Two more of my translations of Pierre Senges’s work were published last week, along with an annotated bibliography of his 14 or so books (“A Library of Imposture; or, a Short Annotated Bibliography of Pierre Senges’s Books”). All this can be found in the latest issue of Hyperion, the biannually published journal of Contra Mundum Press. The two translations are
* “The Last Judgment (detail),” a short text on the subject of Daniele da Volterra (1509-1566) and his commission to paint loincloths over numerous of Michelangelo’s nudes in the Sistine Chapel, after the Council of Trent deemed that nudity offensive.
* chapter 6 of La réfutation majeure (2004; The Major Refutation).
This is all quite noteworthy, it involved a lot of work on behalf of myself and the editors, and I’m very proud of these publications.
For the interested, another of my Senges translations is forthcoming in Gorse Journal #4 this September, a short story entitled “Making, Faking” (or rather, “Façons, Contrefaçons”); and there is also the excerpt of Geometry in the Dust that appeared earlier this month at The Brooklyn Rail; not to mention my previous article at this blog, “A Pierre Senges Miscellany.”
Also, Dalkey Archive has announced the publication date for Fragments of Lichtenberg: August 17, 2015. I just received a copy of it the other day in the mail…
All posts at this blog discussing Pierre Senges’s work are archived here.
Leading up to the release of their sixth issue, the editors of Music and Literature ran a series of three Volodine-related articles online last week: a review of the recently-published-in-English Post-Exoticism in Ten Lessons, Lesson Eleven; excerpts from Les Aigles Puent / The Eagles Reek; and an article by the musician and composer Denis Frajerman on his collaborations with Volodine over the years.
I mention this for two reasons: Volodine has occasionally been a subject of discussion at this blog before, and because I translated the latter of these articles from French. I recommend it as a good introduction to Frajerman’s (experimental) music, which I had the good fortune of discovering through the small translation assignment. You might enjoy it for similar (or different) reasons: there are a number of audio excerpts embedded in the article worth listening to.
In the newest issue of The Brooklyn Rail‘s InTranslation series, you’ll find a translation I did of the first chapter of Geometry in the Dust (Géométrie dans la poussière, Éditions Verticales, 2004), a remarkable short work of fiction written by Pierre Senges, illustrated by Killoffer.
From my introductory note to the excerpt:
How to describe a city to a person who has no concept of one? Very slowly and carefully, perhaps. The city takes on uncanny, conspiratorial hues: every trash can, every busker, and every alley cat appears, through a paranoid sort of logic, to be the result of a monumental effort of planning and coordination. Metaphysical ramifications and urban myths lurk in every manhole. The city’s jagged, broken geometries, its sewers and subways, doves and streetlamps, cul-de-sacs and dumpsters–all must be accounted for.
I’ve written about Senges at this blog previously (see “A Pierre Senges Miscellany,” which compiles a number of remarks he’s made in the course of various interviews), and am continuing to translate his work, and publish those translations. More to come later this month.
In the same issue, there are new translations of poetry by Apollinaire, Alain Suied, Haji Khavari, Petr Bezruc, Paco Urondo, and Liliane Atlan. The InTranslation series is really quite remarkable, as you’ll find there translations of work by Paul Valéry, Stéphane Mallarmé, Anne Garréta, Pierre Mac Orlan, Hans Christian Andersen, Jáchym Topol, Josef Winkler, Alfred Döblin, Julio Cortazar, and Lope de Vega. (As well as the work of many very accomplished translators, including Susan Bernofsky, Anthea Bell, Clayton Eshleman, Donald Nicholson-Smith, Alex Zucker, Edward Gauvin, Alyson Waters, Pierre Joris, Alex Cigale, Damion Searls, William Hutchins, and Harry Morales.)
That’s some company to be in. Hats off to the editors, Jen Zoble and Donald Breckenridge for letting me in.
All posts at this blog discussing Pierre Senges’s work are archived here.
The Monadology (1714) – G.W. Leibniz (trans. D. Garber & R. Ariew, 1991)
The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare (1908) – G.K. Chesterton
Into Disaster (1941) – Maurice Blanchot (trans. Michael Holland, 2013; skimmed)
Dark Mirrors (1951) – Arno Schmidt (trans. John Woods, 1995)
The Tudors (1955) – Christopher Morris (skimmed)
The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony (1988) – Roberto Calasso (trans. Tim Parks, 1994; in progress)
La Parole baroque (2001) – Eugène Green (in progress)
selections in Hyperion (2013-2014) – Miklós Szentkuthy, Maria Tompas, et al.
Loitering (2014) – Charles D’Ambrosio (selections)
Now a boar’s pissing in your stream?
What life were you trying to escape?
We’ve almost all heard of Virgil (70BC – 19BC), the Roman poet most famous for having been born in a ditch, written The Aeneid and having shown an Italian poet around Hell and Purgatory (in precisely that order), but I suspect that few of us have a first-hand — or second-hand, admitting the deficiency of our Latin — acquaintance with his work. Nate Klug’s translation of choice excerpts from The Eclogues, also known as The Bucolics, is most welcome then. Available from the Song Cave, it’s titled Rude Woods: Passages from Virgil’s Eclogues.
Far from the city, by the tinkling brook, under the rustling leaves, on the damp, cool earth, in the halcyon sunlight, away from the bustling marketplace, the shouting vendors and streaming crowds, you lie on the hillside, singing tunes, drowsing and chatting with your friends, shepherds you are perhaps, maybe drinking wine. That’s what the phrase pastoral means to me, and probably most of us — although it would be remiss not to mention here William Empson’s Some Versions of Pastoral (1935), where he posits that its constitutive feature is something else altogether.
But what this collection illuminates, and what I did not know before, is the extent to which the pastoral genre is staked less on the unitary, rustic ideal of country life, but rather on a dynamic tension between worldly cares and earthy joy, “a constant dialectic of fear and grief with joy and hope,” to quote W.R. Johnson. As Johnson underlines in the foreword to this volume, these poems were written during the last of Rome’s civil wars. (A link, perhaps to our bellicose, American contemporaneity — perpetual war, the chagrin ever upon our meddling nation like a laurel of leaves.) Accordingly are Virgil’s shepherds “torn between sorrow and hope. Some of them have lost their land and flocks, and those who have not have no reason to feel secure.”
It’s this subdued but dark undercurrent running through Rude Woods that surprised me when I read it, and that I now find most fecund and profound.
This pastoral life can’t cure my madness
or teach the god of Love softer manners.
Another joy is the directness and confidence of Klug’s translation. Shepherds speaking as intimates don’t demur, or hold back; they speak in colorful language, jibing one another. The language sounds natural, and modern.
If you’ve got any valentines for Phyllis,
or praise for Alcon, or shit to say to Codrus,
go right ahead and sing it, Mopsus;
Tityrus can watch your grazing kids.
Only in translations of Catullus’s poems, Virgil’s contemporary, do I remember hearing such a tone. There are other pleasures here, the bliss of grapes and sex and song, but it’s the unexpected ones which I savor the most.
Much thanks is due to the Song Cave for providing me with a copy of this book. And I would be remiss were I not to mention, in closing, that Klug’s own book of poetry, Anyone, was published last month by University of Chicago Press. It looks well worth a read, and perhaps informed by his work on ancient pastoral traditions.
Lazarillo de Tormes (1554) – Anonymous (trans. Mark Alpert, 1969)
Life Is a Dream (1635) – Pedro Calderón de la Barca (trans. Gwynne Edwards, 1991)
‘Letter to Sor Filatea de la Cruz’ (c. 1690) – Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz (trans. Edith Grossman, 2014)
Marginalia on Casanova (1939) – Miklós Szentkuthy (trans. Tim Wilkinson, 2012)
‘The Approach to Al’Mustaim’ (1936) – J.L. Borges (trans. Andrew Hurley)
‘Cows in Half Mourning’ – Arno Schmidt (trans. John E. Woods)
The Sun King: Louis XIV at Versailles (1966) – Nancy Mitford (in progress)
Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method (1986) – Carlo Ginzburg (trans. John & Anne Tedeschi, 1989)
But Is It Art? (2002) – Cynthia Freeland
Sort l’assassin, entre le spectre (2006) – Pierre Senges
Stéphane Mallarmé’s Un Coup de dés n’abolira jamais le hasard (c. 1898) is often referenced as if it were the mother of all neglected and obscure works. This may have been true in decades or centuries past, but in the 2010s it’s a claim that no longer holds water. Witness the following:
Mark Amerika’s CRAPSHOOT, which went live in 2015, a a generative, interactive hypertextual remix that mimics the form of Mallarmé’s poem.
Published in 2015 by Wave Books, Jeff Clark and Robert Bononno’s translation of the poem, supplemented by photographic images. They discuss their work on the translation and presentation here, at PoetrySociety.org. (At Amazon, a portion of the book is available for preview.)
My own 2015 translation of the poem and its preface, soon to be published in Vestiges, the print publication of Black Sun Lit.
At a Center for the Art of Translation event in 2012, Richard Howard read his translation of “Afternoon of a Fawn” and discussed why he declined — even for +$20,000 — to translate Un Coup de dés.
Lastly, though, if you really want to understand this work’s full significance, look to Quentin Meillasoux’s The Number and the Siren (originally published by Fayard, 2011; brilliantly — and I don’t mean that lightly — translated by Robin Mackay, 2012, available from Urbanomic). Text from the publisher’s website:
Un Coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard constitutes perhaps the most radical break in the history of modern poetry: the fractured lines spanning the double page, the typographical play borrowed from the poster form, the multiplication of interpolations disrupting reading. But the intrigue of this poem is still stranger, always resistant to full elucidation. We encounter a shipwreck, and a Master, himself almost submerged, who clasps in his hand the dice that, confronted by the furious waves, he hesitates to throw. The hero expects this throw, if it takes place, to be extraordinarily important: a Number said to be ‘unique’ and which ‘can be no other’.
The decisive point of the investigation proposed by Meillassoux comes with a discovery, unsettling and yet as simple as a child’s game. All the dimensions of the Number, understood progressively, articulate between them but one sole condition: that this Number should ultimately be delivered to us by a secret code, hidden in the Coup de dés like a key that finally unlocks every one of its poetic devices. Thus is also unveiled the meaning of that siren, emerging for a lightning-flash amongst the debris of the shipwreck: as the living heart of a drama that is still unfolding.
Lastly, and somewhat unrelatedly, but why the hell not, an ocean of links to drown in (– shipwreck that –)
Earlier this year (2015, magic year, magic number), soprano Marisol Montalvo sang Pierre Boulez’s “Pli selon pli” live with L’Ensemble Intercontemporain conducted by Matthias Pintscher. (“Pli selon Pli” is a set of five songs based on poems by Stéphane Mallarmé.)
On World Poetry Day 2015 (I’m skeptical), in certain coffeeshops it is said, poetry counted for currency. Yet in 1650 Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac posited that on the moon, poetry is the only money there is.
After the meal, we got ready to leave; and with a thousand grimaces, which the inhabitants of the Moon use when they want to show affection, the host took a paper from my Demon. I asked my Demon if it was an IOU. He replied that, no, he didn’t owe him anything, that it amounted to some verses.
— Verses, what do you mean? I answered back, the innkeepers on the Moon are curious about rhymes?
— It’s the country’s currency, he told me, and the total we just paid amounts to a sixain, that’s what I just gave him. I wasn’t worried that I’d come up short; because, while we feast here a week, we won’t ever have to pay a sonnet in a sitting; and I’ve got four of those on my person now, along with two epigrams, two odes, and an eclogue. (my translation)
Etc. It goes on. This book has been translated into English sporadically, time and time again, but it’s hard to find a copy, if not currently out of print. I have a peculiar relationship to the book, having read it at a most turbulent time in my life a decade ago, and again recently, but only in its censored form, which meant that the part I wanted to re-read most, and which had burned itself in my mind, was absent, leading me to refer to another edition, where I learned, yes, definitively, from the editors, of the book’s censorship, because Cyrano had died, the book was published posthumously, and he was, in literature at least, let’s say, a libertine, and he had a friend, a Max Brod-type, who was most in touch with moral matters, morality, etc.