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 Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda

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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:55

Батюшков/Batiushkov

Словно гуляка с волшебною тростью,
Батюшков нежный со мною живет.
Он тополями шагает в замостье,
Нюхает розу и Дафну поет.

Ни на минуту не веря в разлуку,
Кажется, я поклонился ему:
В светлой перчатке холодную руку
Я с лихорадочной завистью жму.

Он усмехнулся. Я молвил: спасибо.
И не нашел от смущения слов:
- Ни у кого - этих звуков изгибы...
- И никогда - этот говор валов...

Наше мученье и наше богатство,
Косноязычный, с собой он принес -
Шум стихотворства и колокол братства
И гармонический проливень слез.

И отвечал мне оплакавший Тасса:
- Я к величаньям еще не привык;
Только стихов виноградное мясо
Мне освежило случайно язык...

Что ж! Поднимай удивленные брови
Ты, горожанин и друг горожан,
Вечные сны, как образчики крови,
Переливай из стакана в стакан...

18 июня 1932

An idler with a magic walking stick;
Tender Batiushkov lives by my side.
He walks through poplar alleys beyond the bridge,
Sniffs a rose and sings of Zaphna.

Not for a moment believing we're apart,
I bowed down to him, it seems:
And with feverish envy I shook
His cold hand in a pale glove.

He chuckled. I intoned: thank you.
Embarrassed, I couldn't find the right words:
- No one else - such twisting sounds...
- And never - such a murmur of waves...

He, inarticulate, yet brought with him
Our torments and our riches -
Rustle of verse and the bell of brotherhood
And the harmonic downpour of tears.

And he who mourned Tasso answered me:
- I am still a stranger to praise;
It's just that the grape flesh of poems
Happened to freshen my tongue...

Well! Raise your brows in wonder
You city-dweller, friend of city-dwellers,
Like blood samples, pour eternal dreams
From goblet to goblet...

18 June 1932








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:55

Баллада/Ballad

Сижу, освещаемый сверху,
Я в комнате круглой моей.
Смотрю в штукатурное небо
На солнце в шестнадцать свечей.

Кругом - освещенные тоже,
И стулья, и стол и кровать.
Сижу - и в смущеньи не знаю,
Куда бы мне руки девать.

Морозные белые пальмы
На стеклах беззвучно цветут
Часы с металлическим шумом
В жилетном кармане идут.

О, косная, нищая скудость
Безвыходной жизни моей!
Кому мне поведать, как жалко
Себя и всех этих вещей?

И я начинаю качаться,
Колени обнявши свои,
И вдруг начинаю стихами
С собой говорить в забытьи.

Бессвязные, страстные речи!
Нельзя в них понять ничего,
Но звуки правдивее смысла,
И слово сильнее всего.

И музыка, музыка, музыка
Вплетается в пенье мое,
И узкое, узкое, узкое
Пронзает меня лезвие.

Я сам над собой вырастаю,
Над мертвым встаю бытием,
Стопами в подземное пламя,
В текучие звезды челом.

И вижу большими глазами -
Глазами, быть может, змеи -
Как пению дикому внемлют
Несчастные вещи мои.

И в плавный, вращательный танец
Вся комната мерно идет,
И кто-то тяжелую лиру
Мне в руки сквозь ветер дает

И нет штукатурного неба
И солнца в шестнадцать свечей:
На гладкие черные скалы
Стопы опирает - Орфей.

1921

I sit illuminated from above,
In my circular room.
I gaze into the plaster sky
At the sixteen-candlepower sun.

Around me, also illuminated,
Are chairs, and a table and bed.
I sit-unsure in my confusion
What to do with my hands.

White palms of frost
Bloom silently on the panes.
With a metallic noise my watch
Ticks in my vest pocket.

O, the stagnant and abject poverty
Of my inescapable life!
Whom can I tell how I pity
Myself and all these things?

And I begin to rock back and forth
With my arms wrapped around my knees,
And suddenly I speak out to myself
In verse, as if in a trance.

Incoherent, passionate speech!
Understood by no one,
Yet the sounds have more truth than sense
And the Word is stronger than all.

And music, music, music
Weaves its way into my song,
And narrow, narrow, narrow
The blade is piercing me.

I rise above myself,
I stand above lifeless existence,
Feet planted in the underground fire,
Brow high in the streaming stars.

And I see with widening eyes-
With the eyes, perhaps, of a serpent-
How my poor belongings
Listen to my wild wong.

And the whole room joins in the rhythm
Of the seamless, circling dance,
And reaching through the wind
Someone hands me a heavy lyre.

And the plaster sky disappears
And the sixteen-candlepower sun:
On the smooth black cliffs
Orpheus plants his feet.

1921








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:56

Век/The Age

Век мой, зверь мой, кто сумеет
Заглянуть в твои зрачки
И своею кровью склеит
Двух столетий позвонки?
Кровь-строительница хлещет
Горлом из земных вещей,
Захребетник лишь трепещет
На пороге новых дней.
Тварь, покуда жизнь хватает,
Донести хребет должна,
И невидимым играет
Позвоночником волна.
Словно нежный хрящ ребенка,
Век младенческой земли
Снова в жертву, как ягненка,
Темя жизни принесли.
Чтобы вырвать век из плена,
Чтобы новый мир начать,
Узловатых дней колена
Нужно флейтою связать.
Это век волну колышет
Человеческой тоской,
И в траве гадюка дышит
Мерой века золотой.
И еще набухнут почки,
Брызнет зелени побег,
Но разбит твой позвоночник,
Мой прекрасный жалкий век!
И с бессмысленной улыбкой
Вспять глядишь, жесток и слаб,
Словно зверь, когда-то гибкий,
На следы своих же лап.
Кровь-строительница хлещет
Горлом из земных вещей
И горячей рыбой плещет
В берег теплый хрящ морей.
И с высокой сетки птичьей,
От лазурных влажных глыб
Льется, льется безразличье
На смертельный твой ушиб.

1922

My age, my beast, who can
Gaze into your pupils
And with his blood cement
The vertebrae of two centuries?
Blood the Builder gushes
From the throat of earthly things,
The parasite must tremble
On the threshold of new days.
A creature drags its backbone
As long as it's alive,
While a wave toys
With the invisible spine.
The age of infant earth
Is like a child's soft cartilage -
Again the tender skull of life
Is brought to sacrifice like a lamb.
To wrest the age from captivity,
To begin a new world,
We must bind together like a flute
The knees of knobby days.
The age rocks the wave
With human anguish,
And the grass adder breathes
The golden rhythm of the age.
Although the buds will swell,
And a spray of green will sprout
Your spine has been broken,
My fair, pitiful age!
And with a meaningless smile
You look back, cruel and weak,
Like a once-agile beast,
On the track of its own prints.
Blood the Builder gushes
From the throat of earthly things,
And the warm cartilage of the seas,
Splashes to shore like a hot fish.
And from the high bird net,
From the damp azure boulders
Pours, pours indifference
On your mortal wound.

1922








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:56


Акробат/Acrobat

(Надпись к силуэту)

От крыши до крыши протянут канат.
Легко и спокойно идет акробат.

В руках его - палка, он весь - как весы,
А зрители снизу задрали носы.

Толкаются, шепчут: "Сейчас упадет!" -
И каждый чего-то взволнованно ждет.

Направо - старушка глядит из окна,
Налево - гуляка с бокалом вина.

Но небо прозрачно, и прочен канат.
Легко и спокойно идет акробат.

А если, сорвавшись, фигляр упадет
И, охнув, закрестится лживый народ, -

Поэт, проходи с безучастным лицом:
Ты сам не таким ли живешь ремеслом?

1913
(caption for a silhouette)

A tightrope stretches from roof to roof.
The acrobat walks with ease and calm.

A pole in his hands, he is like a scale,
And the audience below is looking up.

They push and whisper: "Now he'll fall!"-
And each is excitedly waiting for something.

To the right-an old woman looks out a window,
To the left-a reveler with a glass of wine.

But the sky is transparent, and the tightrope is strong.
The acrobat walks with ease and calm.

And if the buffoon should trip and fall
And the treacherous crowd sigh and cross themselves-

Poet, pass by with an impassive face:
Don't you yourself live by such a craft?

1913








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:57

Выздоровление/Recovery

Как ландыш под серпом убийственным жнеца
Склоняет голову и вянет,
Так я в болезни ждал безвременно конца,
И думал: Парки час настанет.
Уж очи покрывал Эреба мрак густой,
Уж сердце медленнее билось:
Я вянул, исчезал, и жизни молодой,
Казалось, солнце закатилось.
Но ты приближилась, о, жизнь души моей
И алых уст твоих дыханье,
И слезы пламенем сверкающих очей.
И поцалуев сочетанье,
И вздохи страстные, и сила милых слов
Меня из области печали,
От Орковых полей, от Леты берегов
Для сладострастия призвали.
Ты снова жизнь даешь; она твой дар благой
Тобой дышать до гроба стану.
Мне сладок будет час и муки роковой:
Я от любви теперь увяну.

1807

As a wild flower hangs its head and wilts
Beneath the reaper's killing scythe,
Ill, I awaited my untimely end
And thought: the fateful hour's nigh.
With eyes already veiled by Erebus' thick gloom,
My heart slowed down its beat:
I was collapsing, disappearing, and it seemed
The sun of youth had set.
Then you arrived, O my heart's joy,
And with the breath of your red lips,
The flaming tears of your bright eyes
The union of our kisses,
The strength of loving words and passionate sighs
You called me back from gloomy realms,
From Orcus's fields and Lethe's shores
Sweet pleasures to enjoy again.
You give me life once more, it is your healing gift,
I'll breathe you in until my grave.
My mortal hour will ev'n be sweet:
For now I die of love.

1807








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:57

Marina cvetajeva

Диалог Гамлета с совестью
Dialogue Between Hamlet and His Conscience

- На дне она, где ил
И водоросли... Спать в них
Ушла, - но сна и там нет!
- Но я ее любил,
Как сорок тысяч братьев
Любить не могут!
- Гамлет!
На дне она, где ил:
Ил!.. И последний венчик
Всплыл на приречных бревнах...
- Но я ее любил
Как сорок тысяч...
- Меньше,
Все ж, чем один любовник.
На дне она, где ил.
- Но я ее -

любил??

5 июня 1923


- She's- She's in the riverbed, in algae
And weeds...She went to them
To sleep, - but there's no sleep there, either!
- But she's the one I loved
Like forty thousand brothers
Couldn't love!
- Hamlet!
She's in the riverbed, in algae:
Algae! . . And her last garland
Has surfaced in the logs by the bank...
- But she's the one I loved
Like forty thousand...
- Less,
Even so, than a single lover.
She's in the riverbed, in algae.
- But she's the one -

I loved??

June 5, 1923








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 22:58

Ljermontov

Выхожу один я на дорогу...
I go out on the road alone...

* * *
Выхожу один я на дорогу;
Сквозь туман кремнистый путь блестит;
Ночь тиха. Пустыня внемлет богу,
И звезда с звездою говорит.

В небесах торжественно и чудно!
Спит земля в сиянье голубом...
Что же мне так больно и так трудно?
Жду ль чего? жалею ли о чём?

Уж не жду от жизни ничего я,
И не жаль мне прошлого ничуть;
Я ищу свободы и покоя!
Я б хотел забыться и заснуть!

Но не тем холодным сном могилы...
Я б желал навеки так заснуть,
Чтоб в груди дремали жизни силы,
Чтоб дыша вздымалась тихо грудь;

Чтоб всю ночь, весь день мой слух лелея,
Про любовь мне сладкий голос пел,
Надо мной чтоб вечно зеленея
Тёмный дуб склонялся и шумел.

1841
* * *
Alone I set out on the road;
The flinty path is sparkling in the mist;
The night is still. The desert harks to God,
And star with star converses.

The vault is overwhelmed with solemn wonder
The earth in cobalt aura sleeps. . .
Why do I feel so pained and troubled?
What do I harbor: hope, regrets?

I see no hope in years to come,
Have no regrets for things gone by.
All that I seek is peace and freedom!
To lose myself and sleep!

But not the frozen slumber of the grave...
I'd like eternal sleep to leave
My life force dozing in my breast
Gently with my breath to rise and fall;

By night and day, my hearing would be soothed
By voices sweet, singing to me of love.
And over me, forever green,
A dark oak tree would bend and rustle.

1841








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:15

Мы только с голоса поймем,
Что там царапалось, боролось...

Звезда с звездой - могучий стык,
Кремнистый путь из старой песни,
Кремня и воздуха язык,
Кремень с водой, с подковой перстень,
На мягком сланце облаков
Молочный грифельный рисунок -
Не ученичество миров,
А бред овечьих полусонок.

Мы стоя спим в густой ночи
Под теплой шапкою овечьей.
Обратно, в крепь, родник журчит
Цепочкой, пеночкой и речью.
Здесь пишет страх, здесь пишет сдвиг
Свинцовой палочкой молочной,
Здесь созревает черновик
Учеников воды проточной.

Крутые козьи города,
Кремней могучее слоенье,
И все-таки еще гряда -
Овечьи церкви и селенья!
Им проповедует отвес,
Вода их учит, точит время;
И воздуха прозрачный лес
Уже давно пресыщен всеми.

Как мертвый шершень возле сот,
День пестрый выметен с позором.
И ночь-коршунница несет
Горящий мел и грифель кормит.
С иконоборческой доски
Стереть дневные впечатленья,
И, как птенца, стряхнуть с руки
Уже прозрачные виденья!

Плод нарывал. Зрел виноград.
День бушевал, как день бушует.
И в бабки нежная игра,
И в полдень злых овчарок шубы.
Как мусор с ледяных высот -
Изнанка образов зеленых -
Вода голодная течет,
Крутясь, играя, как звереныш.

И как паук ползет ко мне, -
Где каждый стык луной обрызган,
На изумленной крутизне
Я слышу грифельные визги.
Ломаю ночь, горящий мел,
Для твердой записи мгновенной,
Меняю шум на пенье стрел,
Меняю строй на стрепет гневный.

Кто я? Не каменщик прямой,
Не кровельщик, не корабельщик, -
Двурушник я, с двойной душой,
Я ночи друг, я дня застрельщик.
Блажен, кто называл кремень
Учеником воды проточной!
Блажен, кто завязал ремень
Подошве гор на твердой почве!

И я теперь учу дневник
Царапин грифельного лета,
Кремня и воздуха язык,
С прослойкой тьмы, с прослойкой света
И я хочу вложить персты
В кремнистый путь из старой песни,
Как в язву, заключая в стык
Кремень с водой, с подковой перстень.

1923; 1937

We will only understand by hearing,
What was scratching and struggling there...

A powerful junction, a star with a star,
A flinty path from the old song,
The language of flint and air,
Flint with water, a ring with a horseshoe.
On the soft slate of the clouds
A milky graphite sketch -
Not the apprenticeship of worlds,
But fleecy somnolent raving.

We sleep on our feet in the thick night
Under a warm sheepskin hat.
The spring flows back up to the quarry, babbling
Like a fine chain, foaminess, speech.
Fear writes here, Disjunction writes here
With a milky lead stick,
Here a rough draft ripens
By apprentices of swift water.

Steep cities of goats,
Mighty flint strata;
And yet another ridge -
Ovine abodes and churches!
The sheer slope preaches to them,
The water teaches them, time sharpens them,
And the transparent forest of the air
Has long been surfeited by it all.

Like a dead hornet from the nest
The motley day's tossed out in shame.
And raptor night brings
A piece of burning chalk to feed the graphite.
To wipe away the day's impressions
From the iconoclastic board
And like a fledgling shake from your hand,
The visions already transparent!

The fruit was being picked. The grapes were ripening.
The day was raging, as days rage.
A tender game of tag,
At noon the coats of angry sheep dogs.
Like trash from icy heights -
The inner side of green images -
The hungry water falls,
Whirling and romping, like a cub.

Like a spider crawling toward me -
And at an awesome height
Where every junction's splashed with moonlight,
I hear the graphite squeak
I break up the night, blazing chalk
For an instantaneous solid jotting.
I exchange noise for the singing of arrows
Exchange order for an angry vulture.

Who am I? No simple mason,
No roofer, no shipbuilder, -
A double-dealer, with a two-faced soul,
Friend of the night, pioneer of the day.
Blessed is he who called flint
An apprentice of running water.
Blessed is he who tied a thong
To the mountains' foot on solid earth.

And now I study the diary
Of scratches left by graphite summer,
The language of flint and air,
With a layer of darkness, a layer of light;
And I want to thrust my fingers
Into the flinty path from the old song,
As into a wound, closing into a junction -
Flint with water, a ring with a horseshoe.

1923, 1937








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:15

Pasternak

Давай ронять слова...
Let's scatter our words...

Мой друг, ты спросишь, кто велит
Чтоб жглась юродивого речь?
My friend, you will ask, who ordains
that the speech of a blessed fool should burn?
Давай ронять слова,
Как сад - янтарь и цедру,
Рассеянно и щедро,
Едва, едва, едва.

Не надо толковать,
Зачем так церемонно
Мареной и лимоном
Обрызнута листва.

Кто иглы заслезил
И хлынул через жерди
На ноты, к этажерке
Сквозь шлюзы жалюзи.

Кто коврик за дверьми
Рябиной иссурьмил,
Рядном сквозных, красивых
Трепещущих курсивов.

Ты спросишь, кто велит,
Чтоб август был велик,
Кому ничто не мелко,
Кто погружен в отделку

Кленового листа
И с дней экклезиаста
Не покидал поста
За теской алебастра?

Ты спросишь, кто велит,
Чтоб губы астр и далий
Сентябрьские страдали?
Чтоб мелкий лист ракит
С седых кариатид
Слетал на сырость плит
Осенних госпиталей?

Ты спросишь, кто велит?
- Всесильный Бог деталей,
Всесильный Бог любви,
Ягайлов и Ядвиг.

Не знаю, решена ль
Загадка зги загробной,
Но жизнь, как тишина
Осенняя,- подробна.

Let's scatter our words
As the garden scatters amber zest,
Absentmindedly and generously
Bit by bit by bit.

Let's not discuss
Why the leaves are patterned
So formally
With ruby and lemon.

Who welled up with needles
And gushed through the slats,
The floodgate blinds,
Onto the music books in the shelf.

Who dyed the outdoor mat
With rowan berries
Like a canvas of diaphanous,
Trembling italics.

You will ask, who ordains
That August should be great,
For whom is nothing too small,
Who is absorbed with etching

A maple leaf
And who, from the time of Ecclesiastes,
Hasn't quit his post
Hewing alabaster?

You will ask, who ordains
That the September lips
Of asters and dahlias should suffer?
That the fine leaves of broom
Should waft from greying caryatids
Onto the damp flagstones
Of autumn hospitals?

You will ask, who ordains?
- The all-powerful God of details,
The all-powerful God of love,
Of Jagailos and Jadwigas.

I don't know if the dark riddle
Of the tomb has been solved;
But life, like autumn
Silence, is in the details.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:16


И Шуберт на воде, и Моцарт в птичьем гаме...
Schubert on the water, and Mozart in the birds' din...

И Шуберт на воде, и Моцарт в птичьем гаме,
И Гете, свищущий на вьющейся тропе,
И Гамлет, мысливший пугливыми шагами,
Считал пульс толпы и верили толпе.
Быть может, прежде губ уже родился шепот

И в бездревесности кружилися листы,
И те, кому мы посвящаем опыт,
До опыта приобрели черты.

Январь 1934, Москва

Schubert on the water, and Mozart in the birds' din,
And Goethe whistling on the winding path,
And Hamlet, thinking with fearful steps,
All felt the crowd's pulse and believed the crowd.
It's possible the whisper was born before the lips

And leaves were spiraling in treelessness,
And those to whom we dedicate our trials
Acquired their features before we tried.

November 1933 - January 1934, Moscow








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:16

Zabolotski

Лицо коня/The Horse's Face

Животные не спят. Они во тьме ночной
Стоят над миром каменной стеной.

Рогами гладкими шумит в соломе
Покатая коровы голова.
Раздвинув скулы вековые,
Ее притиснул каменистый лоб,
И вот косноязычные глаза
С трудом вращаются по кругу.

Лицо коня прекрасней и умней.
Он слышит говор листьев и камней.
Внимательный! Он знает крик звериный
И в ветхой роще рокот соловьиный.

И зная все, кому расскажет он
Свои чудесные виденья?
Ночь глубока. На темный небосклон
Восходят звезд соединенья.
И конь стоит, как рыцарь на часах,
Играет ветер в легких волосах,
Глаза горят, как два огромных мира,
И грива стелется, как царская порфира.

И если б человек увидел
Лицо волшебное коня.
Он вырвал бы язык бессильный свой
И отдал бы коню. Поистине достоин
Иметь язык волшебный конь!

Мы услыхали бы слова.
Слова большие, словно яблоки. Густые,
Как мед или крутое молоко.
Слова, которые вонзаются, как пламя,
И, в душу залетев, как в хижину огонь,
Убогое пространство освещают.
Слова, которые не умирают
И о которых песни мы поем.

Но вот конюшня опустела,
Деревья тоже разошлись,
Скупое утро горы спеленало,
Поля открыло для работ.
И лошадь в клетке из оглобель,
Повозку крытую влача,
Глядит покорными глазами
В таинственный и неподвижный мир.

1926

Animals don't sleep. In the dark after nightfall
They stand over the world like a stone wall.

The cow's sloping head
Rustles its smooth horns in the straw.
Its stony brow bears down
Dividing ancient cheekbones,
And inarticulate eyes
Look around with effort.

The horse's face is lovelier and wiser.
He hears the speech of leaf and stone.
Watchful, he knows the roar of beasts
And the nightingale's murmur in the decrepit wood.

And, knowing all, whom will he tell
Of his enchanted visions?
The night is deep, and on the dark horizon
Formations of stars rise.
The horse stands like a knight on guard
A wind plays across his fine hairs,
His eyes blaze like two enormous worlds,
His mane spreads like the mantle of a king.

And if a man could see
The horse's magic face,
He would tear out his feeble tongue
And give it to the horse. Indeed
The magic horse deserves a tongue!

Then we would hear words.
Words as big as apples. Thick
As honey or creamy milk.
Words that pierce like flame
And, flying into the soul, like fire into a hut,
Illuminate its beggarly attire.
Words that do not die
And about which we sing songs.

But now the stable is empty,
The trees have also gone away,
A stingy morning has swaddled the hills,
Opened the fields for work.
And the horse in the cage of its traces,
Pulling a covered wagon,
Looks with resigned eyes
At the mysterious, immobile world.

1926








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:16

Мой гений/My Inspiration

LISTEN: My Inspiration, read by A. Kutepov
Мой гений. В исполнении Кутепова
[Real Audio] [.wav format] [.mp3 format]

О, память сердца! ты сильней
Рассудка памяти печальной
И часто прелестью своей
Меня в стране пленяешь дальной.
Я помню голос милых слов,
Я помню очи голубые,
Я помню локоны златые
Небрежно вьющихся власов.
Моей пастушки несравненной
Я помню весь наряд простой,
И образ милой, незабвенной
Повсюду странствует со мной.
Хранитель гений мой - любовью
В утеху дан разлуке он:
Засну ль? приникнет к изголовью
И усладит печальный сон.

1815

O recollection of the heart! You're stronger
Than reason's cheerless recollection.
Your sweetness oft
Enchants me in a far-off land.
I recollect her voice, her precious words,
I recollect her azure eyes,
I recollect the golden locks
Of loose and curling hair.
My peerless shepherdess's
Simple clothes I recollect.
Her precious, unforgotten face
Still wanders with me everywhere.
This guardian spirit love bestowed
To comfort me in solitude:
When'er I slumber, it will nestle near
To sweeten cheerless sleep.

1815








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:17


На холмах Грузии.../Upon the hills of Georgia...
На холмах Грузии лежит ночная мгла;
Шумит Арагва предо мною.
Мне грустно и легко; печаль моя светла;
Печаль моя полна тобою,
Тобой, одной тобой... Унынья моего
Ничто не мучит, не тревожит,
И сердце вновь горит и любит - оттого,
Что не любить оно не может

Dark falls upon the hills of Georgia,
I hear Aragva's roar.
I'm sad and light, my grief - transparent,
My sorrow is suffused with you,
With you, with you alone...My melancholy
Remains untouched and undisturbed,
And once again my heart ignites and loves
Because it can't do otherwise.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Pet 25 Nov - 23:17

Akhmatova

Песня последней встречи
Song of the Final Meeting

Так беспомощьно грудь холодела,
Но шаги мои были легки.
Я на правую руку надела
Перчатку с левой руки.

Показалось, что много ступеней,
А я знала - их только три!
Между кленов шепот осенний
Попросил: "Со мною умри!

Я обманут моей унылой,
Переменчивой, злой судьбой".
Я ответила: "Милый, милый!
И я тоже. Умру с тобой..."

Эта песня последней встречи.
Я взглянула на темный дом.
Только в спальне горели свечи
Равнодушно-желтым огнем.

29 сентября 1911, Царское Село

My breast grew helplessly cold,
But my steps were light.
I pulled the glove from my left hand
Mistakenly onto my right.

It seemed there were so many steps,
But I knew there were only three!
Amidst the maples an autumn whisper
Pleaded: "Die with me!

I'm led astray by evil
Fate, so black and so untrue."
I answered: "I, too, dear one!
I, too, will die with you..."

This is a song of the final meeting.
I glanced at the house's dark frame.
Only bedroom candles burning
With an indifferent yellow flame.

29 September 1911, Tsarskoe Selo








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Ned 11 Dec - 10:38

El enamorado / The Lover (The admirer)
[center]Borges went blind as he grew old. This picture is from 1976.

Lunas, marfiles, instrumentos, rosas,
lámparas y la línea de Durero,
las nueve cifras y el cambiante cero,
debo fingir que existen esas cosas.
Debo fingir que en el pasado fueron
Persépolis y Roma y que una arena
sutil midió la suerte de la almena
que los siglos de hierro deshicieron.

Debo fingir las armas y la pira
de la epopeya y los pesados mares
que roen de la tierra los pilares.

Debo fingir que hay otros. Es mentira.
Sólo tú eres. Tú, mi desventura
y mi ventura, inagotable y pura.
********

Moons, ivories, instruments, roses,
lamps and the line of Dürer,
the nine figures and the variable zero,
I shall pretend that these things exist.
I shall pretend that in the past they were
Persepolis and Rome and that fine
sand measured the fate of the crenel
that the centuries of iron undid.

I shall pretend the arms and the pyre
of the epic and the heavy seas
that gnaw from the pillars of the Earth.

I shall pretend there are others. It’s a lie.
Only you are. You, my misfortune
and my fortune, inexhaustible and pure.









“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Ned 11 Dec - 10:41

Una carta de amor / A Love Letter

Cortázar could only grow his beard when he was over 50.

Todo lo que de vos quisiera
es tan poco en el fondo
porque en el fondo es todo como un perro que pasa, una colina,esas cosas de nada, cotidianas,
espiga y cabellera y dos terrones,
el olor de tu cuerpo,
lo que decís de cualquier cosa,
conmigo o contra mía,

todo eso es tan poco
yo lo quiero de vos porque te quiero.

Que mires más allá de mí,
que me ames con violenta prescindencia
del mañana, que el grito
de tu entrega se estrelle
en la cara de un jefe de oficina,

y que el placer que juntos inventamos
sea otro signo de la libertad.


****

Everything I’d want from you
is finally so little
because finally it’s everything like a dog going by,
or a hill,
those meaningless things, mundane,
wheat ear and long hair and two lumps of sugar,
the smell of your body,
whatever you say about anything
with or against me,all that which is so little
I want from you because I love you
May you look beyond me,
may you love me with violent disregard
for tomorrow, let the cry
of your coming explode
in the boss’s face in some office,

and let the pleasure we invent together
be one more sign of freedom.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Ned 11 Dec - 10:43


Axolotl

by Julio Cortázar

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

I got to them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail after a slow wintertime. I was heading down tbe boulevard Port-Royal, then I took Saint-Marcel and L'Hôpital and saw green among all that grey and remembered the lions. I was friend of the lions and panthers, but had never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium. I left my bike against tbe gratings and went to look at the tulips. The lions were sad and ugly and my panther was asleep. I decided on the aquarium, looked obliquely at banal fish until, unexpectedly, I hit it off with the axolotls. I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else.

In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank. I read that specimens of them had been found in Africa capable of living on dry land during the periods of drought, and continuing their life under water when the rainy season came. I found their Spanish name, ajolote, and the mention that they were edible, and that their oil was used (no longer used, it said ) like cod-liver oil.

I didn't care to look up any of the specialized works, but the next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes. I began to go every morning, morning and aftemoon some days. The aquarium guard smiled perplexedly taking my ticket. I would lean up against the iron bar in front of the tanks and set to watching them. There's nothing strange in this, because after the first minute I knew that we were linked, that something infinitely lost and distant kept pulling us together. It had been enough to detain me that first morning in front of the sheet of glass where some bubbles rose through the water. The axolotls huddled on the wretched narrow (only I can know how narrow and wretched) floor of moss and stone in the tank. There were nine specimens, and the majority pressed their heads against the glass, looking with their eyes of gold at whoever came near them. Disconcerted, almost ashamed, I felt it a lewdness to be peering at these silent and immobile figures heaped at the bottom of the tank. Mentally I isolated one, situated on the right and somewhat apart from the others, to study it better. I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery. A very slender black halo ringed the eye and etched it onto the pink flesh, onto the rosy stone of the head, vaguely triangular, but with curved and triangular sides which gave it a total likeness to a statuette corroded by time. The mouth was masked by the triangular plane of the face, its considerable size would be guessed only in profile; in front a delicate crevice barely slit the lifeless stone. On both sides of the head where the ears should have been, there grew three tiny sprigs, red as coral, a vegetal outgrowth, the gills, I suppose. And they were the only thing quick about it; every ten or fifteen seconds the sprigs pricked up stiffly and again subsided. Once in a while a foot would barely move, I saw the diminutive toes poise mildly on the moss. It's that we don't enjoy moving a lot, and the tank is so cramped—we barely move in any direction and we're hitting one of the others with our tail or our head—difficulties arise, fights, tiredness. The time feels like it's less if we stay quietly.

It was their quietness that made me lean toward them fascinated the first time I saw the axolotls. Obscurely I seemed to understand their secret will, to abolish space and time with an indifferent immobility. I knew better later; the gill contraction, the tentative reckoning of the delicate feet on the stones, the abrupt swimming (some of them swim with a simple undulation of the body) proved to me that they were capable of escaping that mineral lethargy in which they spent whole hours. Above all else, their eyes obsessed me. In the standing tanks on either side of them, different fishes showed me the simple stupidity of their handsome eyes so similar to our own. The eyes of the axolotls spoke to me of the presence of a different life, of another way of seeing. Glueing my face to the glass (the guard would cough fussily once in a while), I tried to see better those diminutive golden points, that entrance to the infinitely slow and remote world of these rosy creatures. It was useless to tap with one finger on the glass directly in front of their faces; they never gave the least reaction. The golden eyes continued burning with their soft, terrible light; they continued looking at me from an unfathomable depth which made me dizzy.

And nevertheless they were close. I knew it before this, before being an axolotl. I learned it the day I came near them for the first time. The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal the reverse of what most people believe, the distance that is traveled from them to us. The absolute lack of similarity between axolotls and human beings proved to me that my recognition was valid, that I was not propping myself up with easy analogies. Only the little hands . . . But an eft, the common newt, has such hands also, and we are not at all alike. I think it was the axolotls' heads, that triangular pink shape with the tiny eyes of gold. That looked and knew. That laid the claim. They were not animals.

It would seem easy, almost obvious, to fall into mythology. I began seeing in the axolotls a metamorphosis which did not succeed in revoking a mysterious humanity. I imagined them aware, slaves of their bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless meditation. Their blind gaze, the diminutive gold disc without expression and nonetheless terribly shining, went through me like a message: "Save us, save us." I caught myself mumbling words of advice, conveying childish hopes. They continued to look at me, immobile; from time to time the rosy branches of the gills stiffened. In that instant I felt a muted pain; perhaps they were seeing me, attracting my strength to penetrate into the impenetrable thing of their lives. They were not human beings, but I had found in no animal such a profound relation with myself. The axolotls were like witnesses of something, and at times like horrible judges. I felt ignoble in front of them; there was such a terrifying purity in those transparent eyes. They were larvas, but larva means disguise and also phantom. Behind those Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty, what semblance was awaiting its hour?

I was afraid of them. I think that had it not been for feeling the proximity of other visitors and the guard, I would not have been bold enough to remain alone with them. "You eat them alive with your eyes, hey," the guard said, laughing; he likely thought I was a little cracked. What he didn't notice was that it was they devouring me slowly with their eyes, in a cannibalism of gold. At any distance from the aquarium, I had only to think of them, it was as though I were being affected from a distance. It got to the point that I was going every day, and at night I thought of them immobile in the darkness, slowly putting a hand out which immediately encountered another. Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of axolotls have no lids.

I know now that there was nothing strange, that that had to occur. Leaning over in front of the tank each morning, the recognition was greater. They were suffering, every fiber of my body reached toward that stifled pain, that stiff torment at the bottom of the tank. They were lying in wait for something, a remote dominion destroyed, an age of liberty when the world had been that of the axolotls. Not possible that such a terrible expression which was attaining the overthrow of that forced blankness on their stone faces should carry any message other than one of pain, proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell they were undergoing. Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls. They and I knew. So there was nothing strange in what happened. My face was pressed against the glass of the aquarium, my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood.

Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as usual, to know. To realize that was, for the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate. Outside, my face came close to the glass again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was possible. He was outside the aquarium, his thinking was a thinking outside the tank. Recognizlng him, being him himself, I was an axolotl and in my world. The horror began—I learned in the same moment —of believing myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures. But that stopped when a foot just grazed my face, when I moved just a little to one side and saw an axolotl next to me who was looking at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes looking at the face of the man pressed against the aquarium.

He returned many times, but he comes less often now. Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit. Since the only thing I do is think, I could think about him a lot. It occurs to me that at the beginning we continued to communicate, that he felt more than ever one with the mystery which was claiming him. But the bridges were broken between him and me, because what was his obsession is now an axolotl, alien to his human life. I think that at the beginning I was capable of returning to him in a certain way—ah, only in a certain way—and of keeping awake his desire to know us better. I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his rosy stone semblance. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating something to him in those first days, when I was still he. And in this final solitude to which he no longer comes, I console myself by thinking that perhaps he is going to write a story about us, that, believing he's making up a story, he's going to write all this about axolotls.


Julio Cortázar (1914-1984)

Argentine writer, one of the great masters of the fantastic short story, who has been compared to Jorge Luis Borges. Many of Cortázar's stories follow the logic of hallucinations and obsessions. Central themes in his work are the quest for identity, the hidden reality behind the everyday lives of common people, and the existential angst. The author's debt to the French Symbolism and Surrealists has been demonstrated in a number of studies. Unlike Borges, Cortázar became a political radical who was involved in anti-Peronist demonstrations and supported the Cuban revolution, Allende's Chile, and Sandinista Nicaragua.

"No one can retell the plot of a Cortázar story; each one consists of determined words in a determined order. If we try to summarize them, we realize that something precious has been lost." (Jorge Luis Borges)

Julio Cortázar was born in Brussels, Belgium, of Argentine parents abroad on business. When he was four years old, his family returned to Buenos Aires, where he grew up in a suburb. Cortázar attended the Escuela Normal de Profesores Mariano Acosta, a teachers training college. In 1935 he received a degree as a secondary-level teacher. He studied then two years at the University of Buenos Aires and taught in secondary schools in Bolívar, Chivilcoy, and Mendoza. In 1944-45 he was a professor of French literature at the University of Cuyo, Mendoza. He joined there a protest against Peron and was briefly imprisoned. After his release he left his post at the university. From 1946 to 1948 he was a director of a publishing company in Buenos Aires. He passed examinations in law and languages and worked then as a translator.

In 1951, in opposition to Peron's regime, Cortázar travelled to Paris, where he lived until his death. In 1953 he married Aurora Bernárdez. They separated and Cortázar lived with Carol Dunlop in later years. From 1952 he worked for UNESCO as a freelance translator. He translated among others Robinson Crusoe and the stories of Edgar Allan Poe into Spanish, Poe's influence is also seen in his work.

Los Reyes (1949) was Cortázar's earliest work of fantasy interest. The long narrative poem constituted a meditation on the role and fate of the Minotaur in his labyrinth. Cortázar's first collection of short stories, Bestiario, appeared in 1951. It included 'Casa tomada' (A House Taken Over), in which a middle-aged brother and sister find that their house is invaded by unidentified people.

As a novelist Cortázar gained first attention with Los premios (1960), which appeared when the author was 46. The story centered on a group of people brought together when they win a mystery cruise in a lottery. The ship-of-fools becomes a microcosmos of the world order. His masterpiece was Rayuela (1966, Hopscotch), an open-ended anti-novel, in which the reader is invited to rearrange the material. Rayuela was intended to be a revolutionary novel. It opened the door to linguistic innovation of Spanish language and influenced deeply Latin American writers.

Cortázar visited Cuba after the revolution, and in 1973 he travelled in Argentina, Peru, Ecuador, and Chile. Cortázar became in the 1970s a member of the Second Russell Tribunal for investigation of human rights abuses in Latin America. He also gave the Sandinistas the royalties of some of his last books and helped financially the families of political prisoners. When the seven-year ban on his entry
into Argentina was lifted he visited his home country and Nicaragua in 1983.
In 1975 Cortázar was a visiting lecturer at the University of Oklahoma, and in 1980 he was a lecturer at Barnard College in New York. In 1981 he acquired French citizenship. Cortázar received numerous awards, including Médicis Prize for Libro de Manuel in 1974 and Rubén Darío Order of Cultural Independence in 1983. He died of leukemia in Paris on February 12, 1984.



Espanol

Axolotl
por Julio Cortázar

Hubo un tiempo en que yo pensaba mucho en los axolotl. Iba a verlos al acuario del Jardín des Plantes y me quedaba horas mirándolos, observando su inmovilidad, sus oscuros movimientos. Ahora soy un axolotl.
El azar me llevo hasta ellos una mañana de primavera en que París habría su cola de pavorreal después de la lenta invernada. Bajé por el bulevar de Port-Royal, tomé St. Marcel y L'Hópital, vi los verdes entre tanto gris y me acorde de los leones. Era amigo de los leones y las panteras, pero nunca había entrado en el húmedo y oscuro edificio de los acuarios. Dejé mi bicicleta contra las rejas y fui a ver los tulipanes. Los leones estaban feos y tristes y mi pantera dormía. Opté por los acuarios, soslayé peces vulgares hasta dar inesperadamente con los axolotl. Me quede una hora mirándolos y salí, incapaz de otra cosa.
En la biblioteca Sainte-Geneviéve consulte un diccionario y supe que los axolotl son formas larvales, provistas de branquias, de una especie de batracios del género amblistoma. Qué eran mexicanos lo sabía ya por ellos mismos, por sus pequeños rostros rosados aztecas y el cartel en lo alto del acuario. Leí que se han encontrado ejemplares en África capaces de vivir en tierra durante los periodos de sequía y que continúan su vida en el agua al llegar la estación de las lluvias. Encontré su nombre español, ajolote, la mención de que son comestibles y que su aceite se usaba (se diría que no se usa más) como el de hígado de bacalao.
No quise consultar obras especializadas, pero volví al día siguiente al Jardin des Plantes. Empecé a ir todas las mañanas, a veces de mañana y de tarde. El guardián de los acuarios sonreía perplejo al recibir el billete. Me apoyaba en la barra de hierro que bordea los acuarios y me ponía a mirarlos. No hay nada de extraño en esto, por que desde un primer momento comprendí que estábamos vinculados, que algo infinitamente perdido y distante seguía sin embargo uniéndonos. Me había bastado detenerme aquella primera mañana ante el cristal donde unas burbujas corrían en el agua . Los axolotl se amontonaban en el mezquino y angosto (sólo yo puedo saber cuán angosto y mezquino) piso de piedra y musgo de acuario. Había nueve ejemplares, y la mayoría apoyaba la cabeza contra el cristal, mirando con sus ojos de oro a los que se acercaban. Turbado, casi avergonzado, sentí como una impudicia asomarme a esas figuras silenciosas e inmóviles aglomeradas en el fondo del acuario. Aislé mentalmente una, situada a la derecha y algo separada de las otras, para estudiarla mejor. Vi un cuerpecito rosado y como traslúcido (pensé en las estatuillas chinas de cristal lechoso), semejante a un pequeño lagarto de quince centímetros, terminado en una cola de pez de una delicadeza extraordinaria, la parte más sensible de nuestro cuerpo. Por el lomo le corría una aleta transparente que se fusionaba con la cola, pero lo que me obsesionó fueron las patas, de una finura sutilísima, acabadas en menudos dedos, en uñas minuciosamente humanas. Y entonces descubrí sus ojos, su cara. Un rostro inexpresivo sin otro rasgo que los ojos, dos orificios como cabezas de alfiler, enteramente de un oro transparente, carentes de toda vida pero mirando, dejándose penetrar por mi mirada que parecía pasar a través del punto áureo y perderse en un diáfano misterio interior. Un delgadísimo halo negro rodeaba el ojo y lo inscribía en la carne rosa, en la piedra rosa de la cabeza vagamente triangular pero con lados curvos e irregulares, que le daban una total semejanza con una estatuilla corroída por el tiempo. La boca estaba disimulada por el plano triangular de la cara, sólo de perfil se adivinaba su tamaño considerable; de frente una fina hendidura rasgaba apenas la piedra sin vida. A ambos lados de la cabeza, donde hubieran debido estar las orejas, le crecían tres ramitas rojas como de coral, una excrescencia vegetal, las branquias, supongo. Y era lo único vivo en él, cada diez o quince segundos las ramitas se enderezaban rígidamente y volvían a bajarse. A veces una pata se movía apenas, yo veía los diminutos dedos posándose con suavidad en el musgo. Es que no nos gusta movernos mucho, y el acuario es tan mezquino; apenas avanzamos un poco nos damos con la cola o la cabeza de otro de nosotros; surgen dificultades, pelea, fatiga. El tiempo se siente menos si nos estamos quietos.
Fue su quietud lo que me hizo inclinarme fascinado la primera vez que vi los axolotl. Oscuramente me pareció comprender su voluntad secreta, abolir el espacio y el tiempo con una inmovilidad indiferente. Después supe mejor, la contracción de las branquias, el tanteo de las finas patas en las piedras, la repentina natación (algunos de ellos nadas con la simple ondulación del cuerpo) me probó que eran capaces de evadirse de ese sopor mineral en que pasaban horas enteras. Sus ojos, sobre todo, me obsesionaban. Al lado de ellos, en los restantes acuarios, diversos peces me mostraban la simple estupidez de sus hermosos ojos semejantes a los nuestros. Los ojos de los axolotl me decían de la presencia de una vida diferente, de otra manera de mirar. Pegando mi cara al vidrio (a veces el guardián tosía, inquieto) buscaba ver los diminutos puntos áureos, esa entrada al mundo infinitamente lento y remoto de las criaturas rosadas. Era inútil golpear con el dedo en el cristal, delante de sus caras; jamás se advertía la menor reacción. Los ojos de oro seguían ardiendo con su dulce, terrible luz; seguían mirándose desde una profundidad insondable que me daba vértigo.
Y sin embargo estaban cerca. Lo supe antes de esto, antes de ser un axolotl. Lo supe el día en que me acerqué a ellos por última vez. Los rasgos antropomórficos de un mono revelan, al revés de lo que cree la mayoría, la distancia que va de ellos a nosotros. La absoluta falta de semejanza de los axolotl con el ser humano me probó que mi reconocimiento era válido que no me apoyaba en analogías fáciles. Sólo las manecitas... Pero una lagartija tiene también manos así, y en nada se nos parece. Yo creo que era la cabeza de los axolotl, esa forma triangular rosada con los ojillos de oro. Eso miraba y sabía. Eso reclamaba. No eran animales.
Parecía fácil, casi obvio, caer en la mitología. Empecé viendo en los axolotl una metamorfosis que no conseguía anular una misteriosa humanidad. Los imagine conscientes, esclavos de su cuerpo, infinitamente condenados a un silencio abisal, a una reflexión desesperada. Su mirada ciega, el diminuto disco de oro inexpresivo y sin embargo terriblemente lúcido, me penetraba como un menaje: "Sálvanos, sálvanos". Me sorprendía musitando palabras de consuelo, transmitiendo pueriles esperanzas. Ellos seguían mirándome, inmóviles; de pronto las ramillas rosadas de las branquias se enderezaban. En ese instante yo sentía como un dolor sordo; tal vez me veían, captaban mi esfuerzo por penetrar en lo impenetrable de sus vidas. No eran seres humanos, pero en ningún animal había encontrado una relación tan profunda conmigo. Los axolotl eran como testigos de algo, y a veces como horribles jueces. Me sentía innoble frente a ellos; había una pureza tan espantosa en esos ojos transparentes. Eran larvas, pero larva quiere decir máscara y también fantasma. Detrás de esas caras aztecas, inexpresivas y sin embargo de una crueldad implacable, ¿ qué imagen esperaba su hora ?.
Les temía. Creo que no haber sentido la proximidad de otros visitantes y del guardián, no me hubiese atrevido a quedarme solo con ellos. "Usted se los come con los ojos", me decía riendo el guardián, que debía suponerme un poco desequilibrado. No se daba cuenta que eran ellos los que me devoraban lentamente por los ojos, en un canibalismo de oro. Lejos del acuario no hacía más que pensar en ellos, era como si me influyeran a distancia. Llegué a ir todos los días, y de noche los imaginaba inmóviles en la oscuridad, adelantando lentamente una mano que de pronto encontraba la de otro. Acaso sus ojos veían en plena noche, y el día continuaba para ellos indefinidamente. Los ojos de los axolotl no tienen párpados.
Ahora sé que no hubo nada de extraño, que eso tenía que ocurrir. Cada mañana, al inclinarme sobre el acuario, el reconocimiento era mayor. Sufrían, cada fibra de mi cuerpo alcanzaba ese sufrimiento amordazado, esa tortura rígida en el fondo del agua. Espiaban algo, un remoto señorío aniquilado, un tiempo de libertad en que el mundo había sido de los axolotl. No era posible que una expresión tan terrible que alcanzaba a vencer la inexpresividad forzada de sus rostros de piedra, no portara un mensaje de dolor, la prueba de esa condena eterna, de ese infierno líquido que padecían. Inútilmente quería probarme que mi propia sensibilidad proyectaba en los axolotl una conciencia inexistente. Ellos y yo sabíamos. Por eso no hubo nada de extraño en lo que ocurrió. Mi cara estaba pegada al vidrio del acuario, mis ojos trataban una vez más de penetrar el misterio de esos ojos de oro sin iris y sin pupila. Veía muy de cerca la cara de un axolotl inmóvil junto al vidrio. Sin transición, sin sorpresa, vi mi cara contra el vidrio, en vez del axolotl vi mi cara contra el vidrio, la vi fuera del acuario, la vi del otro lado del vidrio. Entonces mi cara se apartó y yo comprendí.
Sólo una cosa era extraña: seguir pensando como antes, saber. Darme cuenta de eso fue en el primer momento como el horror del enterrado vivo que despierta a su destino. Afuera, mi cara volvía a acercarse al vidrio, veía mi boca de labios apretados por el esfuerzo de comprender a los axolotl. Yo era un axolotl y sabía ahora instantáneamente que ninguna comprensión era posible. Él estaba fuera del acuario, su pensamiento era un pensamiento fuera del acuario. Conociéndolo, siendo él mismo, yo era un axolotl y estaba en mi mundo. El horror venía -lo supe en el mismo momento- de creerme prisionero en un cuerpo axolotl, transmigrado a él con mi pensamiento de hombre enterrado vivo en un axolotl, condenado a moverme lúcidamente entre criaturas insensibles. Pero aquello cesó cuando una pata vino a rozarme la cara, cuando moviéndome apenas a un lado vi a un axolotl junto a mí que me miraba, y supe que también él sabía , sin comunicación posible pero tan claramente. O yo estaba también en él, o todos nosotros pensábamos como un hombre, incapaces de expresión, limitados al resplandor dorado de nuestros ojos que miraban la cara del hombre pegada al acuario.
Él volvió muchas veces, pero viene menos ahora. Pasa semanas sin asomarse. Ayer lo vi, me miró largo rato y se fue bruscamente, Me pareció que no se interesaba tanto por nosotros, que obedecía a una costumbre. Como lo único que hago es pensar, pude pensar mucho en él. Se me ocurre que al principio continuamos comunicados, que él se sentía más que nunca unido al misterio que lo obsesionaba. Pero los puentes están cortados entre él y yo, por que lo que era su obsesión es ahora un axolotl, ajeno a su vida de hombre. Creo que al principio yo era capaz de volver en cierto modo a él -ah, sólo en cierto modo- y mantener alerta su deseo de conocernos mejor. Ahora soy definitivamente un axolotl, y si pienso como un hombre es sólo porque todo axolotl, piensa como un hombre dentro de su imagen de piedra rosa. Me parece que de todo esto alcancé a comunicarle algo en los primeros días, cuando yo era todavía él. Y en esta soledad final, a la que él ya no vuelve, me consuela pensar que acaso va a escribir sobre nosotros, creyendo imaginar un cuento va a escribir todo esto sobre los axolotl.
Julio Cortázar nació en Bruselas el 26 de Agosto de 1914, de padres argentinos. Llegó a la Argentina a los cuatro años. Paso la infancia en Bánfield, se graduó como maestro de escuela e inició estudios en la Universidad de Buenos Aires, los que debió abandonar por razones económicas. Trabajó en varios pueblos del interior del país. Enseño en la Universidad de Cuyo y renunció a su cargo por desavenencias con el peronismo. En 1951 se alejó de la Argentina y desde entonces trabajó como traductor independiente de la Unesco, en París, viajando constantemente dentro y fuera de Europa. En 1938 publicó, con el seudónimo Julio Denis, el librito de sonetos ("muy mallarmeanos", dijo después el mismo) Presencia. En 1949 aparece su obra dramática Los reyes. Apenas dos anos después, en 1951, publica Bestiario: ya surge el Cortázar deslumbrante por su fantasía y su revelación de mundos nuevos que irán enriqueciéndose en su obra futura: los inolvidables tomos de relatos, los libros que desbordan toda categoría genérica (poemas-cuentos-ensayos a la vez), las grandes novelas: Los premios (1960), Rayuela (1963), 62/Modelo para armar (1968), Libro de Manuel (1973). El refinamiento literario de Julio Cortázar, sus lecturas casi inabarcables, su incesante fervor por la causa social, hacen de él una figura de deslumbrante riqueza, constituída por pasiones a veces encontradas, pero siempre asumidas con él mismo, genuino ardor. Julio Cortazar murió en 1984 pero su paso por el mundo seguirá suscitando el fervor de quienes conocieron su vida y su obra.








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Ned 11 Dec - 10:46









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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Uto 13 Dec - 16:56

James Joyce ~ Dzems Dzojs

ČUJEM VOJSKU

Čujem vojsku, što na kopno srne,
I topot konja kroz vodu, s pjenom oko koljena,
Osorni iza njih stoje, odjeveni u oklope crne,
Vozači preziruć uzde, uz zvižduk bičeva.

Oni uzvikuju u noć svoje bojne pokliče
Ja jecam u snu slušajuć smijeh im objestan.
Mrak mojih snova ko plameni bljesak rasporit će,
Kujuć na srce moje ko na nakovanj.

Dolaze pobjednički tresuć duge zelene vlasi:
Izlaze iz mora i s klicanjem jure po obali.
Moje srce, gdje ti je mudrost, tako očajno da si?
Moja ljubavi, ljubavi, ljubavi zašto me samog ostavi?








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Uto 13 Dec - 16:56

Chamber Music



Contents:

I
Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
II
The twilight turns from amethyst
To deep and deeper blue,
5
III
At that hour when all things have repose,
O lonely watcher of the skies,
IV
When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
V
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair,
VI
I would in that sweet bosom be
(O sweet it is and fair it is!)
VII
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple−trees,
VIII
Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
IX
Winds of May, that dance on the sea,
Dancing a ring−around in glee
X
Bright cap and streamers,
He sings in the hollow:
XI
Bid adieu, adieu, adieu,
Bid adieu to girlish days,
XII
What counsel has the hooded moon
Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet,
XIII
6
Go seek her out all courteously,
And say I come,
XIV
My dove, my beautiful one,
Arise, arise!
XV
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
From love's deep slumber and from death,
XVI
O cool is the valley now
And there, love, will we go
XVII
Because your voice was at my side
I gave him pain,
XVIII
O Sweetheart, hear you
Your lover's tale;
XIX
Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you:
XX
In the dark pine−wood
I would we lay,
XXI
He who hath glory lost, nor hath
Found any soul to fellow his,
XXII
Of that so sweet imprisonment
My soul, dearest, is fain −− −
XXIII
This heart that flutters near my heart
My hope and all my riches is,
7
XXIV
Silently she's combing,
Combing her long hair
XXV
Lightly come or lightly go:
Though thy heart presage thee woe,
XXVI
Thou leanest to the shell of night,
Dear lady, a divining ear.
XXVII
Though I thy Mithridates were,
Framed to defy the poison−dart,
XXVIII
Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
XXIX
Dear heart, why will you use me so?
Dear eyes that gently me upbraid,
XXX
Love came to us in time gone by
When one at twilight shyly played
XXXI
O, it was out by Donnycarney
When the bat flew from tree to tree
XXXII
Rain has fallen all the day.
O come among the laden trees:
XXXIII
Now, O now, in this brown land
Where Love did so sweet music make
XXXIV
8
Sleep now, O sleep now,
O you unquiet heart!
XXXV
All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
XXXVI
I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:








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I

Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
Strings by the river where
The willows meet.
There's music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair.
All softly playing,
With head to the music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Uto 13 Dec - 16:56

II

The twilight turns from amethyst
To deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with a pale green glow
The trees of the avenue.
The old piano plays an air,
Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
Her head inclines this way.
Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
That wander as they list −− −
The twilight turns to darker blue
With lights of amethyst.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Uto 13 Dec - 16:57

III

At that hour when all things have repose,
O lonely watcher of the skies,
Do you hear the night wind and the sighs
Of harps playing unto Love to unclose
The pale gates of sunrise?
When all things repose, do you alone
Awake to hear the sweet harps play
To Love before him on his way,
And the night wind answering in antiphon
Till night is overgone?
Play on, invisible harps, unto Love,
Whose way in heaven is aglow
At that hour when soft lights come and go,
Soft sweet music in the air above
And in the earth below.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Uto 13 Dec - 16:57

IV

When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover's chant,
'Tis I that am your visitant.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Uto 13 Dec - 16:57

V

Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair,
I hear you singing
A merry air.
My book was closed,
I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
On the floor.
I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom.
Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair.








“Volimo se, jer su nam slabosti iste.”- Jonathan Swift
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