Book Review of U.R. Bowie novel HARD MOTHER, by V.N. Alexander

https://dactylreview.com/2017/11/16/hard-mother-by-u-r-bowie/#more-3122

MIKHAIL LERMONTOV FREE TRANSLATION OF GOETHE POEM; U.R. BOWIE FREE TRANSLATION OF LERMONTOV

I sometimes think that Mikhail Lermontov's most beautiful poem is not his; it is his translation of a poem by Goethe: "Nightsong of a Wanderer, II." 

Recently, in "The New Yorker" (Nov. 13, 2017) the American poet Rita Dove took a stab at that same poem:

                                                   ABOVE THE MOUNTAINTOPS

Above the mountaintops
all is still.
Among the treetops
you can feel
barely a breath--
birds in the forest, stripped of song.
Just wait: before long
you, too, shall rest.

Here's the original German, side by side with D. Smirnov-Sadovsky's translation into Russian:

Д. Смирнов-Садовский: Smirnov-Sadovsky: Ночная песня странника II На вершине горной  Покой.  Зефир проворный  В лес густой  Бег не стремит. Птиц смолкли игривые споры,  И нас уж скоро  Сон осенит. <22 декабря 2006>

Гёте: Goethe: Wanderers Nachtlied II Über allen Gipfeln Ist Ruh, In allen Wipfeln Spürest du Kaum einen Hauch; Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde. Warte nur, balde Ruhest du auch. 1780

And here is the Lermontov free translation from 1840:

ИЗ ГЁТЕ

Горные вершины Спят во тьме ночной; Тихие долины Полны свежей мглой; Не пылит дорога, Не дрожат листы... Подожди немного, Отдохнешь и ты. 1840

Rita Dove's translation, for me, is barely even poetry. Lermontov's somewhat free translation is wonderful beyond words, probably even better than the original. Goethe's poem is rhymed; so are  Lermontov's and Smirnov-Sadovsky's. Modern poets often assume they need never use rhyme, that rhyme and meter are dated devices. But is that always true? No.

Age-old arguments about literary translation come to mind. Just how close is the translator obliged to stay with the original? When translating rhymed and metered poetry, should you strive for a rhymed and metered poem in the target language? While straining to maintain meter and rhyme, how does the translator avoid awkward passages in the target language? Etc.

Here's a literal translation of the Lermontov free translation from Goethe:

Mountain peaks,

Sleep in the dark of night.

Quiet meadowlands (valleys)

Full of fresh haze (mist).

No dust rises from the road,

The leaves do not shake. 

Wait just a moment,

You, too, will rest.

Here is Smirnov-Sadovsky's near-literal translation into English of the Lermontov:

The mountain heights Sleep in the darkness of night. The quiet valleys Are filled with a dewy haze. The road has no dust, The leaves do not shake… Wait awhile And you will have rest.

1840 (Transl. 14 March 2008, St Albans)

And here is U.R. Bowie's attempt to do, roughly, with Lermontov what Lermontov did with Goethe:

Alpine peaks quiescent

Sleep in the murk of night.

Meadow vapors deliquescent,

Bathed in mute moonlight.

Air on roads devoid of dust,

Leaves to silence acquiesced.

Hang on, ye of rot and lust,

Soon you, too, can rest.

                         February 6, 2018, Gainesville, Florida

Romance sung by Boris Gmyrya

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VBIMpmSWag

                                      Isaak Levitan, Spring in the Alps, 1897

NABOKOV'S TEETH, AND THE TONGUE AS ROLLICKING SEAL

Vladimir Nabokov was 44 years old when he had all his teeth pulled. His brilliant mind marinated the experience for years, then came up with a wonderful expanded metaphor.

LETTER TO EDMUND WILSON, NOV. 23, 1943

"Dear Bunny, some of them had little red cherries--abscesses--and the man in white was pleased when they came out whole, together with the crimson ivory. My tongue feels like somebody coming home and finding his furniture gone. The plate will be ready only next week--and I am orally a cripple."

FROM "PNIN"

In his novel "Pnin" he gave the experience to his central character:

"Two hours later he was trudging back, leaning on his cane and not looking at anything. A warm flow of pain was gradually replacing the ice and wood of the anesthetic in his thawing, still half-dead, abominably martyred mouth. After that, during a few days [note the not-quite native English here, even after years of writing in English; should be something like, "For a few days afterward"] he was in mourning for an intimate part of himself. It surprised him to realize how fond he had been of his teeth. His tongue, a fat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks, checking the contours of a battered but still secure kingdom, plunging from cave to cove, climbing this jag, nuzzling that notch, finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft; but now not a landmark remained, and all there existed was a great dark wound, a terra incognita of gums which dread and disgust forbade one to investigate."

Great stuff, huh?




                                                       Nabokov As Knave