Me parece que el traducir de una lengua a otra es como quien mira los tapices flamencos por el revés, que aunque se ven las figuras, están llenas de hilos que las oscurecen, y no se ven con la lisura y tez del haz; y el traducir de lenguas fáciles, ni arguye ingenio ni elocución, como no le arguye el que traslada ni el que copia un papel de otro papel––dijo don Quijote.
Y aún así le dije a Enrique Fierro, simpatizante de los rinocerontes––Tomemos prestada la pelota de ping-pong de nuestros amigos Lorenzo y Margarita, y aquí escribámonos y traduzcámonos el uno al otro. Pero, tejamos reversos, traducciones traidoras, como falsos amigos, des faux amis que se miran, pero no se reconocen.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Mythical. How dare you fumble about such tender texts with your long sword of ignorance! Mythical. Apart from being an alliterative alignment of alpha-bits, it meant little to María Elena, simply María Elena. "Get your own pantheon!" one needs to yell at him as he constantly stumbles over it... "like my pants at age six, embarrassed," interrupts Ginsberg.        Shh.        Let those soft words be, in peace, themselves and leave your funhouse mirror etymology out of such inconsolable silence.       Shh.       64-year friendships are hard to come by. 49-year friendships too.

Uncle Floro! Uncle Floro! That was his name! That epistle-packing ranger was real, Daisy!       Shh.        Yes, he existed and for some first person he always will; they frequently reunite at Neruda's place for poetry readings, the host having been his companion in Colonia Francia, half a country's length from those large coastal stadiums for horses and for bulls. We'll have time (oh no!) to reference his fascination with conversing passionately on country roads within the sun's nap-time hours or his ramblings in Parque Rodó below the moon's February brilliance.

Borges held: "El arte es un pequeño milagro." And Whistler's symphonies remind us of that. But today our first person followed that phrase about like a large mouse running on its wheel. And his thinking set not a word atremble. "How is that?" he asked. My answer: It's that you hear Whitman's multitudes within and you listen, kindly, not only to the loud ones, but to all of them.

1 comment:

  1. "the splendid, silent sun"...
    Me acuerdo de esa vez que presentaste tu ensayo sobre Martí y Whitman... uuuuuy tiempos aquellos, cuando éramos nuevos, inocentes y tal vez más pequeñitos... cuántos centímetros habremos crecido?