Printable View
"With a sword he clove my breast
plucked out the heart he made beat higher
and in my stricken bosom pressed
in its stead a coal of living fire"
This is not meticulously stated but spoken truly from the top of my head.
I took this poem and I feel it describes my unspoken philosophies about the human character. I will speak of them once I know the words to describe how much I love Pushkin. I do not know when that day will come.
:banana:
This one of my favorite poems...
The Poor Knight
(A.S. Pushkin)
There was once a poor knight living
All alone in the wide world;
His appearance grim and livid,
But his spirit true and bold.
He once saw a saintly vision,
Something dazzling he did see,
And profoundly the impression
Cut into his memory.
For Geneva bound, he tarried
By the road; beside a cross
He beheld the Virgin Mary,
Mother of the Holy Christ.
Since that time, his soul on fire,
He at females never glanced;
Til his dying day drew nigher,
Didn’t address them ever once.
Since that time, an iron lattice
Never lifted from his face –
And the scarf gone – where the neck is,
Hung a rosary in its place.
To take prayers to the Father,
Or the Spirit, or the Son,
Was, it being an odd thing rather,
Something he had never done.
He would spend his nights entire
Bowed before the Virgin’s brow,
Weeping quietly – with dire
Tears, that melancholy flow.
Full of faith, enamored dearly
Of his pious dream, with blood
Ave, Mater Dei clearly
He inscribed upon his shield.
While the cavalry of errants
Through the Palestinian plains
Ran at trembling adversaries,
Calling the beloved names,
Lumen coelum, sancta rosa!
He called louder than the rest,
As the Muslim threats came closer
To his head from every nest.
Then, returning to his castle,
Lived, with no one by his side.
Still enamored, still bedazzled,
Uncommunioned he died.
As he readied to expire,
Lo, the Evil Spirit came.
Keen to, as the time drew nigher,
Drag his soul into His realm.
Saying, he has said no prayers.
Saying, he has held no fast;
And not properly made passes
At the mother of the Christ,
But the Holy Virgin pleaded
For his soul before the King,
Letting into Heaven’s kingdom
Her beloved paladin.
Translated by Genia Gurarie
Sended to PM by jersey_bird.
An interesting site for discussions of Eugene Onegin is the Russian Literature Message Board
mb.sparknotes.com/mb.epl?b=60&m=541949&f=1&p=2&t=161602#541949
Well, yes, more or less. I can agree with the latter part of this, but, quite honestly, I am increasingly unsure about translated literature. (This is why I signed up for Russian in college - only to be disappointed in finding that my university has not been offering it for a few years...:mad: ) I only say this because there are a few things - granted only a few, but still - that I simply cannot imagine in translation. One of these is Finnegan's Wake; another is Late James. I'll let the former go, as it is totally unreasonable in English alone (I doubt people are confident enough in reading it, let alone translating!), and there are so many made-up words that it scarcely matters anyway, but the James does present an issue for me, as there is simply no limit to the sheer number of words the man knew, which brings me to the number of words in the English language itself. It is perhaps slightly unfair to point out that it is well over twice as vast as any other language (save perhaps Russian, which I'll come back to momentarily), as it is the very nature of the language to assimilate foreign words; yet it is still a concern that a translated work which does its best to capture the narrative but (necessarily) loses a great deal of the connotation and subtext is almost a total waste of the reader's time. Fortunately, I know English and need not worry about a translation with James, but I worry about similar problems with Russian literature. The impression I get is that Russian has a more or less equal number of words to English. And while this might make English translations of Russian literature somewhat simpler than, say, German or French translations, it still seems that the nature of the words themselves is largely different. (I vaguely recall hearing a joke once about "the Russian word for 'sitting on a rock at night, watching the sea...under the stars...quietly' ", or something like that. A mighty verb, I must say. :lol: )Quote:
Originally Posted by Evi
Anyway, I guess what I'm saying amounts to a questioning of whether all literature really can be enjoyed by all literate people. Is there really any point to reading translated literature if it is unable to reproduce the subtleties that can actually give the work its meaning? Just curious what people think. This actually might apply more to poetry, though...
“Literature doesn't have a citizenship and a nationality after all.” Nor a unique sensibility of the human condition expressed in a particular language. Transference from the author to the reader is an approximation. Time and experience changes the denotation of words. To the question of “Is there really any point to reading translated literature if it is unable to reproduce the subtleties that can actually give the work its meaning?”, I would ask – to what degree?
Surely you would not maintain that two Russian speakers, one brought up in a hellhole and a Nabakov would derive the same understanding or pleasure from Eugene Onegin?
Onegin has been transferred to opera (Tchaikovsky), to film ( director, Martha Fiennes), to ballet (Cranko) and all to some degree lost the uniqueness of the original. The Russians being particularly scatting in criticism of the foreign productions. And the translations whether the scholarly Nabakov or the versification by Douglas Hofstadter, the rhyming version by Charles Johnson or the James E. Falen's translation must pale to the original. But would we not be impoverished had these attempts not been made?
What of the fragments of Sappho? The archaic Greek is not understood even by the contemporary Greeks. What of the Iliad and Odyssey where the consciousness of self has radically changed? Should we dismiss these translations and loose the perspective offered because we can not recapture the original?
To the question,” whether all literature really can be enjoyed by all literate people”, I would answer “Well, yes, more or less.”
I have finally successfully signed up for my Russian classes:banana: Really nice language.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jamesian
Congratulations, Baz! If you need any help, fell free to ask.
Thanks!Quote:
Originally Posted by Boris239
It's really nice, but our dear Olga doesn't know any Croatian, so I am glad that my English serves me well!:D
I had read some shorter prose works and The Captain's Daughter in German and wondered what was so great about Pushkin. It was only when I bought a poetry selection in Russian and started to read it that I caught a glimpse of Pushkin's greatness, even though my Russian is unfortunately less-than-desirable albeit years of studies (I guess I have no talent when it comes to languages :(). Eugen Onegin is one of my reading gaps I'm most ashamed of and I hope one day I shall be able to read it in original.
I share your sentiments, and especially poetry is actually impossible to be translated (and Russian is such a wonderful language for poetry!). Unfortunately even if we can speak a couple of languages and are able to read in them the vast majority of literature will always only be accessible for us through translations, so we are doomed to either stick to our national literatures (which would be such a loss) or to depend on hopefully good translations.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jamesian
Can you give me any source for your claim that English and Russian have more words than German and French? I'm highly sceptical of that (and can actually not see a great advantage because I imagine the active and passive vocabulary of a person, be it an English or French native speaker, to be around the same size.Quote:
[...] It is perhaps slightly unfair to point out that it is well over twice as vast as any other language (save perhaps Russian, which I'll come back to momentarily), as it is the very nature of the language to assimilate foreign words; yet it is still a concern that a translated work which does its best to capture the narrative but (necessarily) loses a great deal of the connotation and subtext is almost a total waste of the reader's time. Fortunately, I know English and need not worry about a translation with James, but I worry about similar problems with Russian literature. The impression I get is that Russian has a more or less equal number of words to English. And while this might make English translations of Russian literature somewhat simpler than, say, German or French translations, it still seems that the nature of the words themselves is largely different. (I vaguely recall hearing a joke once about "the Russian word for 'sitting on a rock at night, watching the sea...under the stars...quietly' ", or something like that. A mighty verb, I must say. :lol: )
Of course there is a point in reading translated literature! Literature gives an insight into minds and cultures that no other medium can offer, and even though one might not be able to judge the literary value it, the experience is still worth every page of it. How difficult a translation is depends of course on how closely the two languages are related, whether we are talking about prose, drama or poetry, how many slang or dialect words there are included, etc..Quote:
Anyway, I guess what I'm saying amounts to a questioning of whether all literature really can be enjoyed by all literate people. Is there really any point to reading translated literature if it is unable to reproduce the subtleties that can actually give the work its meaning? Just curious what people think. This actually might apply more to poetry, though...
No translation can have all subtle nuances of the original, usually there are two ideals for a translator: to reproduce
1) the content or
2) the mood and style as exactly as possible.
2) is usually in the focus of translators of literary works, because this is of course what literature is in essence, but one always has to cut back...
My 0.02$.
I like Pushkin's To A.P.Kern
I remember a wonderful moment
As before my eyes you appeared,
Like a vision, fleeting, momentary,
Like a spirit of the purest beauty.
In the torture of hopeless melancholy,
In the bustle of the world's noisy hours,
That voice rang out so tenderly,
I dreamed of that lovely face of yours.
The years flew quickly. The storm's blast
Scattered the dreams of former times,
And I forgot your tender voice,
And the features of your heavenly face.
In remoteness, in gloomy isolation,
My days dragged quietly, nothing was new,
No godlike face, no inspiration,
No tears, no life, no love, no you.
Then to my soul an awakening came,
And there again your face appeared,
Like a vision, fleeting, momentary,
Like a spirit of the purest beauty.
And my heart beat with a rapture new,
And for its sake arose again
A godlike face, an inspiration,
And life, and tears, and love, and you.
Very neat and its content is minute, the feelings strong.
If only I could have someone write such a poem for me.