – lebte – nicht! Es hatte fröhliche Gesichter, es lachte, wartete auf der Schutzinsel gegenüber Aschinger zu zweit oder zu dritt, rauchte Zigaretten, blätterte in Zeitungen. So stand das da wie die Laternen – und – wurde immer starrer. Sie gehörten zusammen mit den Häusern, alles weiß, alles Holz.

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The 41 Tram into the City

English

transl. by Grace Dolan

He stood at the gate to Tegel prison and was free. Yesterday he had been digging potatoes in the fields with the others, in a prisoner’s uniform, now he was leaving in a yellow summer coat – behind him they were still digging, he was free. He let tram after tram pass him by, pressed his back against the red wall and didn’t leave. The guard at the gate approached him several times, pointed out his train, but he didn’t leave. The awful moment had come (awful, Franz, why awful?), the four years were up. The black iron gates, which for a year he had regarded with increasing reluctance (reluctance, why reluctance), had closed behind him. He had been put back on the streets. The others remained on the inside, doing woodwork, varnishing, sorting, glueing, for another two years, five years yet. He stood at the tram stop. The punishment began. He shook himself, swallowed. He shifted from one foot to the other. Then he ran for it and sat down on the tram. Amongst the crowd. Go! At first, it was like being at the dentist, when he’s grabbed a tooth and is pulling, and the pain grows until it feels like your head is about to explode. He looked back towards the red wall, but the tram was speeding away on its rails, with him on board, until only his head was still pointed in the direction of the prison. The carriage made a turn; trees, houses were between them now. Lively streets started to appear, Seestraße, people got on and off. The voice inside him cried: watch out, it’s starting. The tip of his nose was frozen, there was a buzzing above his head. “Zwölf Uhr Mittagszeitung“, “B.Z.”, “Die neuste Illustrirte”, “Die Funkstunde neu”, “Has anyone just got on?”. The policemen had blue uniforms now. He disembarked unnoticed from the carriage and mixed in with the people. What was wrong? Nothing. Behave, you starving pig, pull yourself together, or I’ll punch you on the nose. A mass, such a mass of people. How it moved. My brain has no juice; it’s completely dried out. What was all of this? Shoe shops, hat shops, lightbulbs, bars. People surely need shoes to walk around so much, but we used to have a cobbler’s shop too, don’t forget. A hundred blank panes of glass, let them glisten, they’re nothing to be afraid of, you could even smash them up, they’ve just been cleaned. The pavement on Rosenthaler Platz was being dug up, he walked among the others on wooden planks. Mix in with the others and everything fades away, then nothing will bother you, man. In the display windows there stood figures in suits, coats, with skirts, with stockings and shoes. On the outside they were moving, but there was nothing behind it! They weren’t alive! They had cheerful faces, they laughed, they waited on the traffic island across from Aschinger, in pairs or in threes, smoking cigarettes and flipping through magazines. They stood there like street lamps, becoming more and more lifeless. They belonged with the houses, all white, all wood.

Term Issue I

Italian

NOTTURNO

By Fillia (Luigi Colombo) NOTTURNO is a work created by Filia (Revello, 1904), an Italian artist and poet who played a significant role in the twentieth century futuristic movement. NOTTURNO is the epitome of the new found sense of freedom that defined the ‘Marinettiana’ literature of the 1920s. The piece’s sensual writing style authentically portrays the author’s life experiences that led him to become a genuine artist within the modern world.

sotto il fanale sporco (sanculotto elettrico che à vinto la nobiltà depravata delle stelle) una prostituta-femmina bionda domina l’arcobaleno artificiale della notte con il colore azzurro-vivo dei suoi vestiti di seta violento

mi à baciato una sera lontana immergendomi nello spasimo rosso del suo profumo

insegnandomi la meraviglia dei caffè-chantants che cambiarono con lussurie spregiudicate la mia ingenuità di poeta in vita elastica-notturna di ELEGANTISSIMO TEPPISTA

NOCTURNAL

English

transl. by Irene Cavigliasso

under the grimy streetlight (electric sans-culotte that has overcome the debased nobility of the stars), a female-blond prostitute reigns over the artificial rainbow of the night, with the vibrant azure of her silken garments scent

she kissed me one distant evening once on a long gone evening submerging me in the scarlet ache of her callous

showing me the wonders of the Cafe-Chantants, that with unfair luxuries, morphed my poet-borne innocence into the supple-nocturnal life of a VERY DISTINGUISHED HOOLIGAN

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Catherine Ding - Tai O

Russian

Я — землянин Гагарин Евгений Александрович Евтушенко

In 1961, Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space. With a smile that ‘lit up the Cold War’, the astronaut united humanity in awe, if only briefly, beyond the reaches of global conflicts. Though he died young, his legacy endures as we continue exploring space, towards new frontiers.

Я – Гагарин. Я первым взлетел, ну а вы полетели за мною. Я подарен навсегда, как дитя человечества, небу землею. В том апреле лица звезд, замерзавших без ласки, замшелых и ржавых, потеплели от взошедших на небе смоленских веснушек ржавых. Но веснушки зашли. Как мне страшно остаться лишь бронзой, лишь тенью, не погладить траву и ребенка, не скрипнуть садовой калиткой. Из-под черного шрама почтового штемпеля улыбаюсь я вам отлетавшей улыбкой. Но вглядитесь в открытки и марки и сразу поймете: я вечно – в полете. [...] Я – землянин Гагарин, человеческий сын: русский, грек и болгарин, австралиец и финн. Я вас всех воплощаю, как порыв к небесам. Мое имя случайно. Не случаен я сам. Как земля ни маралась, суетясь и греша, мое имя менялось. Не менялась душа. Меня звали Икаром. Я – во прахе, в золе. Меня к солнцу толкала темнота на земле.

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I am Gagarin, the Earthling

English

transl. by Greta Chies

I am Gagarin. I flew first, and you flew after me. I was given by Earth to the sky forever - the child of humanity. That April the faces of the stars, freezing without caresses, musty, rusty, were warmed by the reddish freckles of Smolensk risen to the sky. But the freckles are gone. How scared I am to remain just a bronze, just a shadow, not stroking the grass, nor a child, not opening, with a squeak, a garden gate. From beneath the black mark of a postal stamp I smile to you with a smile flown away. But look at the postcards, the stamps and immediately you’ll know: I am flying forever. […] I am Gagarin, the Earthling, the son of humanity: I am Russian, Greek, Bulgarian, Finnish and Australian. I embody you all, like a rush to the skies. My name is by chance. I was not by chance myself. However dirty the Earth became, bustling and sinning, my name changed. Not so the soul. They called me Icarus. I lay in the dust, in the ash. I was pushed towards the Sun by the Earth’s darkness.

Term Issue I

Russian

Воск растаял, расползся. Я упал – не спасти, но немножечко солнца было сжато в горсти. Меня звали холопом. Злость сидела в спине – так с притопом, с прихлопом поплясали на мне. Я под палками падал, но, холопство кляня, крылья сделал из палок тех, что били меня! Я в Одессе был Уточкин. Аж шарахнулся дюк – так над брючками-дудочками взмыл крылатый биндюг. Под фамилией Нестеров, крутанув над землей, я луну заневестивал своей мертвой петлей! Смерть по крыльям свистела. К ней презренье – талант, и безусым Гастелло я пошел на таран. И прикрыли бесстрашные крылья, вспыхнув костром, вас, мальчишки тогдашние, Олдрин, Коллинз, Армстронг. И, надеждою полон, что все люди – семья, в экипаже «Аполло» был невидимо я. Мы из тюбиков ели – нам бы чарку в пути. Обнялись, как на Эльбе, мы на Млечном Пути. Шла работа без трепа. Жизнь была на кону, и ботинком Армстронга я ступил на Луну!

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English

The wax melted, scattered. I fell – couldn’t be saved, but a little bit of Sun stayed squeezed in my fist. They called me a lackey. Rage weighed on my back as, with kicks and stomps, they danced on top of me. I fell under the blows, but, cursing servitude, I made wings out of the sticks of those who beat me! In Odessa, I was Utochkin. Even the Duke leapt away, as, above his little pipe-shaped breeches, a winged cart soared. Under the name of Nesterov, spinning above the earth, I wooed the moon with my deathly loop. Death hissed through the wings. Scorning him is a talent, and, as smooth-faced Gastello, I rammed through the air. And those fearless wings, bursting into flame, shielded you who were then boys, Aldrin, Collins, Armstrong. And, full of the hope that all people are one family, I was, invisible, part of Apollo’s crew. We ate from little tubes – we would toast along the journey. As on the Elba, we embraced on the Milky Way. The work proceeded without chatter. Life was at stake, and, with Armstrong’s boot, I stepped on the Moon.

Term Issue I

English

Man in Space Billy Collins

This poem sheds light on modern relationship dynamics, challenging traditional gender roles. In particular, the way a man speaks to his wife in a group contrasts with stereotypical depictions of women in sci-fi. The poem invites the reader to reflect on women’s conditions and societal expectations.

All you have to do is listen to the way a man sometimes talks to his wife at a table of people and notice how intent he is on making his point even though her lower lip is beginning to quiver, and you will know why the women in science fiction movies who inhabit a planet of their own are not pictured making a salad or reading a magazine when the men from earth arrive in their rocket, why they are always standing in a semicircle with their arms folded, their bare legs set apart, their breasts protected by hard metal disks.

L’uomo nello spazio transl. by Maria Laura Teleuca

Tutto ciò che dovete fare è osservare il modo in cui un uomo, alle volte, si rivolge a sua moglie ad un tavolo affollato, pieno di gente, e notare quanto sia deciso a far valere il suo discorso nonostante il labbro inferiore di lei cominci a tremare, domandatevi questo e saprete perchè le donne, nei film di fantascienza, quelle che popolano un mondo tutto loro non vengono mostrate a fare insalate o a leggere riviste, mentre gli uomini giungono sulla loro astronave dal pianeta Terra, o perché esse restano sempre in piedi, in semicerchio con le braccia conserte, le gambe nude divaricate, e i loro seni protetti da rigidi dischi di metallo.

29 T - JoLT

Italian

Canice McCarthy - Le Tour

English

Meat Market Lara Atellah

‘Meat Market’ was written about the economic crisis in Lebanon, deemed one of the worst economic crises since the nineteenth century. It delineates one of the most prevalent issues in the global economy today, while also leaving a sense of hope in the last line - something we all need.

the price of bread has gone up again. throngs of cars slouch towards shuttering gas stations. the currency, a farce with each swing of the gavel, numbers soar. fifty thousand pounds by day’s end, what’s another ten thousand? or a hundred thousand? a hundred and forty thousand pounds to the dollar? my mother’s aged laugh thunders about the price of rice. i worry myself out of an appetite. i want to believe in miracles, instead i starve gratitude with guilt. how much for meat today? there are no lambs left to sacrifice in the afterlife. the tomatoes wilt into speckled wax. i bury them in the mountains. my mother’s aged laugh thunders about the price of olive oil. i swallow glass in small gulps. look, the crops melt into a starved earth peppered with griefs my people speak like spells. behold, a nation where time itself is a construct. where every day is simultaneously 1975, 2006, and 2020. few things are as grotesque as survival but what if we made this life so beautiful it has no choice but to bend.

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French

Marché de viande transl. by Amy O’Connell

le prix du pain a encore augmenté. des foules de voitures se traînait vers les stations-services débordantes. la monnaie, une farce avec chaque balancement du marteau, les chiffres montent en flèche. cinquante mille livres à la fin du jour, qu’est-ce que c’est une autre dix mille? ou cent mille? cent quarante mille livres pour un dollar? le rire agée de ma mère tonne à propos du prix du riz. je m’inquiète au point de perdre l’appétit . je veux croire aux miracles, plutôt j’affame la gratitude avec la culpabilité. combien pour la viande aujourd’hui? il n’y a plus d’agneaux à sacrifier dans l’au-delà. les tomates se fanent et se transforment en cire mouchetée. je les enterre dans les montagnes. le rire agée de ma mère tonne a propos du prix de l’huile d’olive. j’avale du verre à petites gorgées. regardez, les récoltes fondent dans une terre affamé émaillé de soucis que mon peuple parle comme des sorts. regardez, une nation ou le temps lui-même est une construction. où chaque jour est simultanément 1975, 2006 et 2020. peu de choses sont aussi grotesques que la survie mais si nous avons rendu cette vie si belle qu’elle n’a d’autre choix que de se plier.

Term Issue I

Scarlet Short - Two Women Embracing

Canice McCarthy - Le Underground

Term Issue I

English

“Ode to gossips” Safia Elhillo

The poem celebrates the tradition of gossip among women. Often frowned upon, gossip takes place privately. In this modern take, Elhillo subverts the notion of an ode. I maintained the modern structure —the spaces— for they represent the unsaid, which is key to gossip and the most shamed(ful) part of it.

i was mothered by lonely women of them wives some of them

some with

plumes of smoke for husbands all lonely smelling of onions & milk all mothers some of them to children some to old names phantom girls acting out a life only half a life away instead copper kitchenware bangles pushed up the arm fingernails rusted with henna with coriander

kneading raw meat with salt sweating upper lip

in the steam weak tea hair unwound against the nape my deities each one sandal slapping against stone heel sandalwood & oud bright chiffon spun about each head coffee in the dowry china butter biscuits on a painted plate crumbs suspended in eggshell demitasse & they begin i heard people are saying i saw it with my own eyes [ ]’s daughter a scandal she was wearing [ ] & not wearing [ ] a shame

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can you imagine a shame

“Oda a las chismosas”

Spanish

transl. by Sam Priego

Fui parida por mujeres solitarias eran esposas algunas tenían

algunas por

esposos penachos de humo todas ellas solas oliendo a cebollas y leche todas ellas madres algunas de niñxs algunas de nombres viejos niñas fantasmas fingiendo una vida ya media perdida en cambio pulseras color cobre cubriendo sus brazos uñas oxidadas con henna con cilantro

amasando carne cruda con sal labio superior sudando

en el vapor té aguado el pelo suelto contra la nuca mis deidades cada una sandalia que azota el tacón de piedra sándalo y oud chifón brilloso hilado en cada cabeza café en la porcelana de la dote galletas de mantequilla en un plato pintado migajas flotando en una demitasse hueso y ellas comienzan escuché la gente está diciendo lo vi con mis propios ojos la hija de [ que escándalo traía puesto [ en lugar de [ ] qué vergüenza

] ]

¿te puedes imaginar? qué vergüenza

Term Issue I

Swedish

Ja visst gör det ont Karin Boye

Karin Boye is one of Sweden’s most famous writers of both prose and poetry. Her poetry collection För trädets skull (1935), where ‘Ja visst gör det ont’ was published, is often credited as Sweden’s foremost work of modernist poetry, characterised by natural symbolism and themes of change and transition.

Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister. Varför skulle annars våren tveka? Varför skulle all vår heta längtan bindas i det frusna bitterbleka? Höljet var ju knoppen hela vintern. Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger? Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister, ont för det som växer och det som stänger. Ja nog är det svårt när droppar faller. Skälvande av ängslan tungt de hänger, klamrar sig vid kvisten, sväller, glider – tyngden drar dem neråt, hur de klänger. Svårt att vara oviss, rädd och delad, svårt att känna djupet dra och kalla, ändå sitta kvar och bara darra – svårt att vilja stanna och vilja falla. Då, när det är värst och inget hjälper, brister som i jubel trädets knoppar. då, när ingen rädsla längre håller, faller i ett glitter kvistens droppar, glömmer att de skrämdes av det nya, glömmer att de ängslades för färden – känner en sekund sin största trygghet, vilar i den tillit om skapar världen.

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Oh yes, it hurts

English

transl. by Helena Thiel

Oh yes, it hurts Oh yes, it hurts when buds begin to burst. Why else would spring dither? Why would all our hot yearning bind in the frozen bleak and bitter? The coat was the bud all winter. What is the new that ruptures and cuts? Oh yes, it hurts when buds begin to burst, hurts for that which grows and that which shuts. Oh sure, it is hard when drops start to fall. Trembling in worry, heavy they hang, cling to the branch, swell, glide – how they grasp, the weight pulling them down. Hard to be unaware, scared and split, hard to feel the depths pull and call, still stay put and only shiver – hard to want to stay and want to fall. Then, when at its worst, and nothing helps, the tree’s buds, like a cheer, burst. Then, when fear no longer holds, the branch’s drops, in a shimmer, fall, forgetting that they feared for the new, forgetting that they worried for the journey – feeling for a second their greatest comfort, reposing in that trust that makes the world.

Term Issue I

English

What the Thunder said T. S. Eliot

In The Waste Land, T. S. Eliot presents modernity as a devastated landscape in desperate need of healing. Particularly striking is the imagery of the opening lines of “What the Thunder said”, where the drouth is at its most extreme, and the intense appeal for water resembles a chant, even more so, an invocation.

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water

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Lo que dijo el Trueno

Spanish

transl. by Octavio Pérez Sánchez

Tras el fulgor rojizo en rostros sudorosos tras el silencio gélido por los jardines tras la agonía en lugares pedregosos los gritos y lamentos prisión y palacio y reverberación del trueno vernal sobre montañas remotas aquél que vivía ya está muerto nosotros que vivíamos ahora agonizamos con un poco de paciencia Aquí no hay agua y sólo roca roca y no agua y el camino arenoso el camino serpentea entre las montañas que son montañas de roca sin agua si hubiese agua nos detendríamos a beber entre las rocas uno no se puede abstraer el sudor seco y los pies sobre la arena si tan sólo hubiese agua entre las rocas mas esta boca muerta y cariada no tiene qué esputar no se puede estar de pie ni acostarse ni sentarse no hay siquiera silencio en las montañas sino el seco trueno estéril sin lluvia no hay siquiera soledad en las montañas sino hoscas caras rojas que gruñen y se mofan desde las puertas de casas agrietadas si hubiese agua y no roca si hubiese roca y también agua y agua una fuente una charca entre las rocas si hubiese sólo el sonido de agua no de la cigarra ni el canto de pasto seco sino el sonido de agua sobre una roca donde el zorzal canta entre los pinos drip drop drip drop drop drop drop pero no hay agua

Term Issue I

Catherine Ding - this is not how you play hide and seek

41 T - JoLT

Penny Stuart - Skyscraper Inis Meain

Term Issue I

English

Extract From ‘The Crisis of the Modern World’ René Guénon

Guénon saw the modern Western World as being in a state of dissolution. He observed that Westerners had strayed from universal and eternal truth, and having put Materialism over everything, the modern man valued constant progress and movement as valuable in and of themselves, and without any higher goal in mind.

The Eastern doctrines are unanimous, as also were the ancient doctrines of the West, in asserting that contemplation is superior to action, just as the unchanging is superior to change. Action, being merely a transitory and momentary modification of the being, cannot possibly carry its principle and sufficient reason in itself; if it does not depend on a principle outside its own contingent domain, it is but illusion; and this principle, from which it draws all the reality it is capable of possessing—its existence and its very possibility—can be found only in contemplation, or, if one will, in knowledge, for these two terms are fundamentally synonymous, or at least coincide, since it is impossible in any way to separate knowledge from the process by which it is acquired. Similarly change, in the widest sense of the word, is unintelligible and contradictory; in other words, it is impossible without a principle from which it proceeds and which, being its principle, cannot be subject to it, and is therefore necessarily unchanging; it was for this reason that, in the ancient world of the West, Aristotle asserted that there must be a ‘unmoved mover’ of all things. It is knowledge that serves as the ‘unmoved mover’ of action; it is clear that action belongs entirely to the world of change and ‘becoming’; knowledge alone gives the possibility of leaving this world and the limitations that are inherent in it, and when it attains to the unchanging—as does principal or metaphysical knowledge, that is to say knowledge in its essence—it becomes itself possessed of immutability, for all true knowledge essentially consists in identification with its object. This is precisely what modern Westerners overlook: they admit nothing higher than rational or discursive knowledge, which is necessarily indirect and imperfect, being what might be described as reflected knowledge; and even this lower type of knowledge they are coming more and more to value only insofar as it can be made to serve immediate practical ends. Absorbed by action to the point of denying everything that lies beyond it, they do not see that this action itself degenerates, from the absence of any principle, into an agitation as vain as it is sterile.

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Irish

Géarchéim an Domhain Nua-Aimseartha transl. by Cillian Ó Díomasaigh

Tá na teagasca Oirthearacha d’aon ghuth, díreach mar a bhí seanteagasca an Iarthair, agus iad ag maíomh go bhfuil rinnfheitheamh níos fearr ná beart, díreach mar atá an rud neamhathraitheach níos fearr ná athrú. Agus é mar mhionathrú neamhbhuan agus móimintiúil, ní féidir le beart a phrionsabal agus a cheannfháth a iompar ann féin; mura mbraitheann sé ar phrionsabal atá taobh amuigh dá réimse, níl ann ach seachmall. Agus níl fáil ar an bprionsabal seo, an áit ina bhfaigheann sé an fhírinne ar fad ar féidir leis seilbh a bheith aige air – a eiseadh agus a fhéidearthacht féin - ach i rinnfheitheamh, nó, más maith leat, in eolas, mar go bhfuil na téarmaí seo comhchiallach ó thalamh, nó ar a laghad is péire iad, ó tharla nach féidir leat eolas a scaradh ón bpróiseas ina bhfaightear é. Ar an mbealach céanna, tá an t-athrú, sa chiall is leithne den fhocal, dothuigthe agus frithráiteach; is é sin le rá, go bhfuil an t-athrú dodhéanta gan phrionsabal lena ngabhann sé ar aghaidh, agus le sin mar a phrionsabal féin, ní féidir leis a bheith faoi lámh an athraithe, agus is dá bhrí sin is gá go bhfuil sé neamhathraitheach. Ba é ar an ábhar seo, sa Sean-Iarthar, a mhaígh Aristotle go bhfuil gá le ‘athraitheoir neamhchorraithe’ thar aon ní eile. Is ‘athraitheoir neamhchorraithe’ an bhirt é an t-eolas; tá sé soiléir go mbaineann an beart go hiomlán le saol an athraithe agus ‘an éirí’; ní féidir an domhan seo agus a theorainneacha a fhágáil ach amháin tríd an eolas, agus nuair a shroicheann sé an rud síoraí – díreach mar a dhéanann príomheolas nó eolas meitifisiciúil, sin le rá eolas ina eisint –, tógann an dochlaochlaitheacht é, mar go dtagann gach fíoreolas trí ionannú lena chuspóir. Seo díreach an rud a dhéanann Iartharaigh nua-aimseartha dearmad ar; ní admhaíonn siad aon rud níos airde ná eolas réasúnach ná dioscúrsach, agus iad seo mar eolas léirithe atá indíreach agus neamhfhoirfe; agus tá siad ag cur níos mó agus níos mó luacha sa chineál íoseolais seo díreach ionas gur féidir leo aidhmeanna láithreacha praiticiúla a shroicheadh. Agus iad gafa leis an mbeart go séanann siad gach rud os a chionn, ní thugann siad faoi deara go meathlaíonn an beart seo go corraíl fhánach agus steiriúil.

Term Issue I

English

This indeed is the most conspicuous feature of the modern period: need for ceaseless agitation, for unending change, and for ever-increasing speed, matching the speed with which events themselves succeed one another. It is dispersion in multiplicity, and in a multiplicity that is no longer unified by consciousness of any higher principle; in daily life, as in scientific ideas, it is analysis driven to an extreme, endless subdivision, a veritable disintegration of human activity in all the orders in which this can still be exercised; hence the inaptitude for synthesis and the incapacity for any sort of concentration that is so striking in the eyes of Easterners. These are the natural and inevitable results of an ever more pronounced materialisation, for matter is essentially multiplicity and division, and this—be it said in passing—is why all that proceeds from matter can beget only strife and all manner of conflicts between peoples as between individuals. The deeper one sinks into matter, the more the elements of division and opposition gain force and scope; and, contrariwise, the more one rises toward pure spirituality, the nearer one approaches that unity which can only be fully realised by consciousness of universal principles. What is most remarkable is that movement and change are actually prized for their own sake, and not in view of any end to which they may lead; this is a direct result of the absorption of all human faculties in outward action whose necessarily fleeting character has just been demonstrated. Here again we have dispersion, viewed from a different angle and at a more advanced stage: it could be described as a tendency toward instantaneity, having for its limit a state of pure disequilibrium, which, were it possible, would coincide with the final dissolution of this world; and this too is one of the clearest signs that the final phase of the Kali-Yuga is at hand.

45 T - JoLT

Irish

Is cinnte gurb é seo an ghné is airdhirce den ré nua-aimseartha: an gá le corraíl shíoraí, le hathrú dochríochnaithe, agus le luas atá ag dul i méid i gcónaí, ag teacht le chéile leis an luas ina dtagann eachtraí domhanda iad féin i ndiaidh a chéile. Scaipeadh isteach in iolracht atá ann, agus in iolracht nach bhfuil aontaithe le haon phrionsabal de chomhfhios níos airde a thuilleadh. I saol laethúil, agus i smaointe eolaíochta, is anailís é a thógtar thar fóir, foroinnt gan stad, gníomhaíocht dhaonna ag díscaoileadh gan aon agó sna hoird ar fad gur féidir léi í féin a chur i bhfeidhm; uaidh seo a thagann an neamhinniúlacht ar shintéis agus an neamhábaltacht chun dírithe d’aon saghas, rudaí atá iontach suntasach i súile na n-Oirthearach. Is iad seo na torthaí nádúrtha agus dosheachanta d’fhás an ábharachais ar luas níos sciobtha ná riamh, mar gurb ionann an t-ábhar agus an iolracht ‘s an roinnt, agus is é seo – é ráite go fánach - an fáth nach dtarraingíonn an uile rud a thagann ón ábhar ach achrann agus gach saghas coinbhleachtaí idir daoine mar atá idir aonáin. Dá dhoimhne a théann duine faoi ábhar, dá mhéad an neart agus réimse a ghnóthaíonn eilimintí na roinnte agus an fhreasúra; agus a mhalairt ar fad, dá mhéad a éiríonn duine i dtreo fíorspioradáltachta, dá ghaire a thagann duine chuig an aontacht sin nach féidir a bhaint amach go hiomlán gan tuiscint ar phrionsabail uilíocha. An rud is dochreidte ná go bhfuil an-tóir ar ghluaiseacht agus athrú ar mhaithe leo féin, agus ní chun críochphointe ar leith a d’fhéadfaidís sroicheadh. Is é sin toradh díreach an t-ionsú de gach acmhainn dhaonna i bhforbheart, agus mar a léirigh muid cheana, tá nádúr neamhbhuan aige. Anseo arís, tá scaipeadh againn, ó dhearcadh difriúil agus ag céim níos aibí; d’fhéadfaí cur síos air mar luíochán le beart ar an toirt, ó tharla gurb é staid éagothromaíochta glaine an teorainn atá aige, agus, dá bhféadfaí é a dhéanamh, chomhtharlódh an ghluaiseacht agus an t-athrú le tuaslagadh deireanach an domhain seo; agus is é seo freisin ceann de na tuartha is soiléire go bhfuil ré dheireanach an Kali-Yuga buailte linn.

Term Issue I

Russian

Письмо к учёному соседу Anton Chekhov (Антон Чехов)

Modernity denotes processes of contemporaneity that render predecessors antiquated. Chekhov’s timeless letter highlights how science, technology, and progress, but also mankind’s misunderstanding thereof, determine the human perception of modernity. The letter portrays how ignorance, not age, breeds incomprehension of progress – gradually outdating the ignorami as modernity emerges.

Село Блины-Съедены Дорогой Соседушка. Максим... (забыл как по батюшке, извените великодушно!) Извените и простите меня старого старикашку и нелепую душу человеческую за то, что осмеливаюсь Вас беспокоить своим жалким письменным лепетом. Вот уж целый год прошел как Вы изволили поселиться в нашей части света по соседству со мной мелким человечиком, а я всё еще не знаю Вас, а Вы меня стрекозу жалкую не знаете. Позвольте ж драгоценный соседушка хотя посредством сих старческих гиероглифоф познакомиться с Вами, пожать мысленно Вашу ученую руку и поздравить Вас с приездом из Санкт-Петербурга в наш недостойный материк, населенный мужиками и крестьянским народом т. е. плебейским элементом. Давно искал я случая познакомиться с Вами, жаждал, потому что наука в некотором роде мать наша родная, всё одно как и цивилизацыя и потому что сердечно уважаю тех людей, знаменитое имя и звание которых, увенчанное ореолом популярной славы, лаврами, кимвалами, орденами, лентами и аттестатами гремит как гром и молния по всем частям вселенного мира сего видимого и невидимого т. е. подлунного. Я пламенно люблю астрономов, поэтов, метафизиков, приват-доцентов, химиков и других жрецов науки, к которым Вы себя причисляете чрез свои умные факты и отрасли наук, т. е. продукты и плоды. Говорят, что вы много книг напечатали во время умственного сидения с трубами, градусниками и кучей заграничных книг с заманчивыми рисунками. Недавно заезжал в мои жалкие владения, в мои руины и развалины местный максимус понтифекс1 отец Герасим и со свойственным ему фа натизмом бранил и порицал Ваши мысли и идеи касательно человеческого происхождения и других явлений мира видимого и восставал и горячился против Вашей умственной сферы и мыслительного горизонта покрытого светилами и аэроглитами. Я не согласен с о. Герасимом касательно Ваших умственных идей, потому что живу и питаюсь одной только наукой, которую Провидение дало роду человеческому для вырытая из недр мира видимого и невидимого драгоценных металов, металоидов и бриллиантов, но все-таки простите меня, батюшка, насекомого еле видимого, если я осмелюсь опровергнуть по-стариковски некоторые Ваши идеи касательно естества природы. О. Герасим сообщил мне, что будто Вы сочинили сочинение, в котором изволили изложить не весьма существенные идеи на щот людей и их первородного состояния и допотопного бытия. Вы изволили сочинить что человек произошел от обезьянских племен мартышек орангуташек и т. п.

47 T - JoLT

A letter to an educated

English

transl. by Jan Andrzej Karpiuk

Village Chilly-Hilly

Dearest Neighbour, Maxim… (forgive me for forgetting your father’s name), please forgive me, an old man with a graceless soul, for daring to bother you with my pathetic writing. It’s been a whole year since you generously decided to reside in this region, in the neighbourhood of such an insignificant and pathetic mann as myself, and unfortunately our paths have not crossed yet. My dearest neighbour, let me introduce myself with these old man’s hieroglyfs and welcome your educated mind from Saint-Petersburg to this unworthy province, populated with commoners and peasants. For a long time, I have been hoping to meet you because I deem science to be the mother of all of us, regardless of social backgrount. Moreover, I admire individuals whose knowledge and reputation is marked with medals, laurel leaves, ribbons, and certificates. The knowledge that, like thunder and lighting, thoroughly pervades the visible and invisible dimensions of our universe. I wholeheartedly commend astronomists, poets, metaphysicians, docents, chemists, and other aficionados of science, to which you, my dearest neighbour, ascribe yourself by pursuing different branches of science, from which flowers and fruits sprout. The commoners say that you published a plethora of books after conducting investigations with your pipes, thermometers, and foreign books containing alluring drawings. Recently, pastor Gerasim generously decided to visit my unworthy ruined house and, with his customary phanaticism, chastised and scolded your thoughts related to the origin of man and natural phenomena. He furiously criticised your intellectual contentions. However, I do not agree with pastor Gerasim’s criticism of your wise notions, since science is a vital force in my life. Science, the pursuance of which permitted mankind the extraction of valuable mettals and diamonds from the dark abyss. Be that as it may, please forgive me my dearest neighbour, if I, an old and unworthy insect, have the audacity to refute certain of your ideas related to the world’s natural phenomena.

Term Issue I

Russian

Простите меня старичка, но я с Вами касательно этого важного пункта не согласен и могу Вам запятую поставить. Ибо, если бы человек, властитель мира, умнейшее из дыхательных существ, происходил от глупой и невежестпеннои обезьяны то у него был бы хвост и дикий голос. Если бы ми происходили от обезьян, то нас теперь водили бы по городам Цыганы на показ и мы платили бы деньги за показ друг друга, танцуя по приказу Цыгана или сидя за решеткой в зверинце. Разве мы покрыты кругом шерстью? Разве мы не носим одеяний, коих лишены обезьяны? Разве мы любили бы и не презирали бы женщину, если бы от нее хоть немножко пахло бы обезьяной, которую мы каждый вторник видим у Предводителя Дворянства? Если бы наши прародители происходили от обезьян, то их не похоронили бы на христианском кладбище; мой прапрадед например Амвросий, живший во время оно в царстве Польском, был погребен не как обезьяна, а рядом с абатом, католическим Иоакимом Шостаком, записки коего об умеренном климате и неумеренном употреблении горячих напитков хранятся еще доселе у брата моего Ивана (Маиора). Абат значит католический поп. Извените меня неука за то, что мешаюсь в Ваши ученые дела и толкую посвоему по старчески и навязываю вам свои дикообразные и какие-то аляповатые идеи, которые у ученых и цивилизованных людей скорей помещаются в животе чем в голове. Не могу умолчать и не терплю когда ученые неправильно мыслят в уме своем и не могу не возразить Вам. О. Герасим сообщил мне, что Вы неправильно мыслите об луне т. е. об месяце, который заменяет нам солнце в часы мрака и темноты, когда люди спят, а Вы проводите электричество с места на место и фантазируете. Не смейтесь над стариком за то что так глупо пишу. Вы пишете, что на луне т. е. на месяце живут и обитают люди и племена. Этого не может быть никогда, потому что если бы люди жили на луне то заслоняли бы для нас магический и волшебный свет ее своими домами и тучными пастбищами. Без дождика люди не могут жить, а дождь идет вниз на землю, а не вверх на луну. Люди живя на луне падали бы вниз на землю, а этого не бывает. Нечистоты и помои сыпались бы на наш материк с населенной луны. Могут ли люди жить на луне, если она существует только ночью, и днем исчезает? И правительства не могут дозволить жить ни луне, потому что на ней по причине далекого расстояния и недосягаемости ее можно укрываться от повинностой очень легко. Вы немножко ошиблись.

49 T - JoLT

English

Pastor Gerasmin informed me of your essay, in which you outline outrageous notions on mankind’s primordial condition and antediluvian existence. You contend that mankind descended from ape-like tribes of monkeys and orangutaneys. Please forgive the old man, but I must disagree with you on this crucial point by burdening you with my explanation. If humans, the rulers of the world and the wisest of living animals, were to descend from a stupid and ignorand ape, then they would have tails and would act in a wild manner. If we were descended from apes, then we would be transported — from town to town — to be exhibited at the request of our master, then we would pay each other for showing ourselves, then we would dance immediately at the command of our master or would sit behind bars in various menageries. For are we covered with fur? For are we unclothed, like apes? For would we love and respect ourselves, if the stench akin to that of an ape would pervade the air as soon as we enter the room? If our predecessors were to descend from apes, they would not be buried in Christian graveyards. My great-grandfather, Ambrose, who lived at his time in the Polish Commonwealth, was buried, unlike an ape, at the catholic monastery by Joachim Shostak. Records of the dead Ambrose’s character and his lively desire for alcohol are safe till this day with my brother, Ivan. Monasterry means a Catholic priest. Please forgive the old uneducated man for interffering with your scientific deeds, for wondering about dis in an elderly manner with my ludicrous, rodent-like thoughts. Thoughts that might be indigestible for educated and civilised minds, akin to yours. I detest when scientists incorrectly ponder about life, hence, I object to your contention. Pastor Gerasim informed me of your misguided thoughts about the moon, the phenomenon that replaces our sun with the time of darkness during which commoners sleep and you amuse yourself with electricity. Do not laugh at the old man’s stupidity. You contend that human-like tribes inhapit the moon. Absurd. For if people would inhabit the moon, they would obstruct, with their houses and crowded pasturages, the magical and faerie moonlight. For people cannot live without rain, as it drops down on the earth and does not reach the moon. For people living on the moon would fall down to the earth; never have I seen that. For debris and sewage from the populated moon would cover our motherland. For can people inhabit the moon if it only exists in the night and disappears during the day? Similarly, the State cannot permit the moon to be inhabited, for the great distance between us and them would enable easy escape from one’s duties. Here you are slightly mistaken.

Term Issue I

Russian

Вы сочинили и напечатали в своем умном соченении, как сказал мне о. Герасим, что будто бы на самом величайшем светиле, на солнце, есть черные пятнушки. Этого не может быть, потому что этого не может быть никогда. Как Вы могли видеть на солнце пятны, если на солнце нельзя глядеть простыми человеческими глазами, и для чего на нем пятны, если и без них можно обойтиться? Из какого мокрого тела сделаны эти самые пятны, если они не сгорают? Может быть по-вашему и рыбы живут на солнце? Извените меня дурмана ядовитого, что так глупо съострил! Ужасно я предан науке! Рубль сей парус девятнадцатого столетия для меня не имеет никакой цены, наука его затемнила у моих глаз своими дальнейшими крылами. Всякое открытие терзает меня как гвоздик в спине. Хотя я невежда и старосветский помещик, а все же таки негодник старый занимаюсь наукой и открытиями, которые собственными руками произвожу и наполняю свою нелепую головешку, свой дикий череп мыслями и комплектом величайших знаний. Матушка природа есть книга, которую надо читать и видеть. Я много произвел открытий своим собственным умом, таких открытий, каких еще ни один реформатор не изобретал. Скажу без хвастовства, что я не из последних касательно образованности, добытой мозолями, а не богатством родителей т. е. отца и матери или опекунов, которые часто губят детей своих посредством богатства, роскоши и шестиэтажных жилищ с невольниками и электрическими позвонками. Вот что мой грошовый ум открыл. Я открыл, что наша великая огненная лучистая хламида солнце в день Св. Пасхи рано утром занимательно и живописно играет разноцветными цветами и производит своим чудным мерцанием игривое впечатление. Другое открытие. Отчего зимою день короткий, а ночь длинная, а летом наоборот? День зимою оттого короткий, что подобно всем прочим предметам видимым и невидимым от холода сжимается и оттого, что солнце рано заходит, а ночь от возжения светильников и фонарей расширяется, ибо согревается. Потом я открыл еще, что собаки весной траву кушают подобно овцам и что кофей для полнокровных людей вреден, потому что производит в голове головокружение, а в глазах мутный вид и тому подобное прочее. Много я сделал открытий и кроме этого хотя и не имею аттестатов и свидетельств. Приежжайте ко мне дорогой соседушко, ей-богу. Откроем что-нибудь вместе, литературой займемся и Вы меня поганенького вычислениям различным поучите.

51 T - JoLT

English

Pastor Gerasim contended that you reckon in your wize essay that on the sun, the biggest source of light, there are minuscule black stainz. An impossible absurdity. For how could you observe stains on the sun, if human eyes cannot glance at it? For what stains would exist on the sun if they are unneccessary? For what wet texture composes these stains, if they are not scorched? Perhaps fish live on the sun as well? Please forgive me, an old cretin, for foolishly jesting. I wholeheartedly subscribe to science, it overshadowed the value of rubles with its wings of wisdom before my eyes. Every discovery thrills me, that is clear. Even an old scoundrel like me, an unschooled and antiquated landowner, can pursue science and discoveries by crafting them with my own hands, simultaneously, filling my risible and unwitty mind with thoughts of the greatest knowledge. Mother Nature is like a book that needs to be seen and read. Many discoveries blossomed in my mind, such that no visionary invented. I shall mention, without modesty, that, despite being uneducated, I arrived at wisdom through meticulous hard work rather than with the help of parental wealth — wealth, pleasures, and exquisite dwellings, which frequently cause parents to lose their children. Hence, I shall share what my pennyworth mind has discovered. I observe that the sun, our friend clothed in a fiery cloak, plays vividly — on an Easter morning — with motley colours and produces wondrous glimmering sparks. Why are winter days shorter and nights longer, unlike during the summer? I observe that a winter day is shorter because, like all other ordinary — visible and invisible — objects, they shrink because of the cold. Thus, the sun sets earlier, while the warmth of lamps and lanterns expands the nyght. I observe that dogs, like sheep, eat grass in the spring and that coffee perniciously torments our health, as it causes dizziness and morbid stare. Even though I do not possess certificates or attestations, I have discovered plenty. Thus, dearest neighbour, please visid me. Let us discover and read together. You can teach me the arcana of calculations.

Term Issue I

Russian

Я недавно читал у одного Французского ученого, что львиная морда совсем не похожа на человеческий лик, как думают ученый. И насщот этого мы поговорим. Приежжайте, сделайте милость. Приежжайте хоть завтра например. Мы теперь постное едим, но для Вас будим готовить скоромное. Дочь моя Наташенька просила Вас, чтоб Вы с собой какие-нибудь умные книги привезли. Она у меня эманципе, все у ней дураки, только она одна умная. Молодеж теперь я Вам скажу дает себя знать. Дай им бог! Через неделю ко мне прибудет брат мой Иван (Маиор), человек хороший но между нами сказать, Бурбон и наук не любит. Это письмо должен Вам доставить мой ключник Трофим ровно в 8 часов вечера. Если же привезет его пожже, то побейте его по щекам, по профессорски, нечего с этим племенем церемониться. Если доставит пожже, то значит в кабак анафема заходил. Обычай ездить к соседям не нами выдуман не нами и окончится, а потому непременно приежжайто с машинками и книгами. Я бы сам к Вам поехал, да конфузлив очень и смелости не хватает. Извените меня негодника за беспокойство. Остаюсь уважающий Вас Войска Донского отставной урядник из дворян, ваш сосед Василий Семи-Булатов

53 T - JoLT

English

Recently, I have read a French academic, who contends that the lion’s snout is completely unlike the human face, as conceived by other scientists. Led us talk about this. Do a favour to an old man and visid me, even tomorrow. It is the fasting period, but we will prepare a meal for you. My dearest daughter, Natasha, implores you to bring some wise books. These days the youth cannot behave properly, everyone here is an idiot. May god help us! Yet, my Natasha is a bright emancipatee. In a week’s time, my brother Ivan will visit me. He is a good man but, between the two of us, he dislikes science and Bourbon whiskey; a shame. The present letter shall be delivered to you by my keyholder, Trofim, at exactly 8 PM. If the letter will not be delivered punctually, punish Trofim — as your academic mind wishes — as these commoners are unworfy of pleasantries. If the letter is lade, it means that he was drinking at the tavern. We have not established the custom of visiting neighbours, thus, visit us with your machines and books. I would visid you myself, yet I am embarrasset and lack the courage. Please forgive the ignoble one for bothering you. Your neighbour, a respectful, noble and retired Don Troops sergeant, Vasily Semi-Bulatov

Term Issue I

German

Der Tod in und von der Gesellschaft Rainer Maria Rilke

In “Malte Laurids Brigge” Rilke´s protagonist finds himself in the streets of Paris, attempting to make sense of the time, place, and people around him. Through his thoughts on death, he expresses his ambivalent feelings about the pace at which his (and perhaps our) “modern” society lives - and dies.

(Ein Auszug aus “Malte Laurids Brigge” (1910), Rainer Maria Rilke)

Dieses ausgezeichnete Hôtel ist sehr alt, schon zu König Chlodwigs Zeiten starb man darin in einigen Betten. Jetzt wird in 559 Betten gestorben. Natürlich fabrikmäßig. Bei so enormer Produktion ist der einzelne Tod nicht so gut ausgeführt, aber darauf kommt es auch nicht an. Die Masse macht es. Wer giebt heute noch etwas für einen gut ausgearbeiteten Tod? Niemand. Sogar die Reichen, die es sich doch leisten könnten, ausführlich zu sterben, fangen an, nachlässig und gleichgültig zu werden; der Wunsch, einen eigenen Tod zu haben, wird immer seltener. Eine Weile noch, und er wird ebenso selten sein wie ein eigenes Leben. Gott; das ist alles da. Man kommt, man findet ein Leben, fertig, man hat es nur anzuziehen. Man will gehen oder man ist dazu gezwungen: nun, keine Anstrengung: Voilà votre mort, monsieur. Man stirbt, wie es gerade kommt; man stirbt den Tod, der zu der Krankheit gehört, die man hat (denn seit man alle Krankheiten kennt, weiß man auch, daß die verschiedenen letalen Abschlüsse zu den Krankheiten gehören und nicht zu den Menschen; und der Kranke hat sozusagen nichts zu tun). In den Sanatorien, wo ja so gern und mit so viel Dankbarkeit gegen Ärzte und Schwestern gestorben wird, stirbt man einen von den an der Anstalt angestellten Toden; das wird gerne gesehen. Wenn man aber zu Hause stirbt, ist es natürlich, jenen höflichen Tod der guten Kreise zu wählen, mit dem gleichsam das Begräbnis erster Klasse schon anfängt und die ganze Folge seiner wunderschönen Gebräuche. Da stehen dann die Armen vor so einem Haus und sehen sich satt. Ihr Tod ist natürlich banal, ohne alle Umstände. Sie sind froh, wenn sie einen finden, der ungefähr paßt. Zu weit darf er sein: man wächst immer noch ein bißchen. Nur wenn er nicht zugeht über der Brust oder würgt, dann hat es seine Not. Wenn ich nach Hause denke, wo nun niemand mehr ist, dann glaube ich, das muß früher anders gewesen sein. Früher wußte man (oder vielleicht man ahnte es), daß man den Tod in sich hatte wie die Frucht den Kern.

55 T - JoLT

The death in and of society

English

transl. by Theresa Wiesweg

(an excerpt from “Malte Laurids Brigge” (1910), Rainer Maria Rilke)

This excellent Hotel is very old - during King Clovis´ times already, people made some of its beds their deathbeds. Now there are 559 beds to die in. Industrial-style, naturally. In such an enormous production the individual deaths aren´t executed particularly well, but that does not matter. Only the sheer mass matters. Who cares about a well done death, these days, anyway? Nobody. Even the rich, who can still afford the luxury of an elaborate death are growing negligent and indifferent; The wish to have a death of one’s own has become rare. Given some time, it will be as rare as a life of one’s own. God; it is all there. One comes along and finds a life, one just has to put it on. One wants to leave, or is forced to: well, no bother: Voilá, Votre mort, monsieur. One dies as it comes; One dies the death that belongs to the illness that one has (because in discovering all illnesses one discovered that the different lethal endings belong to the illnesses, and not to the ill; and the ill is left with nothing to do.) In the sanatoriums, where people die so very happily and with such gratitude toward doctors and nurses, one dies a death employed by the institution ; this is welcomed by all. If, however, one dies at home, it is only natural to choose that polite death common in the better circles, which puts in motion the high-class burial rites and all the other wonderful customs which follow. On these occasions the poor gather outside of such a house and watch on until they have had their fill of it. Their death, of course, is mundane and happens without much ado. They count themselves happy to find one which suits them more or less. It may well be a bit too big - something to grow into. Only if it is too small around the chest, or too tight around the throat, there is cause for distress. When I think of home, where now no one is left, then I think things must have been different back then. Back then people still knew (or perhaps felt) that they carried death within them like a fruit its stone.

Term Issue I

Contributors Seoirse Swanton is a recent graduate of TCD, having studied a BA in English and French. Through channels obscure even to him, he has taken up a place on an MSc in Environmental Resource Management in UCD. World-besotted traveller, stand him a pint if you dare (please). Ioana Răducu is the 2023/24 French language editor of Trinity JoLT. She is a JS student of English Literature and French, and has a deep appreciation for contemporary Romanian literature. Michelle Chan Schmidt is JoLT’s 2023-24 Chinese editor, and an assistant editor of fiction at Asymptote Journal of Literary Translation. She studies English literature and history at Trinity College Dublin and is fascinated by representations of Hong Kong in literary and historical narratives. Agne Kniuraite is a Senior Fresh Religion student at TCD. She is from Vilnius, Lithuania, but has many places she could call home. She translates to cope with the creative block that prevents her from writing her own stories. Aimilia Varla is a literary translator from Greece. She studied English Language and Literature in Athens, Greece and recently completed an M.Phil in Literary Translation in Trinity College Dublin. She is very interested in language teaching, language learning and cultural understanding. Grace Dolan is a recent graduate of European Studies at TCD. She is currently living and working in Hamburg. Irene Cavigliasso is a third year student from Italy, currently majoring in nursing but with a passion for literature and languages. She studied English as one of her A levels and among her favourite authors are Shelley, Salinger, Calvino and Baricco. Greta Chies is an Italian translator studying an MPhil in Literary Translation at Trinity (2022-2023). She previously graduated from Interpreting and Translation from the University of Trieste. Within this field, she is particularly interested in studying the treatment and rendering of dialects and minority languages.

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Maria Laura Teleuca, an Mphil student in Literary Translation at TCD, is Italian and fluent in English and French. She enjoys translating poetry and engaging in debates on literary topics . Having lived in Italy, England, and France, Ireland marks the fourth country she calls home. Her dream is to pursue full-time book translation. Amy O’Connell is a first year student at Trinity doing European Studies. She adores languages and is currently studying French and Spanish as part of her degree. When she’s not at French Soc coffee hour she’s working at International Books, where she mainly just reads French books behind the counter. Sam Priego is a Mexican translator currently working on a Mphil in Literary Translation at Trinity College Dublin. She is interested in translating fiction and poetry. Helena Thiel, a first-year Dual BA History student, was born and raised in Sweden. She is an avid reader who studied both English and Swedish literature in school. Octavio Pérez Sánchez is a Mexican writer and translator. He is a graduate of the MPhil in Literary Translation at TCD and an English language instructor at Berlitz. He is particularly fascinated by the roles played by myth and music in literature. Cillian Ó Díomasaigh is a Senior Sophister student of Early and Modern Irish. He is very interested in the revival and survival of the Irish language and her culture. Cillian likes to read in his spare time, with interests in Philosophy, Theology and Classical Literature. Jan Karpiuk is an Erasmus student from the University of Groningen, where he pursues Public International and European Union Law. Jan was originally born in Poland, subsequently lived in Moscow, and currently studies in the Netherlands and Ireland. His favourite book is “1984” by George Orwell. Non nobis solum. Theresa Wiesweg in her final year of studying English literature and Film at Trinity. Thanks to this issue of JoLT, she realised that most of her favourite German authors are, in fact, modernists, making her no better than any JoyceTerm Issue I

Artists Scarlet Short is a mixed media artist who enjoys experimenting mostly in photography and film. For Scarlet, modernity represents both the present and the future. Two Women Embracing describes the joy of present connection while One Woman Pining describes the longing for this connection in the future. Catherine Ding is a fourth-year student of English Literature and Film from Hong Kong with a penchant for nosiness, reading the published journals of her favourite authors and people watching (and photographing) to use as reference material for her art. Her paintings were exhibited in The Mill Theatre last year. Canice McCarthy is studying English Literature in 4th year, taking photos on the side. He uses Fujicolour 200 35mm film in a Canon 3000d film camera. Penny Stuart is a regular art contributor to Trinity Jolt magazine. She likes seeing which translations her art have been matched with by the editorial team. She is currently illustrating a book (with lifedrawings) inspired by the story ‘The Dead’ by James Joyce.

59 T - JoLT

Catherine Ding - adulteress in space

Term Issue I

…Life is no dream. Watch out! Watch out! Watch out! We fall down the stairs to eat the damp soil, or we climb to the snow’s edge with the choir of dead dahlias… Another day we’ll witness the resurrection of preserved butterflies, and still walking through a landscape of grey sponges and silent ships, we’ll see our ring shine and roses flow from our tongues. - extract from Sleepless City by Federico García Lorca

Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Volume 12, Term Issue I www.trinityjolt.org