Linguistic Treason

Mircea Cartarescu--Levantul (3)

A third installment of The Levant (first here, second here). To recap: so far, the young Manoli, traveling on a fast boat in the Levantine archipelago to go meet with his sister and 30 soldiers, is deeply distressed about the fate of his dear country, Wallachia, suffering until a cruel foreign tyrant.The year is somewhere in the first half of the 19th century--anything up to 1848, really; the vocabulary and mood reflect that. The story takes a digressive turn to discuss the charms of the women of different ethnicities (mostly from the Levant, but not only); this makes up for the bulk of today's installment. Of course, none of those charms can be topped by those of the Romanian women, as exemplified by Zenaida, Manoli's sister.

Until now the whole thing can be regarded as a gentle parody bordering on pastiche of the mannerisms, style, etc. of 19th century poets animated by Romantic revolutionary and nationalistic ideas. But something happens at the end of this fragment that, when I first read it 14+ years ago, made my heart flutter--and in a way, it still does. Can you spot it?

Before you get at it, though, you'll see a link, corresponding to the Romanian line: "Multe flori sînt, dar puţine rod in lume o să poarte." If you're Romanian, you probably already know what I'm talking about. If you're not, let me explain: that line is actually taken in its entirety from a famous Eminescu poem, Criticilor mei (To my critics), and in fact, it represents the first two lines of that Eminescu poem. They are pretty famous and will sound familiar to anybody who got a basic education in Romanian (say, at least high school level?). I included the link to the Romanian original; here's a well-accepted translation, which I couldn't use for reasons of rhyme and rhythm. Cartarescy borrows that line, and it works seamlessly here, but definitely not in the sense that it was initially used by Eminescu (which was more aphoristic, and referring to poets and their work's endurance, rather then to women). (If you want to know more about Eminescu, just do a basic Google search--there are too many sites and at the moment I don't feel I can recommend one over the other.)

No time for a long tedious account of my treasons....too numerous....just enjoy!

Greaca are drăgănele, şi perfum, şi-nţelepciune Ce primit-a de la graţii, musulmana ca de prune Are ochii ce prin deasa feregea abia-i prevezi; Frînca are dinţi de boabe de sidef şi ochii verzi; O chirghiză face-n piaţă mahmudele zece mii, Vai, nebun ar fi acela ce pe ea ar tîrgui, Că i-ar soarbe sărutarea peste perne de şiraz De-ar rămîne fără suflu, făr’ bujorii din obraz! Machedoana, nu am coarde l-a mea arfă îndestule Să îi cînt zulufii negri, sînurile nesătule Şi sprîncenele-mbinate, parcă-i arcul lui Amor; E trufaşă dar e dulce şi-are ciucuri la botfor; Neagră este egipţianca, ca o noapte de iubire, Se topeşte in desmierduri, gungureşte în delire, Arde şi se-ncolăceşte ca o viţă pe arac Pe un boi de june mîndru; talianca e un drac Ce te-nşeala şi te vinde şi se uită numa-n punge Şi ibovnicul îşi pune la răscruci de te împunge; Sîrba cea cu salbe multe peste peptul ca de crin E sfioasă ca şi ciuta, după ea cu toţi suspin. Nimărui ea nu-i dă floarea junii sale feciorii Şi se face maică blînda într-un schit de pe pustii; Multe flori sînt, dar puţine rod in lume o să poarte Multe mărgaritarele sus pe ceriu ard departe; Multe sînt femei cu ochii neguratici şi codaţi Dar nici una nu-i mai dulce ca rumânca din Carpaţi. Pletele prea lunge-i curge ca o apă volutoasă Pîn’la la gleznele ivite sub şalvarii de mătasă, Pîn’la imineii d’aur şi cu vîrfuri răsucite, Faţa-i este alabastru, pleoapele-i sînt înnegrite Cu kohl scump de Kios, pleoape ca ghiocii zuvelcaţi; Gene grele şi-ncurcate, paşi mărunţi şi cletinaţi Inima-i se duce-n taină dup-al ţării beizade, Calimachi, suflet putred, dar frumos ca viaţa e, Fiul cînelui ce ţara o mînca şi-o bea la masa Şi curvarul mahalalei ce din răutăţi nu iasă. El e ghimpele ce-n sînul Zenaidei, rotunzior, Işi făcu sălaş ca furii.                               Dar, effendi narator, Cam grăbişi cu diegesis şi te luă gura-nainte Să purcedem dar din locul ce-l lăsarăm fără minte, Să ne înturnăm la junul Manoil, ce lîngă cîrmă Valul verde, orizonul cu privirea el le scîrmă..

The Greek woman has gold trinkets, perfumes, wisdom and insight— Gifts from Graces; the' Arab woman is so dear to the sight And her eyes are plums you barely see through the veil’s screen; The French woman’s teeth are made of pearls, her eyes are green; A Kyrgyz woman’s worth ten thousand gold piastres in the market, Why, a fool would be the one to bargain for that charming packet, For she’d sip his kiss for hours on the satin bed sheet hollow Till he’s left utterly breathless, till his cheeks are pale and sallow. For the girl that’s Macedonian, my harp’s chords may fail the test, When it sings of her black curls, or of her hungry heaving breasts, And her interlocking eyebrows like Cupid’s bow between her tresses She is proud but sweet as honey and her shoes are hemmed with tassels. The Egyptian’s dark and fragrant like a night of sinful love, She will melt under caresses, moan and coo just like a dove, Burn and coil around a handsome youth like vines on posts, In her ecstasy; but the Italian is a devil at her most, Who’ll betray you and will only have her eyes set on your gold, And will have her lover stab you in the heart, you poor cuckold! And the Serbian, her bosom hidden under rows of charms, Is fair and shy just like a deer, and all want her in their arms. But to no one does she yield the flower of her virgin youth, In a hermitage she’ll hide then, as a nun seeking the truth. This world has so many flowers, but so few will sweet fruit bear, Many tiny stars are burning up above in the tall air; Many women of the world have dark and pretty almond eyes, But none sweeter than the girl who’s born under Romanian skies. Her too long and shiny tresses flow like a voluptuous stream Down and round her tiny ankles which in silky shalwars gleam, Down to her embroidered golden shoes with curled-up toes. Cheeks are sculpted alabaster, eyelids darkened with Kios, Costly black kohl—so her eyelids are like furtive cowrie shells. Eyelashes are long and heavy, her steps small and hip-propelled. Secretly her heart belongs to Calimach, the heir to throne, Rotten soul, but fairer than the Alexander Macedon. Son of the infernal bastard who this country drinks and eats, And the neighborhood’s philanderer who will terrorize the streets. He’s the thorn who’n Zenaida’s round and cozy breast Nested like a thief.                           Effendi story-teller, you should rest, Methinks that your diegesis is a little rushed and scurried; Let’s proceed from the same place we left before you hurried, Let’s go back to our young Manoli, at the prow, Who the green wave, the horizon, scopes under his eager brow.

Mircea Cartarescu--Levantul (2)

Ok, second installment from my Levantul saga (first one here). Some of it is so, so funny, and I'm not sure the irony comes through. Especially the switch from a very serious, sorrowful registry to a lewd, soft, romantic one (towards the end).

Tînărule, a ta faţă îmi apare străvezie, Gemetul ce scoţi e oare de amor sau de mînie, Mîna cu inele grele şi cu petre răsucite Pe jungher sau pe şold fraged va voi să se invite? Ah, pe junghiu! Si degrabă, căci tiranii înca rîde Conjurati de arvaniţii cu a lor turbane hîde, Incă mai jupoi ţeranii, înca junele le smulge Din a mumelor lor braţe, inca ţara o mai mulge! Tu de duci la Zante, unde în barcaz, la felinari Te aşteaptă a ta soră cu treizeci de palicari A ta soră! Zenaida! Cine-o vede se uimeşte Cine buzele de rujă, cine ochii i-i zăreşte I se pare cum că Hero vie s-au împeliţat Să-l aştepte iar pe Leandros lîng-al mărilor palat.

Young man, your visage appears all translucent to my eyes, The deep moan you heave, it’s rage, or is it amour in disguise? Your hand, covered with old heavy golden rings, will perhaps grip The quick knife, or will it want to touch a tender, curvy hip? Ah, the knife! And quickly, for the tyrants laugh and roar Guarded by the fierce Albanians in their turbans laced with gore They still rob the peasants and they cruelly rape their young, who cry, In their mothers’ arms, and they will suck this country dry! You—you leave for Zante, to the sailboat by whose light, Your dear sister with her thirty palikars await to fight. Oh, your sister! Zenaida! He who sees her is amazed— Who her rouge lips or her bright eyes glimpses, will be dazed, And believe that he can once again sweet Hero see, As she waits for her Leander in the palace by the sea.

NOTES:
1. On arvaniţi=Albanians. Arvanit/pl. arvaniţi is an archaic word no longer used in Romanian, which comes from the Modern Greek arvanitis, for Albanian. To this day there is a small ethnic Albanian community in Greece called Arvanits (more here).There are many other names in Romanian for ethnic Albanians -- skiptari, schipetari (from the official name of Albania, Shqiperia), arbinasi, or the more common arnauti. I think this word is a wonderful example of Balkan syncretism, where an Albanian word becomes Romanian via Greek. Well, I'm not sure how Albanian the word "Albanian" is (I know, very confusing), but Wikipedia provides some clues.

Regrettably, while Romanian seems to have at least 5-6 words for "Albanians" floating around, due to a long history of intermingling and what not, I can only seem to find one such word in English. Unfortunately, "Albanian" doesn't carry within the rich connotations of "arvaniţi<," only one of which is linguistic, and others having to do with the social and political role Albanian soldiers played in the Ottoman Empire.

2. Palicari=palikar//brave men. Another wonderful archaism employed by Cartarescu for maximum linguistic authenticity and color. Again, it's derived from a Greek word, pallikári, which used to mean a Greek volunteer during the 1821-1828 Greek independence war; it came to mean, by extension, a "brave man." I initially translated "palicari" with "brave men," which is quite accurate, but lacks local color, then I discovered that "palikar" is a legitimate (though esoteric) word in English, so...I went ahead and used it! I'm still waffling a little on this one--mainly, because the English meaning of "palikar" is very restrictive ("Greek soldier in the war of independence against Turkey, 1821-1828") and does not include the general meaning that it has acquired in Romanian (and possibly throughout the Balkans, who knows?) of brave, strong man.

3. If you need your memory refreshed re: Hero and Leander, here's a nice summary.

Mircea Cartarescu--Levantul (1)

Oh boy, here goes
I've been working on this for quite a while, and it's still so maddeningly frustrating.
What is it?
Oh, just something that, I think, is of the most brilliant Romanian pieces of writing of the past century. Scratch that: EVER. Concocted in the terrifyingly deep mines of genius harbored by Cartarescu's brain. Mind-blowingly erudite fun, engaging in its vortex the whole history of Romanian literature--and of the Romanian history for that matter. I still remember when I first read it (back in...oh...1992, probably, two or three years after its initial publication)--it was like somebody lifted the top of my skull, like a detachable lid, and had exposed the inside of my brain to the most potent, delectable literary drug that ever existed, and I had the chance to absorb directly into my nervous system. I read the whole book in one sitting, and then reread it again several times. And my brain's been cracked open ever since.

Unfortunately, it's a totally untranslatable book. And I don't mean that in the sense that nothing can be completely and fully translated, that there will always be meanings in the original that will be inevitably lost in translation, that hey, all you can do is just approximate at best, and try to get the readers to have a good idea of the original.

No, this is bad. Levantul (The Levant) holds, I believe, the distinction of being the most untranslatable book I've ever seen (or heard of). No matter how hard I, or anyone I know, will try, this book will remain impenetrable to a foreign audience. And it's not even the fault of the translator, really.

It's just that the kind of literary pastiche and irony and literary colportage that Cartarescu does in this epic, cannot be understood without 1) an intimate understanding of Romanian history and its literary beginnings; 2) an intimate knowledge of all Romanian poets, past and present. Cartarescu recalls practically all the major literary influences, all the "landmarks" in our short and troubled history, and plays with them, quotes them, borrows them, twists them, copies and imitates them in a maddening dance, with such juicy linguistic skill that--well, see above re: mind being blown. It's a sort of Romanian Finnegan's Wake--only more readable. And it also rhymes. Yeah.

But I am nothing if not the Don Quijote of translation! The defender of imaginary, long-lost causes! But only because I'm so truly, madly, deeply in love with Cartarescu's text (oh, my Dulcinea!), that I cannot, simply cannot bear the thought of it being lost forever to other languages--trapped in its own culture, unrecognized globally for its uberbrilliance. Many of Cartarescu's other books, both of poetry and fiction, have been translated in all major languages (and some minor ones); this one, people knew better than to touch it.

Did I mention I'm a fool, though? A double fool, at that, not only because the text is untranslatable, but also because I'm running the real, considerable risk of ruining it forever for English speakers with my shoddy translation attempts. I don't wanna do that, though. So consider the following translation a game of mine, that only reflects the beauty of Cartarescu's original in the same way...say, the moon reflects the sun's light. I'm guessing the comparison in the shine factor between the sun and the moon is almost right in this instance. Except if you maybe replace the moon with a tiny candle? Yep, that's probably more like it.

Here's the beginning, in which the hero thinks of his beloved Levant. I'll discuss  some of the "untranslatable" factors after:

THE LEVANT by Mircea Cartarescu Cintul Intii Floare-a lumilor, val verde cu lucori de petre rare, Mari pe care vase d-aur port piper si scortisoare, Ca si piepteni trecuti molcom printr-un par imparfumat, Strop de roua-n care ceriul e cu nouri mestecat, O, Levant, in cari zefirul umfle-ai sei obraji de zeu, Cu simtiri aprinse umpli neguros sufletul meu! O, Levant, Levant ferice, cum nu simti a mea turbare, Cum nu vede al tau ochiu cu vapai de chihlimbare Noaptea turbure din peptu-mi, zbuciumul ce am in sin, De cind sunt destept pe lume, de cind stiu ca sunt roman! Cum n-am ochii mii, ca Argus, ca cu mii de lacrimioare, Sa jelesc ticalosita a poporului meu stare, Preste care lupi si pardosi s-au facut stapini deplin Zgiriind cu gheare lunge al Valahiei drag sin!" Astfel cugeta un june pe-un caic ce zbura iute De la Corfu pin-la Zante peste apele hirsute Ce spargeau in valurele soarele ce sta sa caza Prin vapai de foc si miniu, prin lucire de turcoaza.

THE LEVANT by Mircea Cartarescu Book One “Flower of the worlds, green wave with shimmers of rare precious stones, Seas traversed by golden ships all fraught with pepper, cinnamons, Just like sparkling combs crossed gently through rich, wavy, fragrant hair, Bright dew drop in which the sky and clouds are blended in the air, O, Levant, in which the zephyr blows his godly cheeks with zeal, In my melancholy, bleak soul, burning passions you instill! Oh, Levant of joy and wonder, how do you not feel my ire, How does your eye fail to fathom, with its glowing amber fire, The tormented night inside me, the dark agony within, Since I’ve come into this world, and since Romanian I’ve been. How do I not have a thousand eyes, like Argus, so with tears Thousands, I can mourn the declination of my land for years, Over which the wolves and leopards made themselves a ruling nest, Scratching with their long and sharp claws at Wallachia’s dear breast!” Thus a young man ruminated on the deck of a fast sloop, Which over the foamy waters closed the Corfu - Zante loop, Breaking into sparkly waves the sunset’s multicolor sheen, In soft glows of cinnabar, and heaps of deep aquamarine.

Where to begin? First of all, let me confess: I'm not a very good connoisseur of Old English (just got a book, I'm working on it!), and I'm not a very good connoisseur of 18th and 19th century spelling conventions, either.Cartarescu lets loose and uses archaisms or archaicizing (ok, not a word, but here's what it should mean: word forms that sound "old" although they may have never been used as such) forms--to give his epic that old, brassy, Homeric feeling. Every word that can be archaically spelled, basically is; archaisms and neologisms coexist happily, for this is just a game. So, let's make a short, incomplete inventory:

- lucori (pl.) archaic form for "luciri" or "straluciri"--shimmer(s)

- petre (pl.) archaic plural form for "piatra" (stone/rock)--instead of "pietre"

- scortisoare (pl.) (cinnamon)--the plural does not exist in modern Romanian--it doesn't exist in modern English, either, which why I used it!

- d-aur: archaic contraction for "de-aur" (of gold)

- piepteni (pl.) archaic plural form for "comb"

- imparfumat --archaic (or archaic sounding) participle for "perfumed" (modern Romanian: parfumat, without the prefix im-)

- ceriu (sky), nouri (clouds), sei (his), umfle -- archaic plural and verb forms, off by a vowel (modern Romanian: cer(ul), nori, sai, umfla

Etc. This is just a morpho-syntactic level, but many words carry pragmatic and semantic meanings that are pretty much idiosyncratic. For example, the whole tenor of this rant (especially the part about "the melancholy bleak soul") is an ironic nod to the exaggerated Romantic response to --well, just about everything. If one digs deep enough, one could probably find almost the exact same phrase used in some obscure "little Romantic" Romanian poet. And to understand that, is to know that Romanian Romanticism was really delayed, and came into bloom with the 1848 Revolution. You do know about the importance of the 1848 Revolution in Romanian history, don't you? I thought so. So then you can understand (or not) the righteous indignation of this young man, so bitter that his homeland is going to the dogs (well, wolves, in his formulation), as well as the thick layers of irony that Cartarescu piles on, given that the state of Romania at the time he was writing this, in the late 80s, was not much better--Ceausescu's communist rule was in many respects just as stifling and woe-provoking.

But let me not get ahead of myself. The beginning is actually EASY in comparison with what there is to come. I mean, how do you translate Cartarescu imitating Blaga in the middle of a mock-epic written in perfectly executed trochaic octameters with an aa-bb-etc. rhyme pattern--how, sweet Gods of Rhyming, HOW? The better question, yet, is: how do you do it in a way that readers will actually UNDERSTAND? Get? Relate to? And possibly--maybe--ENJOY???

I'm telling you, it's not possible. And yet here I am, battling the windmills of a linguistic labyrinth and getting all tangled up in my complex metaphors. I'm guessing I would need a translation partner who's as erudite in matters of literature as Cartarescu is, and who would helpfully offer me suggestions. "Sure, Shakespeare used to spell "trail" "trayle." Go ahead, be thy quill speedy henceforth!" Oh, I'm rubbish at Medieval talk, and I know it. But this hypothetical partner would set me straight. Will offer me alternate spellings and words that only Byron had used to describe the cause of Eleutheria (oddly relevant in this context), and will hold my hand and apply cold compresses when it all becomes just too unbearable.

At any rate--consider this my first, enormously flawed, installment of Levantul. Which is to say, expect a few more similarly flawed installments on a regular basis.