Negative Positives Are Summat, Or Are They?

 

Negative Positives

“It is not inconsistent with my argument that . . .” (meaning it is consistent). “Such a notion is not unappealing to a certain kind of pedestrian mind” (it appeals to). “You are not unwelcome at our party” (uhh, am I welcome?). What is gained by turning thoughts inside out like this by way of using a negative? Nothing. Why do people keep writing like this? I don’t know. Although I’m not un-ignorant of the phenomenon.

 In advance of his meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev—in Malta, December, 1989—President George H.W. Bush was said to have spoken of a “nonsummit summit.” Some would say it’s a summit, said HW, while others would say it’s more like an unsummit of a summit. Anyway.

At least it was summit. “Summit”—usually spelled summat—is British Yorkshire dialect for “something.”

 

The Un-Pogrom

In February, 1990, news reports on antisemitism in the Soviet Union repeated gossip asserting that on May 5 there could be a huge pogrom. This date was cited even in government warnings against pogroms. Some Jewish leaders saw the official warnings as a kind of incitement in themselves: “There will not, we repeat, not, be a big pogrom on the morning of May 5 in downtown Kiev. So don’t show up for the pogrom. That means you.”

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Nabokov's Mangled Thoughts

 

Nabokov’s Invalids

When Vladimir Nabokov was lecturing on literature at Cornell University he dreaded reading the students’ answers to exam questions in the bluebooks, because he often discovered that his disciplined, structured thoughts and descriptions came back to him mangled and crippled.

Mangled invalids they were, leaning each on one crutch, hobbling back to their maker, smiling wistful, hopeful smiles: “No, please, don’t deny us, O master; we’ve been out in the harsh world of puerile minds, fighting your battles, struggling to be coherent, organized, profound. Now have pity on us; we’re bloodied but unbowed, and we’re still yours, so be magnanimous and merciful, take us back once more into your indulgent bosom.”

 From a student exam paper, Miami University, 1977: “In 1492 the Mongrels invaded Russia.”

 [excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Translation of Poem by Boris Chichibabin, Борис Чичибабин, "Сними с меня усталость, матерь Смерть, MOTHER DEATH

 

 
Boris Chichibabin
(1923-1994)
Борис Чичибабин
 
Сними с меня усталость, матерь Смерть.
Я не прошу награды за работу,
но ниспошли остуду и дремоту
на мое тело, длинное как жердь.

Я так устал. Мне стало все равно.
Ко мне всего на три часа из суток
приходит сон, томителен и чуток,
и в сон желанье смерти вселено.
 
Мне книгу зла читать невмоготу,
а книга блага вся перелисталась.
О матерь Смерть, сними с меня усталость,
покрой рядном худую наготу.
 
На лоб и грудь дохни своим ледком,
дай отдохнуть светло и беспробудно.
Я так устал. Мне сроду было трудно,
что всем другим привычно и легко.

Я верил в дух, безумен и упрям,
я Бога звал — и видел ад воочью, —
и рвется тело в судорогах ночью,
и кровь из носу хлещет по утрам.

Одним стихам вовек не потускнеть,
да сколько их останется, однако.
Я так устал! Как раб или собака.
Сними с меня усталость, матерь Смерть.
 
1967
                             d
 
                                          Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
Assuage my weary soul, O Mother Death.
For work I’ve done I ask no recompence,
but on my gangleshanks, and on my febrile breath,
bestow a touch of cooling somnolence.

So tired am I, indifferent am to all.
Sleep comes to me at best each night three hours,
a troubled sleep with images that sprawl
into a wish for death that memory scours.

The Book of Evil makes for dismal reading,
the Book of Good I’ve leafed my way all through.
O Mother Death, stanch life’s incessant bleeding, 
and place my naked soul in your purview. 

Breathe on my head and chest your breath of ice,
send rest to me that gleams with everlasting.
So tired am I, and never one to splice
the buds that others join with easy grafting. 
 
I believed both stubbornly and madly,
called out to God—and languished in hell’s throes.
My body writhes at night convulsively,
and wakes to bleeding freely from the nose.
 
A verse or two of mine might never fade,
but scads of them are bland and short of breath.
I’m so tired! Like a dog or wretched slave.
Assuage my weary soul, O Mother Death.

 

Translation of Poem by Boris Chichibabin, "И вижу зло, и слышу плач," "I see evil, I hear weeping,"

 

Boris Chichibabin
(1923-1994)
 
И вижу зло, и слышу плач,
и убегаю, жалкий, прочь,
раз каждый каждому палач
и никому нельзя помочь.
 
Я жил когда-то и дышал,
но до рассвета не дошёл.
Темно в душе от божьих жал,
хоть горсть легка, да крест тяжёл.
 
Во сне вину мою несу
и - сам отступник и злодей -
безлистым деревом в лесу
жалею и боюсь людей.
 
Меня сечёт господня плеть,
и под ярмом горбится плоть, -
и ноши не преодолеть,
и ночи не перебороть.
 
И были дивные слова,
да мне сказать их не дано,
и помертвела голова,
и сердце умерло давно.
 
Я причинял беду и боль,
и от меня отпрянул Бог
и раздавил меня, как моль,
чтоб я взывать к нему не мог.
 
1968
 
d
 
                                         Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
I see evil, I hear weeping,
pathetic me, I run away;
Since brother bleeds his brother bleeding,
can’t be of much help anyway.
 
Once I lived and did some breathing,
but never made it past Nowhere.
God’s stings have left my dark soul reeling,  
life’s seldom easy, hard to bear.
 
In dreams I’m burdened by remorse— 
apostate I and scoundrel be;
A leafless tree midst wilted gorse, 
I pity folks, but they scare me.
 
The Lord’s dire lash my retribution,
beneath a yoke my shoulders bowed.
My sins are barred from absolution,
my nights with pain and grief endowed.
 
Marvelous words were out there to be said,
but me saying them was never to be;
My head in extremis was verging on dead,
my heart long since croaked and put out to sea.
 
I was the cause of calamities, pain,
the Lord God in horror recoiled from my sin,
then crushed me, leaving a moist blemish/stain;
Plugged up His ears when I called out to Him.
 

 

Translation of Poem by Boris Chichibabin, БОРИС ЧИЧИБАБИН, "Уже картошка выкопана," "We’ve dug up potatoes for fall,"

 

БОРИС ЧИЧИБАБИН
1923-1994
 
Уже картошка выкопана,
и, чуда не суля,
в холодных зорях выкупана
промокшая земля.
 
Шуршит тропинка плюшевая:
весь сад от листьев рыж.
А ветер, гнезда струшивая,
скрежещет жестью крыш.
 
Крепки под утро заморозки,
под вечер сух снежок.
Зато глаза мои резки
и дышится свежо.
 
И тишина, и ясность...
Ну, словом, чем не рай?
Кому-нибудь и я снюсь
в такие вечера.
 
1957
 
                              d
 
 
                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
We’ve dug up potatoes for fall—
not an act that presages the wondrous.
Redeemed we the sodden earth’s sprawl
with coupons of dawns cold and cumbrous.
 
The swanky-plush pathway is rustling,
for the garden is flush with red leaves.
Nests of birds the wind’s lulling and shushing,
while gnashing at roofs’ tin and eaves.
 
The frosts in the mornings are durable;
in evenings the snowfall is dry.
For all that my eyesight’s perdurable,
my breathing is fresh—crisp and spry.
 
All’s quietude, rife with air’s clarity . . .
Aren’t we steeped in paradise, we?
On such tranquil evenings of rarity
Someone’s even dreaming of me.