Linguistic Treason

Mircea Cartarescu--In the Style of Bacovia

Ok, let's see--Cartarescu imitates Bacovia, and I'm doing a spectacular job at botching them both. Heh!

În stilul lui Bacovia de Mircea Cartarescu e seară şi ninge-ndesat zăpada-n zăpadă se lasă şi abia mă mai mişc îngheţat şi abia mai ştiu drumul spre casă. e beznă un câine-a lătrat de-acum n-are rost să mai sper sprijinit de un stâlp un soldat şi-aprinde ţigarea stingher e noapte şi ninge turbat şi nu mai zăresc nici un drum cum viaţa-i un loc depărtat cum totu-i mai simplu de-acum!

In the style of Bacovia by Mircea Cartarescu it’s evening, a flurry of flakes jams snow upon snow into foam, I’m freezing and my body aches and I barely know my way home. it’s pitch dark, I hear a dog bark, it’s pointless to hope, so I don’t; a soldier, by a post in the park, a cigarette lights, all alone. it’s night and it’s rabidly snowing the storm hides away every road, how life is so far where I’m going, how all is a much simpler load!

Mircea Cartarescu--Let's make love, kera-mu

I haven't posted in a while, a pernicious side-effect of having relatives from overseas addicted to computer access and holding on to your laptop for all the twelve days they are here, an evil act they justify with their wet doe-eyes and overall cuteness. Ahem. Unfortunately, I am susceptible to such charms, hence my inability to say no. And my lack of posting.

But! Here's something I translated a while ago--again, by my beloved Cartarescu. This time, the betrayals resided in semantics. "Kera mu" (which in the Romanian spelling is "chera-mu"), and a few words and proper nouns with local color, and which I explain, for a change, in the notes. It's the usual hypersexual global vortex in which Cartarescu's lyrical universe finds itself engaged in, ever so often. Enjoy!

Mircea Cartarescu SA NE IUBIM, CHERA MU sa ne iubim, chera mu, sa ne iubim tujur ca mâine vom fi prada inundatiilor, surparilor de teren, betiilor crâncene, ca mâine un ieri cu labe de paianjen de fân îti va umbla în cârliontii de flori ai coiffurii zapacindu-te, ambetandu-te . . . sa fim tandri, bâigui poligonul catelu lipindu-si irisii de soldurile voluptoase ale autobazei filaret sa fim tandri, singuratatea mea, ciripi indicatorul de sens giratoriu sa fim tandri, mai zise o musca. primavara ne lingea ca un pechinez pe fata, pe mâini ne facea sa ne întrebam ce gust om avea pe limba infinita a noptii plina de autocare si stele, primavara ne mângâia depasind uneori limitele maternitatii sau prieteniei nevinovate aratându-si provocatori sânii reci sub jacka ei de turcoaz jerpelit oh, mai ramâi, sopti lustra catre o scama de pe covor, nu vrei sa te urci la mine? bem ceva, ascultam muzica, îti arat biblioteca . . . nu vrei sa ramâi în noaptea asta la mine? sa ne tinem de mâna, îi spuse un medic primar de la spitalul emilia irza iepurelui de tabla din vitrina cu jucarii. sa ne iubim, sa ne amam, sa crestem si sa ne înmultim cântau tergarulile si velurul, drilul si chembrica pe gabroveni le raspundeau pâna la raguseala plutonierii si norisorii sa facem chestia aia, gâfâiau frizeriile. ca niste becuri electrice legate în serie nervii plezneau pe antebrat, venele se umflau pe torace, în nari analizatorii mirosului îsi încuiau paltoanele în dulapuri si indicele de refractie îsi halea sandviciul cu carne de pui în holbarea perversa a ochiului. ce de ocheade, câte accidente din neatentie, conturi încheiate, polite platite, îngerasule, stranuta plamânul când se privi în oglinda si vazând în urma lui o uzina. primavara ne întindea pe pâine felia groasa de televizor mintea noastra era îmbâcsita de proiecte de agrasiune, deja vedeam microcosmosul împânzit de transee, deja visam la putere, la krakatit, la mirosul de blana de vulpe al omului invizibil la ochii catifelati ai omului care trece prin zid... creierul nostru îsi amintea de când statea ghemuit de când pulsa, de când palpita, fojgaia, colcaia, misuna, serpuia antebratul îsi defula în aerul slabanog sentimentul de a avea pene, urechea - sentimentul de a fi auzit boncaluitul triceratopsului si bulele de hidrogen pleznind malaria peste fata. ai încredere în mine, gânguri flora întestinala întinzându-se voluptos în bratele groazei care purta în acea seara un costum simplu, cambrat, tineresc, da-mi un pupic, se ruga anabolismul de catabolism, crudelo, nu ma chinui, rânjea maxilarul spre maxilar. venea seara, orasul se anima, venea noaptea, strazile sfârâiau ca sifonul, sa fim tandri, loz necâstigator, sa fim tandri, batator de covoare, sa ne iubim, robinete, sa facem excursii, mapa de plicuri! în rochii de moloz si nuiele verzi, de mezeluri si de brânzeturi, spoite cu vodca si motorina emotiile iesisera la agatat. prin ganguri si pasaje acoperite cu geam colorat câte un pisoi zgâria în ladita vreunui dafin si în berarii ospatarele se lasau desurubate de vii contra cost. sa ne iubim, unamuno, nebuno, sa ne iubim, chera mu, si apoi sa ne-nselam cu chibritele, cu patentul, cu pasta de dinti, sa ignoram influenta exercitata în psihicul nostru de complexul lui grozavesti. primavara priveste galbena prin stratosfera, gâdilata de ozon si de ioni, sa ne cunoastem mai bine, melcule, zice, sa ne îmbratisam, depoule, hârtiuto, tomberonule … iar noi la tâsnitoarea din capatul aleii alexandru ne stropeam unul pe altul cu apa chiar lânga policlinica, si pâna si copacii miroseau a dentist.

Mircea Cartarescu LET'S MAKE LOVE, KERA MU* let’s make love, kera mu, let’s make love tujour** come tomorrow we’ll be prey to floods, landslides, wasted drunkenness, come tomorrow a yesterday with the legs of a hay spider will crawl through the flowery curls of your coiffure messing you up, making you drunk…. let’s be tender, mumbled the catelu field***, his irises peeled on the voluptuous hips of the filaret bus terminal let’s be tender, my loneliness, chirped the traffic circle sign, let’s be tender, said also a fly. the spring was licking our faces, like a pekingese, and our hands, made us wonder what sort of taste we leave on the infinite tongue of the night full of coach buses and stars, the spring was caressing us going sometimes beyond the boundaries of motherliness or innocent friendship showing her provoking cold breasts under her scruffy turquoise jacket oh, stay, whispered the lampshade to a loose thread on the carpet, don’t you want to come upstairs? we’ll have a drink, we’ll listen to music, i’ll show you the bookcase… don’t you want to spend the night at my place? let’s hold hands, said to an internist at the emiliza irza hospital the little tin rabbit in the toy window. let’s make love, let’s make amour, let’s grow and multiply, were singing the velours, the moleskins, the tweeds and toiles on gabroveni street the street sergeants and the little clouds would answer till they got hoarse let’s do that thing, the barber shops were panting. like electric bulbs serially linked, the nerves were snapping on the forearm, the veins were swelling on the thorax, inside nostrils, the smell sensors were locking their winter coats in wardrobes and the refraction index was gulping its chicken sandwich in the perverted stare of the eye. how many glances, how many careless accidents, closed accounts, paid policies, my angel, sneezed the lung when he looked at himself in the mirror and saw a factory behind him. the spring was spreading us on the thick tv slice our mind was muddled by aggressive projects we were already picturing the microcosm canvassed with trenches, we were already dreaming of power, of krakatit, of the smell of fox fur of the invisible man, of the velvety eyes of the man who passes through walls… our brain remembered when it was coiled, when it pulsed, when it throbbed, when it crawled, writhed, squirmed, wiggled, snaked, the forearm exuded in the skinny air the feeling of being feathered, the ear—the feeling of having heard the call of the triceratops, and the hydrogen bubbles slapping malaria in its face. trust me, cooed the intestinal flora stretching voluptuously into the arms of horror which was wearing that night a simple, stretch suit, quite youthful, give me a little kiss, the anabolism begged the catabolism, cruelita, don’t torment me, grinned the mandible to the mandible. the evening was coming, the city came to life, the night was coming, the streets were sizzling like syphons, let’s be tender, non-winning lottery ticket, you, let’s be tender, you, rug beater, let’s make love, water taps, let’s take a trip, envelope box! in dresses of rubble and green wickers, of cold cuts and cheeses, dabbed in vodka and diesel, the emotions went out to pick someone up, through blind alleys and passages covered in colored glass some kitten would scratch the wooden trestle of a bay tree and in the pubs the waitresses would let themselves unscrewed alive for pay let’s make love, unamuno, you lunatic, let’s make love, chera mu, and then let’s cheat on each other with the match box, with the pliers, with the toothpaste, let’s ignore the influence the grozavesti dorms**** had on our psyche the yellow spring stares, through the stratosphere, tickled by ozones and ions, let’s get to know each other, it says to the snail, let’s hug, you depot, you piece of paper, you dumpster… and we, at the sprinkler at the end of alexander alley would squirt water on each other right next to the clinic, and even the trees smelled like the dentist’s. * Archaic term of endearment in Romanian (derived from Greek)--approx., "my beloved." ** purposeful distortion of the French "toujours" (always), in the Romanian original *** poligonul catelu = driving test range in Bucharest **** complexul Grozavesti = well known student dorms in Bucharest (notorious for its unsanitary conditions)

Mircea Cartarescu--The Wound

I read this, and thought, hey, everything I could ever want to say, Cartarescu has said before, 1000 times better. Honestly, sometimes I think he's my twin metaphysical soul (we're both tortured Geminis, after all). God, I love him.

RANA de Mircea Cartarescu vai mie, rana s-a inchis vai, singele s-a uscat si a facut coaja. oh, doamne, m-am vindecat! de-acum o sa ma mestece fericirea o sa ma sfirtece seninatatea si nebunia care a fost n-o sa mai fie de-acum niciodata, nu, n-o sa-i mai sarut umarul. viata o sa-mi treaca in pace si armonie cu lecturi bogate, cu mese regulate. sanatatea o sa-mi manince plaminii. ratiunea o sa-mi sfisie creierul. vai, rana, rana mea draga rana placuta vietii mele rana pentru care am trait, pe care mi-am zgindarit-o cu unghiile s-a inchis. oh, doamne, sint vindecat! si niciodata febra n-o sa-mi mai aprinda veioza vietii pina la ars. II sa accept evidenta: nu mai pot sa scriu poezie. nu mai sint in stare, ceva in mine nu mai colaboreaza. am scris ani de zile cu ura, cu dragoste, iar acum creierul meu e mort. am pornit la maraton ca pe suta de metri am vrut totul deodata, am vrut sa-mi innebunesc cititorul. am uitat ca viata e lunga. nu-mi imaginam ca o data ma voi opri, voi plati ca tot ce am facut vreodata se va intoarce impotriva mea si nu voi putea sa ma ajung din urma si orice incercare de a mai face ceva va fi o noua dezamagire. ce voi mai scrie inca patruzeci de ani? o sa string din masele, o sa scriu articolase de critica sau cine stie ce amintiri o sa suport condescendenta tinerilor, o sa las nasul in jos cind o sa vina vorba despre poezie, o sa fac traduceri ca sa nu ma uite lumea, ca sa para ca mai traiesc. sau o sa-mi public cindva un volum de versuri din tinerete atit de proaste, ca nu le bagasem in nici o carte si o sa am un succes "de prestigiu", mi se va spune "autorul poemelor de amor", precursorul a dumnezeu stie ce poezie va mai fi pe atunci... nu stiu, nu stiu... prieteni mai tineri, sa nu faceti ca mine. calculati-va poezia pentru saizeci de ani. eu? nu stiu ce drum sa mai apuc, ce s-ar mai putea face si nu stiu ce trebuie sa mai simt si ce mai pot sa imaginez. de data asta chiar cred ca mi s-a infundat. voi fi un poet batrin, care n-a mai scris de decenii un supravietuitor al propriei morti si care mai bine n-ar fi facut nimic niciodata. III oare s-a terminat viata? oare sint terminat? sint un esec? voi fi pulbere? va veni moartea iar tu ma vei dispretui. va fi groaznic, groaznic. voi fi singur, mai singur decit toti oamenii, singur. fara nimeni, fara odihna. voi intelege totul, ah, intelege-ma, si toti ma vor iubi, toti isi vor aduce aminte. sint pierdut, pierdut. musca-mi tu gura. o sa ploua nasol pe drumuri, o sa fim uzi pin-la piele. o sa invatam sa urim. va veni toamna, toamna mintii, inecul. vom avea gura moale si calda, va veni luna vor veni norii sa ne cunoasca si vom muri, vom face dragoste. da, da, stai acum linga mine, priveste-ma. sint terminat, terminat. va fi numai moarte in jur. stelele vor fi moarte, bot linga bot ca niste ciini de pe strazi. vor muri unghiile. gata. stai linga mine. a avut rost? ne-am trezit traind. a fost groaznic: am trait. a fost groaznic, groaznic.

THE WOUND by Mircea Cartarescu woe is me, my wound closed, why, my blood has dried and clotted. oh, god, I am healed! from now on happiness will chew me serenity will rip me apart and the madness that was will never be again, no, I won’t kiss its shoulder anymore. my life will pass in peace and harmony with copious readings, with regular meals, health will eat away my lungs reason will slash my brain. oh, wound, dear wound the pleasant wound of my life the wound I lived for, the wound I tore at with my nails is closed. oh, god, I am healed! and never again shall fever light my life’s lamp, till exhaustion. II let me face the facts: I can’t write poetry anymore. I’m not capable anymore, something in me stopped cooperating. I wrote for years, with hatred, with love, and now my brain is dead. I started the marathon like it was a 100 meter race I wanted everything at once, I wanted to drive my reader crazy. I forgot life is long. I didn’t imagine I’ll stop some day, that I’ll pay, that everything I ever did will turn against me and I won’t be able to catch up with myself and any attempt to do anything will be a new disappointment. what will I do forty years from now? I’ll clench my teeth, I’ll write little literary chronicles or some memoirs I’ll put up with the young people’s condescendence, I’ll bow my head when it comes to poetry, I’ll do some translations so people won’t forget me, so it looks like I’m alive or maybe I’ll publish a volume with poems from my youth so bad I hadn’t dared include them in any other book and I’ll be a “resounding success,” they’ll call me, “the author of the love poems,” the forerunner of god knows what sort of poetry they’ll write those days, I don’t know, don’t know… young friends, don’t do what I did calculate your poetry to last for sixty years. me? I don’t know which road to take, what else could be done I don’t know what I must feel or what I can imagine this time I really think I’m at the end of my rope. I’ll be an old poet, who hasn’t written in decades a survivor of his own death who’d be better off if he’d never done anything. III has life ended? Am I finished? am I a failure? Will I be dust? death will come, and you will despise me, it will be horrible, horrible. I’ll be alone, more alone than all people, alone. without anyone, without rest. I’ll understand everything, ah, understand me, and everybody will love me. everybody will remember. I’m lost, lost. bite my mouth. it will rain like hell on these roads, we’ll get utterly soaked we’ll learn how to hate. fall will come, the fall of the mind, the drowning. our mouth will be soft and warm, the moon will come the clouds will come to meet us, and we’ll die, we’ll make love. yes, stay close to me now, look at me. I’m finished, finished. there will only be death around. the stars will be dead, muzzle to muzzle, like dogs in the street and our nails will be dead. that’s it. stay close to me. was it worth it? we just woke up living. it was horrible: we lived. it was horrible, horrible.

Mircea Cartarescu--When you need love

I like this one because... who hasn't felt like this every once in a while? There are no linguistic treasons there, the text is deliberately simple, almost primal in its raw emotion, barred of any artifice.

CAND AI NEVOIE DE DRAGOSTE de Mircea Cartarescu când ai nevoie de dragoste nu ti se da dragoste. când trebuie sa iubesti nu esti iubit. când esti singur nu poti sa scapi de singuratate. când esti nefericit nu are sens sa o spui. când vrei sa strangi în brate nu ai pe cine. când vrei sa dai un telefon sunt toti plecati. când esti la pamânt cine se intereseaza de tine? cui îi pasa? cui o sa-i pese vreodata? fii tu lânga mine, gândeste-te la mine. poarta-te tandru cu mine, nu ma chinui, nu ma face gelos, nu ma parasi, caci n-as mai suporta înca o ruptura. fii lânga mine, tine cu mine. întelege-ma iubeste-ma, nu-mi trebuie partuze, nici conversatie, fii iubita mea permanenta. hai sa uitam regula jocului, sa nu mai stim ca sexul e o jungla. sa ne atasam, sa ajungem la echilibru. dar nu sper nimic. nu primesti dragoste când ai nevoie de dragoste. când trebuie sa iubesti nu esti iubit. când esti la pamânt nici o femeie nu te cunoaste.

WHEN YOU NEED LOVE By Mircea Cartarescu when you need love nobody gives you love when you need to love you are not loved in return. when you are alone you can’t escape loneliness. when you are unhappy there’s no reason to say it. when you want to hold someone, there’s no one to hold. when you want to make a phone call, everybody’s out. when you are down on your knees, who asks about you? who cares? who will ever care? please stand by me, think of me treat me gently, don’t torture me, don’t make me jealous, don’t leave me, for I wouldn’t stand another break-up stand by my side, root for me. understand me, love me, I don’t need orgies, I don’t need conversation, either, be my constant lover. let’s forget the rule of the game, forget that sex is a jungle. let’s get attached to one another, let’s reach equilibrium. but I hope for nothing. you don’t get love when you need love. when you need to love, you are not loved in return. when you are down on your knees, no woman knows you.

Mircea Cartarescu--The West

Ok, it's time now for one of my biggest, most enduring literary crushes, Mircea Cartarescu. I don't have a lot of time now, so this is an old translation. It's one of the poems that mostly resonates with my experience. (Well, almost everything Cartarescu writes feels like it's coming from a visceral, dormant part inside of me, and reminding me of things I've long forgotten but deeply felt).

The most trouble I've had with this is in the title. I shouldn't find it problematic, except that for the entire time I've lived in the US, I don't think I've ever heard anyone spontaneously utter the word "occident" (or "occidental"); by comparison, I've heard "orient" and "oriental" numerous times. In Romanian, we use it all the time to designate "the West." Initially, I found "The Occident" an appropriate translation for "The West" because of the more direct connotation of its opposite (the Orient); it also has a Latin root (occidere, to set --used of the sun). I speculate that people here don't use the word too often because it sounds too much like "oxidant" or "accident" (or both), enough to be an upsetting cacophony if used too often. At any rate...I had to go with "The West" for the sake of localization.

OCCIDENTUL de Mircea Cartarescu am vazut New-Yorkul si Parisul, San-Francisco si Frankfurt am fost unde n-am visat sa merg vreodata. am venit înapoi cu un teanc de poze si cu moartea în suflet. crezusem ca însemn ceva si ca viata mea înseamna ceva. vazusem ochiul lui Dumnezeu privindu-ma prin microscop privindu-mi zvîrcolirile de pe lamela. acum nu mai cred nimic. am fost bun pentru o stabilitate tîmpita pentru o uitare adînca pentru un vagin singuratic. hoinaream prin locuri care acum nu mai exista. oh, lumea mea nu mai exista! lumea mea nu mai exista! lumea mea împutita în care însemnam ceva. eu, mircea cartarescu, sînt nimeni în lumea cea noua exista 1038 mircea cartarescu aici si fiinte de 1038 de ori mai bune exista carti aici mai bune decît tot ce am facut vreodata si femei carora li se rupe de ele. oul pragmatic se crapa si Dumnezeu este aici chiar în creatia lui, un Dumnezeu misto întolit în orase frumoase si toamne splendide si-ntr-un fel de nostalgie blînda a Virginiei de sud în masina lui Dorin (country music în boxe)... îmi vad acum lungul nasului si vad lungul nasului literaturii caci eu am vazut Sears Tower si am vazut Chicago, în ceata verzuie, de sus, din Sears Tower si pe terasa unui zgîrie-nori alergau doi ogari si i-am zis Gabrielei, cum ne beam Coca-cola, ca viata mea s-a sfîrsit. e ca în Magii lui Eliot: am vazut Occidentul am trecut cu avionul peste Manhattan am privit cu ochi mari moartea mea fermecata caci moartea mea este asta. am privit vitrinele cu motociclete Suzuki si m-am vazut în ele jegos, anonim am umblat ore-n sir prin Königstrasse printre pustii cu skateboards. eram omul alb-negru dintr-o poza color Kafka între arcadieni. poeme, poheme, filosentiame modernisme si discutii la cîrciuma despre care-i mai mare clasamente facute-n tren (veneam din Onesti): care-s cele mai bune romane românesti de azi cei mai buni zece poeti în viata asa cum papuasii scuipa si acum în ceaunul cu vin de palmier, sa fermenteze... dar poezia e un semn de subdezvoltare si la fel sa-ti privesti Dumnezeul în ochi desi nu l-ai vazut niciodata... am vazut jocuri pe computer si librarii si mi s-au parut la fel amîndoua am înteles ca filosofia e entertainment si ca mistica e show-biz ca sînt doar suprafete aici dar mai complexe decît orice profunzime. ce pot fi eu acolo? un om încîntat, fericit pîna la nebunie dar cu viata lui terminata. cu viata lui fututa definitiv, ca a viermelui din cireasa care s-a crezut si el cineva pîna s-a trezit în lumina, cu gunoiul lui lînga el (gunoiul meu, amarîtele mele poeme) am vazut oameni pentru care legea avorturilor e mai importanta decît sfarîmarea Sovietelor am vazut ceruri înalte si albastre, pline de luminitele avioanelor si am cunoscut urletul celor patru mii de universitati. m-am suit în turnul Eiffel pe scari si-am suit în Centrul Pompidou prin tubul de plexiglas si la Iowa City am fost la Fox Head... am trancanit despre postmodernism la Ludwigsburg cu Hassan si Bradbury si Gass si Barth si Federman asa cum mai bavardeaza condamnatul cu calaul lui am înregistrat pe reportofon vuietul securii care-mi desparte capul de trunchi. îmi venea sa plîng în luxul din Monrepos: cum e posibil? de ce ne-am nascut de pomana? de ce sa luptam cu Vadim si cu Funar? de ce nu putem o data trai? de ce acum, cînd am putea, în fine, trai respiram din nou mirosul acru-al pubelelor? postmodernism si pa’sopt deconstructie si tribalism pragmatism si ombilicuri si viata, care este aiurea... am vazut San Francisco, golful albastru cu nave si mai departe oceanul cu insule-mpadurite Pacificul, daca poti sa-ti închipui! mi-am muiat palmele-n oceanul Pacific „thanking the Lord for my fingers”. m-a prins un dor de duca dement. si la celebra librarie a lui Ferlinghetti (exista cu adevarat!) ca si cînd ai patrunde constient în propriul tau vis sau într-o carte... m-au înnebunit soselele din San Francisco si Grant Street cu chinezarii si palmierii uriasi si fetele extrem de haioase din saloanele de coafura (clientele nu se priveau în oglinzi, ci-n monitoare color) si noptile americane, tii minte, Mircea T.? lînga casuta ta si-a Melissei, dupa ce întreaga dupa-amiaza privisem filme SF, mîncasem tacos si bausem bere Old Style cînd am iesit afara ne-au coplesit stelele si avioanele tacute miscîndu-se printre ele si în masina ta, vechiul Ford, aerul era înghetat si m-ai dus, trecînd prin orasul gol, pîna la dragul meu Mayflower Residence Hall. si paradele de Thanksgiving si de Halloween cu batrîni bancheri costumati în ursi si clowni si baiatul de origine ceha interesat de Faulkner si micuta coreeana din Cambus-ul galben si melancolia frunzelor galbene în Iowa City si noi doi, Gabi si eu, facînd cumparaturi, ore-n sir la Target si K Mart si Goodwilluri dar si la fantasticul Mall din centru... ...mestecam bomboane cu scortisoara în prima mea dimineata în Washington cu aparatul foto de gît, în frigul pietei Dupont... ...am dat 7 $ sa vad Zoo-ul din New Orleans si ploua, si toate animalele erau în vizuinile lor... ... în taxi, certîndu-ma cu soferul negru, nepricepînd o vorba din ce-mi spunea: “Hey, man...” ... mese minunate în restaurante chinezesti, thailandeze, dar cea mai minunata la Meandros, grecii din Soho... ...The Art Institute (impresionisti cît cuprinde) ...The Freak Museum (amaizing: trei Vermeer!) ...The National Gallery (retrospectiva Malevici) un om înghetat pentru o suta de ani deschide ochii si alege sa moara. ce a vazut era prea frumos si prea trist. caci nu avea pe nimeni acolo si între degete avea panaritiu si dintii îi erau asa stricati si în minte avea tot felul de lucruri fara utilitate si tot ce facuse vreodata avea jumatate din consistenta vîntului. un om inventase, pe-o insula îndepartata o masina de cusut facuta din bambus si se credea genial, caci nimeni dintre ai lui nu mai scornise asa ceva. iar cînd au venit olandezii l-au rasplatit pentru inventiune dîndu-i în dar una electrica. (multumesc, a zis, si a ales sa moara) nu-mi gasesc locul, nu mai sînt de aici si nu pot fi de acolo iar poezia? ma simt ca ultimul mohican ridicol asemeni dinozaurului Denver. poezia cea mai buna e poezia suportabila, nimic altceva: doar suportabila. noi am facut zece ani poezie buna fara sa stim ce poezie proasta am facut. am facut literatura mare, si acum întelegem ca ea nu poate trece de prag, tocmai fiindca e mare, prea mare, sufocata de grasimea ei. nici poemu-asta nu-i poezie caci doar ce nu e poezie mai poate rezista ca poezie doar ce nu poate fi poezie. Occidentul mi-a deschis ochii si m-a dat cu capul de pragul de sus. las altora ce a fost viata mea pîna azi. sa creada altii în ce am crezut eu. sa iubeasca altii ce am iubit eu. eu nu mai pot. nu mai pot, nu mai pot

THE WEST By Mircea Cartarescu I saw New York and Paris, San Francisco and Frankfurt I’ve been to places I’ve never dreamt of going. I came back with a stack of photographs and death in my soul. I had thought that I meant something and that my life meant something I had seen God’s eye looking at me through the microscope watching me writhe on the slide. now I don’t believe in anything. I was good for a dumb stability for a deep forgetfulness for a lonely vagina. I was wandering through places that are no more. oh, my world is no more! my world is no more! my stinky world in which I meant something. I, mircea cartarescu, am nobody in the new world there are 1038 mircea cartarescus here and people 1038 times better than me there are books here better than everything I’ve ever done and women who couldn’t care less about them. the pragmatic egg breaks and God is here in His own creation, a fashionably dressed God in beautiful cities and splendid autumns and in a sort of mild nostalgia of southern Virginia in Dorin’s car (country music in speakers.) I see my own limits and I see the limits of literature for I have seen Sears Tower and I saw Chicago, in greenish mist, from above, from Sears Tower and on the terrace of a skyscrapers there were two greyhounds running and I told Gabriela, as we drank Coca-Cola, that my life is over. it’s like in Eliot’s Magi: I saw the West I flew over Manhattan I watched with big eyes my charmed death for this is my death. I watched the windows, with Suzuki motorcycles and saw my reflection in them, dirty, anonymous I walked for hours on Konigstrasse among the kids on skateboards. I was the black-and-white man in a color photograph Kafka among Arcadians. Poems, pohemes, philosentiems modernisms and talks at the pub over who’s the greatest rankings made on the train (back from Onesti): which are the best Romanian novels today the best ten poets alive just like the Papuans who even now spit into the palm wine cauldron, so it will ferment… but poetry is a sign of underdevelopment so is looking your God in the eye although you never saw Him… I saw computer games and bookstores and both looked the same to me I understand philosophy is entertainment and mysticism is show-biz that there are only surfaces here but they’re more complex than any depth. what can I be there? a delighted man, crazed with happiness but his life would be over his life would be permanently fucked, like the worm in the cherry who once thought he was something until he woke up in the light, with garbage next to him (my garbage, my poor poems) I saw people for whom the abortion law was more important than the fall of the soviets. I saw tall and blue skies, full of the flickering lights of the planes and knew the howl of the four thousand universities. I climbed up the Eiffel tower on the stairs and went up the Pompidou Center through the Plexiglas tube and in Iowa City I went to Fox Head…. I chatted about postmodernism in Ludwigsburg With Hassan and Bradbury and Gass and Barth and Federman just like the condemned braves his executioner I recorded on my portable recorder the wailing of the blade that severed my head from my body. I felt like crying seeing the luxury in Monrepos: how is this possible? why were we born in vain? why should we fight with Vadim and Funar? why can’t we, for once, live? why now, when we could finally live we breathe again the putrid smell of the dumpsters? postmodernisms and forty-eighters, deconstruction and tribalism pragmatism and umbilical cords and life, which is awry… I saw San Francisco, the blue gulf with ships and then farther away the ocean with forested islands the Pacific, if you can imagine! I dipped my hands in the Pacific ocean, “thanking the Lord for my fingers.” my soles were burning feverishly. and at Ferlinghetti’s famous bookstore (it really exists!) as if you consciously entered your own dream, or a book… the streets in San Francisco drove me crazy and Grant Street with Chinese paraphernalia and the huge palm trees and the very funny faces in the hair salons (the customers did not see themselves in mirrors, but in color monitors). and the American nights—remember, Mircea T.? next to your and Melissa’s cottage, after we had watched SF movies the entire afternoon, eaten tacos, and drunk Old Style beer. when we went out we were overwhelmed by the stars and the silent planes moving through them and in your car, the old Ford, the air was frozen and you took me, through the empty city, to my dear Mayflower Residence Hall. and the Thanksgiving and Halloween parades with old bankers dressed as bears and clowns and the boy of Czech origin interested in Faulkner and the little Korean girl from the yellow Cambus and the melancholia of the yellow leaves in Iowa City and the two of us, Gabi and I, shopping for hours and hours at Target and K Mart and Goodwills and also at the fantastic Mall downtown… …I was chewing cinnamon mints in my first morning in Washington with my camera dangling on my neck, in the cold air in Dupont Circle… … I paid $7 to see the Zoo in New Orleans, and it was raining, and all the animals were in their shelters… …in the taxi, arguing with the black driver, not understanding a word he was saying: “Hey, man…” …wonderful dinners in Chinese and Thai restaurants but the most wonderful at Meandros, the Greeks in Soho… …The Art Institute (full of impressionists) …The Freak Museum (amazing: three Vermeers!) …The National Gallery (Malevic retrospective) a man frozen for a hundred years opens his eyes and chooses to die. what he saw was too beautiful and too sad. for he had nobody there and he had a nail infection and his teeth were so rotten and in his mind had all sorts of useless things and everything he had ever done was half the consistency of the wind. a man had invented, on a distant island a sewing machine, out of bamboo and he thought he was a genius, because none of his peers had made up anything like it. And when the Dutch came, they repaid him for the invention giving him an electric one instead. (thanks, he said, and chose to die) I don’t find my place, I’m no longer from here and cannot be from there. and poetry? I feel like the last Mohican ridiculous like Denver the dinosaur the best poetry is the bearable poetry nothing else: just bearable. we made good poetry for ten years without knowing what bad poetry we were making. we made grand literature, and now we understand that it cannot go through the door, precisely because it’s big, too big, suffocated in its own fat. this poem is not really a poem either for only what is not poetry can endure as poetry only what is not poetry. The West opened my eyes and banged my head against the upper doorframe I leave to others what my life has been until today. so that others believe in what I once believed. so that others love what I once loved. I can’t anymore, can’t anymore, can’t anymore.