Linguistic Treason

Dorothy Parker--A Pig's Eye View of Literature

It's impossible to translate "A Pig's Eye View of..."--too much of a pun. Possibly, "O vedere din cocina" (a view from the pigsty"), but I went for "o perspectiva sumara" (a brief view). Otherwise, fun little poem; I wish I knew it in college when I was actually studying this trio!

A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature by Dorothy Parker The Lives and Times of John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron Byron and Shelley and Keats Were a trio of Lyrical treats. The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls, And Keats never was a descendant of earls, And Byron walked out with a number of girls, But it didn't impair the poetical feats Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.

O perspectivă sumară asupra literaturii de Dorothy Parker Vieţile şi vremurile lui John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, şi George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron Byron şi Shelley şi Keats— Un trio de lirici vestiţi. Fruntea lui Shelley avea cârlionţi Şi Keats niciodată n-avu neamuri conţi, Curta fete Byron cu alţi bagabonţi, Dar ca poeţi nu fură nicicând stăviliţi, Nici Byron nici Shelley, Nici Byron nici Shelley, Nici Byron nici Shelley nici Keats.

Lewis Carroll--I'll Tell Thee Everything I Can

Very few people would need an introduction to Lewis Carroll and his absurd sense of humor--but just try to translate it! I have to admit though that this project was a lot of fun, and I had to invent about half of it, and try to stay true to the spirit of the original. Even so, I have a couple of really lame rhymes in there--oh well. That's partially due to the fact that I don't have access to a decent Romanian rhyme dictionary, so...yeah. Sometimes, I have to say, I was less preoccupied with a faithful translation and more with duplicating the same sense of the absurd.

It gave me a good chuckle, and I hope it does the same for you:

I'LL TELL THEE EVERYTHING I CAN by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898) I'LL tell thee everything I can; There's little to relate, I saw an aged, aged man, A-sitting on a gate. "Who are you, aged man?" I said. "And how is it you live?" And his answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve.   He said, "I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat; I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men," he said, "Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread-- A trifle, if you please."   But I was thinking of a plan To dye one's whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!" And thumped him on the head.   His accents mild took up the tale; He said, "I go my ways, And when I find a mountain-rill, I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland's Macassar Oil-- Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil."   But I was thinking of a way To feed one's self on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue, "Come, tell me how you live," I cried, "And what it is you do!"   He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny, And that will purchase nine.   "I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of hansom-cabs. And that's the way" (he gave a wink) "By which I get my wealth-- And very gladly will I drink Your honor's noble health."   I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health.   And now, if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know-- Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo-- That summer evening long ago, A-sitting on a gate.

Ţi-oi zice tot ce pot să-ţi spun de Lewis Carroll (1832-1898) Ţi-oi zice tot ce pot să-ţi spun; Nu-i mult de relatat Am întâlnit un om bătrân, Pe-o poartă, cocoţat “Tu cine eşti, bătrâne?”-am spus, “Şi cum trăieşti tu oare?" Prin cap răspunsul mi s-a scurs Ca prin strecurătoare. A spus, “Eu caut fluturi, ştii, Prin grâne, în ogradă; Îi coc pe toţi în dulci iahnii, Şi-i vând la colţ de stradă. Îi vând la oameni ce pe-ocean Înfruntă brav furtuna— Şi-aşa câştig şi eu un ban Sau pâinea—e totuna.” Dar eu visam la favoriţi, Să îi vopsesc în verde, De-un mare evantai umbriţi, Să nu se poată vede. Şi ce să zic? N-aveam poveşti Ca acel bătrân ţap, Zbierat-am, “Spune-mi cum trăieşti!” Şi i-am tras una-n cap. Cu un accent uşor grotesc, El zise, “Merg pe drum Izvor de munte când găsesc Îl trec prin foc şi fum; Aşa se face-al lui Rowland Ulei de Macassar— Insă primesc numai un cent, Şi munca-mi e-n zadar. Dar eu visam un plan: un fel De cocă-n loc de hrană, Ca zi de zi să fim niţel Mai graşi şi mai cu slană. Mai viguros l-am scuturat --S-a-nvineţit la faţă! “Zi-mi cum trăieşti!” iar am urlat, “Ce faci de dimineaţă?” El zise, “Colo-n buruieni Vânez ochi de batog, Nasturi de vestă fac din ei, La mine în bârlog. Şi nu îi vând, bagă de seamă, Pe aur sau argint, Ci doar pe un bănuţ de-aramă Dau nouă—zău nu mint! Sap după chiflele cu unt, Pun clăpci de crabi în crâng, Şi dealuri bat cu pas mărunt Roţi de căruţi să strâng. Şi uite-aşa,” zise şiret, “Am adunat parale. Cu drag voi bea, doar am bănet, În cinstea dumitale.” L-am auzit, căci să termín Putusem a mea schemă: Podul Menai să-l fierb în vin, Ferindu-l de rugină. I-am mulţumit c-a povestit Cum banii şi-i făcea, Dar mai ales că şi-a dorit Să bea în cinstea mea. Şi-acum, dacă vreodată-mi pun În clei a mele deşte, Or dau să vâr, ca un nebun, Piciorul stâng în cleşte, Sau dacă scap peste picior O piatră foarte grea, Eu plâng, căci mi se face dor, De-acel bătrân încântător— Cu glasul bland, moleşitor, Cu părul alb ca neaua-n zbor, Cu nasul cârn, puţin cam chior, Cu ochi arzând scânteietor, Cu gând umbrit de câte-un nor, Ce trupu-şi legăna, uşor, Şi mormăia încetişor, Cu limba prinsă în mosor Şi fornăind ca un porcuşor De mult, în luna lui Cuptor, Şezând pe-o poartă-n şa.

Dorothy Parker--One Perfect Rose

Dorothy Parker is not nearly as famous in Romania as she is in the US, and that's, frankly, a shame. Here's one of her most famous poems in my inaccurate rendition. I wanted to preserve the abab rhyme all over (notice there are only two rhymes in the whole poem)--which gave way to quite a bunch of linguistic treasons:

- "deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet"--basically, "pure" and "scented" have no equivalent in the translation--but the meaning is roughly preserved;

- I added three "extra" epithets: "cocheta" for "flower" (first stanza); "suav" (suave) for the "language of the floret" (2nd stanza), and "desueta" (old-fashioned) for her "fate" in the last stanza. Yes, to preserve rhythm/rhyme. Leave me alone.

Dorothy Parker One Perfect Rose A single flower he sent me, since we met.      All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet--     One perfect rose. I knew the language of the floweret;    "My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose." Love long has taken for his amulet    One perfect rose. Why is it no one ever sent me yet    One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it's always just my luck to get    One perfect rose.

Dorothy Parker Un trandafir perfect Ne-am întâlnit, şi-o floare el mi-a trimis, cochetă.    Cu grijă mesagerul şi l-a ales, direct Din inimă, cu roua încă sclipind, discretă—,    Un trandafir perfect. Ştiam suavul grai vorbit de-acea floretă    “Gingaşele-mi petale ţin inima-i din piept.” Căci dragostea de mult şi-a luat drept amuletă    Un trandafir perfect. De ce nu îmi trimite nimeni o perfectă,    Frumoasă limuzină, oare-i drept? Ah, nu, aceasta-i soarta mea, mai desuetă:    Un trandafir perfect.

Unknown--Ode to Tanase

When I was young (really young), and the Communists still ruled Romania, one of the simple pop culture joys that was not denied to us was almanacs. Charmingly antiquated, right? Well, traditional media was  all propaganda, and the computer culture hadn't yet entered the scene, and there was nothing to shop for. Did I forget something? Oh yeah: movie theaters sucked and good music was hard to impossible to find. I think that pretty much covers all bases.

So! One such almanac that I read and enjoyed when I was about nine (3rd grade, I remember) was some sort of Humorous or Satire Almanac (possibly, "Almanah Satira"?), packed with...well, I guess, whatever passed for humor those days. Often, references were made to a happier, freer, pre-communist time, and that's what I was attracted to.

I remember liking this poem, a lot for my 9-year old self, so much so that I did the only thing I knew in order to pay homage to it and learned it by heart. 24 years later, I still remember it quite well--well, except for two lines in the first stanza, which seem to have completely vanished from my memory.

This is one of those ephemeral pieces of art that are funny only insofar you know the person or object it is referring to. Also, in this case, knowing the culture and local hangouts would probably also help. To my regret, I have no idea who wrote it--it's not anonymous, for sure, but it's next to impossible for me to discover now the author of this funny poem.

The poem was written probably in the 30s (possibly 20s) and it's about Constantin Tanase, arguably our greatest comic of the interwar years (yes, that's an English Wikipedia entry). He was apparently "retired" by Communists in 1945, after he made fun of the nasty habits of the invading Red Army in Romania. To understand this poem, however, all you need to know is that he had a really, really big nose. (As an aside, he was born in Vaslui, where I was born, too, and not too many famous Romanians were born there, you know--so I'll take that!).

Without further ado, I give you...

Odă lui Tănase O, zeilor, mi-aţi dat, în glumă, un nas aşa de prelungit Că spintecă văzduhu-n două şi se propteşte-n infinit. Când joc pe scenă şi spre stele-nalţ bicisnica-mi trompetă Observatoarele anunţă că-n România e-o cometă; Nemţoaicele de la Alhambra uimite ţipă: Gott sei Dank! Căci nasul meu, privit din faţă, îţi dă iluzia de tanc! Eroii cârni ai Capitalei care-au luptat pe metereze Ii cer guvernului, ca jertfă, de nas să mă exproprieze, Iar invalizii cu tarabe cer să le facă chilipir: Din nara-mi dreaptă o regie, iar din cea stângă un tractir. Cu toate criticile aspre, incontestabil ai rămas Dintre talente, cel mai mare, o, respectabilul meu nas. Aş prefera mai bine moartea, sau să ma calce chiar tramvaiul Decât cu ploile de-acuma să dea în tine guturaiul. Ar fi curată catastrofă—din mine s-ar allege praful Să fiu constrâns pe-aşa scumpete, să-mi fac batista cât cearceaful! O, nas, tu singura-mi podoabă, a treia partea-a mea din trup, Izvor de pozne şi de glume, întoarce vârful, să te pup! Amici, când voi muri, deasupră-mi, nu vreau nici piatră funerară, Nu vreau nici sălcii aplecate, lăsaţi-mi nose meu afară, Să-mi ţină loc de ornamente şi de cadou şi de statui, Şi liniştit să odihnească tot cimitiru-n umbra lui.

Ode to Tănase O, gods, in jest, no doubt, you gave me a nose so horribly enormous, It cuts straight through the stratosphere and comfortably rests in cosmos. When I’m on stage and want to raise towards the stars my precious trumpet, Observatories in Romania announce that they have seen a comet The German girls from the Alhambra are screaming, panicked, Got sei Dank! --You see, my nose, in frontal view, looks very much just like a tank! Our snub-nosed heroes, who the ramparts defended bravely, with elation, Ask, from the state, repairs: my speedy nose-expropriation; And invalid street vendors ask for proper street space, all too keen: From my left nostril, a tobacconists, and from the right one, a canteen. Despite the harsh critiques and hatred, undoubtedly you always rose Above the others as my biggest talent, oh, much-respected nose! I’d rather that I’m struck by lightning, and bid this cruel world adieu, Than with the latest epidemic, you should contract that pesky flu. It would be simply catastrophic, they’d lock me up in a straitjacket, To be under such massive pressure, to use for handkerchief a blanket! Oh, nose! A third of my whole body! I know th’entire world would miss you! Fresh spring of farces, jokes, and wonder, please turn around so I can kiss you! And so, my friends, upon my death, I want no boring funeral stone, I want no weeping willows over, I want my nose out, all alone— Instead of flowers, angels, statues, or other ornamental piece , And in its shadow, I would hope that the whole graveyard rests in peace.

In the style of Robert Burns--Winter days with pants

And now, for something completely different: a change of pace today, as I'm trying my hand at an English>Romanian translation, and as is my wont, I pick a largely untranslatable text. Via the most excellent blog Whoopee, I found this hilarious parody after Robert Burns (not by him, Antonia cleared that up!) and all of a sudden, I simply itched to translate it. The result is pretty funny if I dare say so myself (if you're Romanian, that is); I tried to use a lot of archaisms AND regionalisms plus odd and antiquated spellings to capture the quaint and all-too-funny Scottishness of the poem. It was hard, very hard, and I may have invented one or two novel meanings, but I'm relatively pleased with the result.

Winter Days With Pants Robert Burns Antonia Cornwell By candlelight I cast ma mind awa' Tae long dark nights noo buried in the past, For autumn's come again, and brought the dark O' winter: I fear this will be ma last. Och, that I cuid once more a young man be! No fear had I of January's chill; When I wis young I had ma woolly pants Tae wear around ma bum and keep me well. Ma bonny pants of Highland lambswool spun! Wi' drawstrings pulled up tight around ma chuff; They kept me warm from sun tae rising sun, And kept ma wizened balls from falling off. But, reckless fool! I frolick'd in the spring Through prickly fields o' bonnie purple heather, Ma undercrackies snagged upon a sprig, And made a hole tae let in all the weather. Young men take heed, don't underestimate How much can hang on such a slender thread; Ma woolly kecks unravelled in the wind And noo I hae a chilly bum instead. Ma shrivelled nuts in winter's icy hand Have lost all girth, and dinnae stand a chance O' basking in the Summer sun again; I can but dream o' winter days with pants.

Zile de iarnă cu nădragi Robert Burns La lumin’ de lumânare io cuget pe-ndelete La nopţi prealungi şi negre demult ce-s îngropate Căci uite-i toamn-acilea şi-aduse bezna iernii: Mă tem că-i cea din urmă de cari avea-voi parte! Of, cum aş mai pohti să fiu din nou flăcău! De frigul lui ianuar io nu m-aş mai feri; Când fui dănac, aveam nădragi de lână Să-mi ţină cald la cur în nopţi târzii. Ghizdavi nădragi de Highland, din ţigaie lână! Cu şnurul straşnic strâns pe şodolan, Ei mi-au ţinut de cald în orşce săptămână, Şi coaiele-mi-nălbite păstrat-au pe ciolan. Dar, dobitoc ce sunt! Zburdai în primăvară Prin câmpuri prea ţepoase cu mândre buruieni, Şi turul acăţat-a-mi cât să făcea de sară, Şi-o gaură făcut-ai, să între şapte ierni! Aşa că juni, luaţi de samă al mieu acest cuvânt, Şi preţuiţi ce-atârnă de-aşa şubredă aţă; Izmenele-mi de lâna se destrămară-n vânt Iară acuma iacă, mi-s bucile de ghiaţă. Iar ouăle-ovilite în mâna iernii rece Se micşurară groaznic, o ce amară strişte! Şi vara-n soare nu s-or mai petrece; Visez zile de iarnă cu nădragi pe chişte.