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Yale Journal of Literary Translation issue 18 Spring 2026

Keine Ferne macht dich schwierig, Kommst geflogen und gebannt, Und zuletzt, des Lichts begierig, Bist du Schmetterling verbrannt. Mehr Licht!

No distance can deter your course You come bewitched, in frenzied flight And as the light seduces you— A butterfly—your wings ignite. —Goethe, 1814 Öst-westlicher Divan. Trans. Toby Platt More light! —Goethe, 1832 (on his deathbed)

Let t

e rf

ro m

Edito rs

In Goethe’s “Selige Sehnsucht” or “Blessed Longing,” the speaker describes, in second-personal address, a nameless creature’s turn away from shadow and toward the light of a flame in which it yearns to burn. The creature—at once a person and a butterfly—is extinguished by its own longing. Goethe’s poem has proved particularly fertile soil for a cornucopia of interpretations. The flame to which the butterfly sacrifices itself has been variously read as a symbol of religious devotion, earthly love, and poetic creation. It is in embrace of one or all of these transcendent passions that the ego of the light-seeker dissolves. By reading Goethe into his own poem, we understand Goethe’s own poetic pursuit as just such a craving for light. The poet’s desire to reach the pure blaze of creative inspiration is always bound by constraints of time and finitude. Just as Goethe’s own cry for light dissolved into darkness on his deathbed, the butterfly’s “frenzied flight” toward the light culminates in the creature turning to ash—its perishing is the necessary end of its winged yearning. But if the poet’s drive to capture her source of inspiration ultimately results in an artistic martyrdom, whereby her ego dissolves into the flame of the work, the translator is presented with a different challenge. The translated text always appears to the reader as if through a warped, uneven sheet of glass. A translation amounts to a kind of refraction of the original text’s light.

A good translator of course attempts to minimize this effect—that is, to give the reader the most direct and unmediated access to the original despite all constraints. But at the same time, he may embrace the generative capacities of refraction. While the medium of translation warps or distorts the reader’s view of the original, it may simultaneously open it up, just as a prism splits a lone pale beam into a rainbow. Goethe’s “Selige Sehnsucht” is, in fact, a kind of translation in its own right. The poem first appeared in Goethe’s West-East Divan, which emerged from his encounter with the poetry of Hafez through the translations of Austrian orientalist Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall. This confrontation’s influence here is unmistakable: the image of butterfly or moth consumed by the flame of devotion is a motif taken straight from Persian poetry; indeed, the interchangeability (or rather, indistinguishability) of worshipper, lover, and poet in Goethe’s poem is all a grand thematic borrowing from the Persian canon. Thus, we have taken up refraction as the theme for this issue. The pieces in these pages embody translation’s capacity to refract the light that lives inside every original text and its language. Words and images that were once penned in Classical Chinese, Renaissance Italian, Aljamiado Spanish, and many other tongues shine anew in modern English. Translation allows us to carry the fire of the original work into the present, distorted as it may be, in order for the text to endure in an eternal becoming. And so the translator does not fly too close to the sun, but rather absorbs and refracts its life-giving glow. We hope you enjoy reading this issue. Sincerely, Alexia Dochnal & Toby Platt Editors-in-Chief

Sonnet 1, Amorous rhymes Sonetto 1, Rime amorose Vittoria Colonna translated by Alexia Dochnal

Sonnet 90, Spiritual rhymes Sonetto 90, Rime spirituali Vittoria Colonna translated by Alexia Dochnal

I Live at the Head of the River Yangtze 我住長江頭 Li Zhi-Yi translated by George Grube

Story of Joseph ‫حديث دا يوسف‬ Anonymous translated by Eliza Josephson

Excerpt from So I Don’t Forget Sinon j’oublie (extrait) Clémentine Mélois translated by Greer Kennedy Spring Primavara Lucian Blaga translated by Elena Miinea

Winter Iarna Vasile Alecsandri translated by Elena Miinea

The Sun and the Wildflower 太阳和野花 Hai Zi translated by Elisabeth Peng

Excerpt from Slaves Порча аз Ғуломон Saddridin Ayni translated by Toby Platt

Six Elegies Sulpicia translated by Penelope Pyo

Homesick for Prague Heimwech nach Prag Joseph Roth translated by Zachary Suri

Jian Jian Lament (Simple Wail) 简简吟 Bai Juyi translated by Helen Zhang

The Sonnets of Vittoria Colonna translated from Italian by Alexia Dochnal

Vittoria Colonna wrote her rime amorose, or amorous rhymes, shortly after the death of her husband, the Marquis of Pescara, Francesco Ferrante d’Avalos, who died following the Battle of Pavia in 1525. Her love sonnets are a testament to the poetic language that emerges from the loss of an earthly beloved. Colonna’s later rime spirituali, or spiritual rhymes—many of which she dedicated to her close friend Michelangelo, yet none of which she intended to reveal to a wider audience—embody a shift in her voice and style. The mature Colonna longs not for the ardent yet impermanent love of the husband she lost, but for the eternal, tranquil love of the divine. For the translations below, I have used the 1860 edition of Colonna’s poems published by Casa Editrice Barbèra in Florence.

Sonetto 1, Rime amorose Vittoria Colonna, ca. 1526

Scrivo sol per sfogar l’interna doglia, Di che si pasce il cor, ch’altro non vole, E non per giunger lume al mio bel sole, Che lasciò in terra sì onorata spoglia. Giusta cagione a lamentar m’invoglia; Ch’io scemi la sua gloria assai mi dole; Per altra penna e più saggie parole Verrà chi a morte il suo gran nome toglia. La pura fè, l’ardor, l’intensa pena Mi scusi appo ciascun, grave cotanto Che nè ragion nè tempo mai l’affrena. Amaro lagrimar, non dolce canto, Foschi sospiri e non voce serena, Di stil no, ma di duol mi danno il vanto.

Sonnet 1, Amorous rhymes

I write solely to vent the inner pain From which my heart, wanting no more, draws might, And not to add rays to my lovely light— He who left on earth his noble form once slain. A rightful motive drives my dark complaint; That I may dim his glory fills me with fright; Another pen with words more wise and right Will be the one that saves from death his name. Let faith and zeal and penance, pure and somber, Absolve me before all, their gravity Too great for reason or for time to temper. A bitter weeping, not a sweet melody, A troubled sigh, and not a tranquil murmur— They let me flaunt—not style, but agony.

Sonetto 90, Rime spirituali Vittoria Colonna, ca. 1540

Stella del nostro mar chiara e secura,1 Che ‘l sol del paradiso in terra ornasti Del mortal sacro manto, anzi adombrasti Col vel virgineo tuo sua luce pura; Chi guarda al gran miracol, più non cura Del mondo vile, e i vani empi contrasti Sdegna dell’oste antico, poi ch’armasti D’invitta alta virtù nostra natura. Veggio il figliuol di Dio nudrirsi al seno D’una vergine madre, ed ora insieme Risplender con la veste umana in cielo. Onde là su nel sempre bel sereno Al beato s’accende il vivo zelo, Al fedel servo qui la cara speme. 1

The Virgin Mary. Colonna echoes Mary’s Latin title, Stella Maris (Star of the Sea), which was popularized in early medieval religious texts and figured the Virgin as the patroness of sea travelers.

Sonnet 90, Spiritual rhymes

O star of our sea,1 you who bright and sure With mortal hallowed cloak adorned the sun Of paradise on earth; or, better yet, who spun With your chaste veil a shadow on light pure; Whoever follows the great miracle is lured No more by this vile globe, and so will shun The vain and godless ancient foe, outwon By the virtue with which you armed our nature. I see the son of God feed at the breast Of a virgin mother, and now they glow In human garb, together, at heaven’s crest. Beyond, in the realm of beautiful rest, A lively zeal illuminates the blessed— Dear hope is lit in the servant here below. 1

The Virgin Mary. Colonna echoes Mary’s Latin title, Stella Maris, which was popularized in early medieval religious texts and figured the Virgin as the patroness of sea travelers.

我住長江頭李之儀 [Li Zhi-Yi, 12th c. CE]

我住長江頭君住長江尾日日思君不見君共飲長江水此水幾時休此恨何時已只願君心似我心定不負相思意

I Live at the Head of the River Yangtze translated from Chinese by George Grube

I live where the Yangtze springs; You live where the Yangtze drains. Day after day, I miss you, but don’t see you… Together we drink its water. This water—when will it rest? This heartache—when will it cease? I just hope that your heart meet my heart. This would surely let us long in peace.

This poem is written in aljamía, a form used by Muslim communities in late medieval Iberia, in which early Castillian was written in Arabic script. Although the text appears Arabic, its sound and meaning are Spanish, and it carries traces of Arabic phonology that give it a distinctive accent shaped by bilingual use. The Poema de Yuçuf, composed anonymously in the fourteenth century, preserves the story of Joseph as it appears in the Qurʾān, adapted into this hybrid linguistic form.

sla ted fro m

jam iad

pa ni sh

by El iza

Jo se ph so

J os f o y Stor

h ep

•t

n ra

Translation process sample ‫ْاْل ََو ِِمَيَائن‬

adallāh al-wamiyā’in

el an ad alláh El louamíain

‫باردداز‬

‫ا‬

‫ياش‬

‫اللن‬

bāraddāz

yāsh

allan

varaddad

y-esh

verdadero

y es

Él es alto

‫َأََدَهللا‬

a Alláh

El loor

truth the and [he] is He is high to Allah

The praise

Praise to Allah, exalted and truthful

‫‪18‬‬

‫حديث دا يوسف‬ ‫‪Anonymous, 14th c. CE‬‬

‫حديث دا يوسف عليه السل ْْم‬ ‫بسم هللا الرحمن الرحيم‬ ‫‪ .١‬لوميانن ادهللا أللن ياش ا بارددار‬ ‫أنّرّد ا قنبلد شاّنّر دارايترار‬ ‫فرنكوا ا بدارش ارداندر شارتار‬ ‫‪ .٢‬غرن ياش ألشّبّدار تد ألمند أبرق‬ ‫نن شال أنقبرا کش کا أنالمند نسق‬ ‫ِِشقيارا أن لمر نأنتد لكمرق‬ ‫نيانلتيا ّّر بريات نيانلبلنق‬ ‫‪ .٣‬فغبش ا شبار ايداش مش امدش‬ ‫لكا كنتا سي أنلش تيانّبّش بشدش‬ ‫ا جق ا وسف ايشش دياش أرمنش‬ ‫بر كبدسي ــــــ دي أبيارن ا شایار ملش‬ ‫‪ّ .٤‬بّر کا ــــــ ا يوسف بر مربا ّّل‬ ‫ّبّر كا أر ّ‬ ‫نيّن ــــــ ود دا ارا ّّل‬ ‫ّبّر كا يار ْ‬ ‫لْشمدرا فا ــــــ‬ ‫ـــــــ دش لش أترش يار ــــــ‬ ‫‪ .٥‬ــــــ ـاست فو لّرّزن ــــــ ا انبيا ــــــ‬ ‫ــــــ انتا دالدي‬ ‫ّبّر كول أنتانديارن لش أرمنش‬ ‫کا شيانّبّارا كا ببياشا البري ماجري‬

Story of Joseph translated from Aljamiado Spanish by Eliza Josephson

The Story of Joseph, peace be upon him. In the name of Allah, the gentle and the merciful. 1. Praise to Allah, exalted and truthful, honored and accomplished, righteous father, honest and powerful, precise leader. 2. In his great power envelops the whole world, nothing that grows can hide from him, not in the sea or in the land, not in the dark earth nor in the light. 3. Listen, my beloveds, and I will make known to you all an account of what happened in times past, to Jacob, to Joseph, and to his ten brothers, and how avarice and envy led them to evil acts. 4. For Jacob loved Joseph with great wonder, for Joseph was her child, for his mother was beautiful and fair, and Jacob loved her over all other women. 5. This is the reason they acted, before the day dawned, when the brothers agreed that if Joseph lived, he would always be favored.

‫حديث دا يوسف‬

‫‪ .٦‬اكاشت فوا كا بي أنز أشتراّلّش‬ ‫کا مّرّش لغاّرّار تياي كناّلّش‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫كالشل ا للن أر ََكا أندب أنتراّلش‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ا ا يوسف شا أمّلّبن كنتدش شش ّبّراّلش‬ ‫‪ .٧‬كم ايار يوسف ّ‬ ‫نّن دا بقش اّنّش‬ ‫ْأْنبشندل ألّبّدرا ننشا كبري دالش أرمنش‬ ‫كنتند الش ألشوان کا بي أن لش التش‬ ‫بانشرن ال تريسيون ايندرتن ال أنانغن‬ ‫‪ .٨‬دزيارن طدش ا أن فغمش لسارنتار‬ ‫ّرّواغا مش ا نواشتر بدرا ّرّغري بارددار‬ ‫ّبّر كا نش دا ا يوسف أن كمياند باز ـــــــ‬ ‫ا مشرترر المش مّنّش دا مي بوانش منارش‬ ‫‪ .٩‬أشط أبيارن فاج اي ش ّبّدرا رغد‬ ‫جق شنتيالر رواغ فغ ّّل الش وبد‬ ‫نن بش لبيار در كا كتا أنعىّنّد‬ ‫‪ .١٠‬دشيارن ألش نن ّبّانشاداش‬ ‫نش شمش انزا أرمنش اكاشت نن دبداداش‬ ‫كا شاريمش تريدوراش اكاشت نت ّبّانشاداش‬ ‫‪ .١١‬شبالوا ألقريدر‬ ‫ّبّر كال بالشا ا غنشا ألبواشتر امور‬ ‫ايال بياشا لش اباجش أبلغند ميور‬ ‫ّبّار شنن بش ّبّلزا مندد كم شاّنّر‬ ‫‪ .١٢‬اطنت دشيارن دا ّتّلبرش ّبّيدشش‬ ‫اطنت ال برما تيارن دا ّبّلبرش فارمشش‬ ‫كال الش دي ّ‬ ‫ألنّن ا دشالش شش أرش‬ ‫کا لكتشا هللا دا منش أنغنوشش‬ ‫‪ .١٣‬ديوا الش ال ألّبّدرا قم لدابي فار‬ ‫أنفيند شا أناّلّش نن كش مش دبدر‬ ‫دیش أشكوتدما مش فيجش لكا يبش كيار ّرّغر‬ ‫كا بش ما لكتاداش ا ما لكارداش غواردر‬

‫‪20‬‬

Story of Joseph

6. Here the boy dreamt of eleven stars, that turned and encircled one another, and as the sun and the moon walked among them, they humbly bowed to Joseph, all together. 7. Joseph was just a young boy, his father’s love did not extend to his brothers, when he told them about the dream he saw in the skies, they considered betrayal and went forth with deceit. 8. They all spoke as one: let us promise, we will beg our father with true prayer, to entrust Joseph into our reliable care, and we will show him fine manners tomorrow. 9. They did this by praying to their father, thus Jacob sensed the plea, and addressed them privately: I would not give him to you, for I fear I could fall deceived. 10. They repeated: please don’t believe this, don’t doubt us, eleven brothers, could you imagine that we’d be traitors? 11. The Creator knows all, He is worthy and he deserves your love, and He watches the sheep, his great flock of followers, but if this does not appease you, command us, father. 12. Many times they spoke pious words, many times they promised pretty words, that he could give them the boy and blessings and Allah would protect Joseph from deceiving hands. 13. The father told them what to do, trusting in them, he didn’t wish to cast more doubt. He said, listen to me, my sons, I beg, guard him for me, take care of him.

‫حديث دا يوسف‬ ‫‪ .١٤‬ا كا بيانغ اان ّبّرمر دالكريدر‬ ‫ا مفاراداش غارنّبّلزار اي أل غرن شبور‬ ‫داشط نن فاّلا شقداش ّبّر مامور‬ ‫اكمياند ادهللا ّبّدارش شاّنّر‬ ‫‪ .١٥‬البرنل أنقواّلّش ميانتارش ألّبّدرا ابيوا‬ ‫قوند شا اّلّرن بارا داش کا فــــــ رن افار‬ ‫داّرّمسل دا لش قواّلّش‬ ‫ــــــ أشتبيوا ألـ۔ــــ شرّبّرر ّبّر سّبّدرا‬ ‫‪ .١٦‬ال شرنل ا شغ ملنطنت ا كلّبّد‬ ‫قم يار ّ‬ ‫نّن تيارن فنك مي كارابنتد‬ ‫دش الش اتاندادما‬ ‫نن كاريش کا منکا اکي داشانّبّرد‬ ‫‪ .١٧‬نن كارش کا فنكا شن ب ْْدرا ا شن مدرا‬ ‫ا نن کارش کا موار داشانّبّرد دا فنبرا‬ ‫ددما اغو دا فوانتا أ دا ّرّي أ دا مرا‬ ‫ميانبارا بش لکا بش ديش ألكن دا مبدرا‬ ‫‪ .١٨‬أن دا لش ارمنش كوند أشت أي‬ ‫دي دا من اّلّغوا أنتيا ّّر لبزي‬ ‫ا دا ّبّّنّش ا دا كلساش اطنمل لتفاري‬ ‫ال ّ‬ ‫نّن كن لش شبرش أن لتياّرّا كيوا‬ ‫‪ .١٩‬ابلبن لش أرمنش‬ ‫دزياندال اشطرش بلتا لش تش فدش‬ ‫نيانكر لش شوانش كا بياش أن لش ْاْلتش‬ ‫اك لش بغرش تدش ّبّر ملش دا تش ّبّاكدش‬ ‫‪.٢٠‬أبشا دا ّرّنكرر ا أن لش أرمنش‬ ‫ابالش دا رغر ادكاّلّش دش‬ ‫کا نمرياشا أأشطنسا كشيارن لش فدش‬ ‫‪ .٢١‬تدش كم اناتش أبيارنل ّبّر بوان‬ ‫کال أجشان أنا لبش أنالمنتا شاين‬ ‫فريوا أش مي فند لش فيارش ا جزين‬ ‫ب ّّر كا شا لكمياشان ا ننق لبارين‬

‫‪22‬‬

Story of Joseph

14. And that he returns soon, by the Creator’s love; this would bring me great ease and comfort. Do not fail in this task, if you love me, hand him to Allah, powerful leader. 15. They raised Joseph by the neck while their father watched, and when they found themselves alone, see here what they did: together, they held his neck, thrust him down, and watched him gasp for his father. 16. They left him in a ditch, wounded and beaten, like a tender child, he was left broken, he said to them: help me— listen to me! I know you don’t want to leave me stranded. 17. You don’t want to leave me without mother and father, and you don’t want me to die of hunger, abandoned. Give me spring, river, or sea water— remember the words sung by my elderly father. 18. One of the brothers, when he heard this, struck him with his hand, and hurled him down, battering him with his fists and feet so badly; the boy fell to the earth in scraps, his garments tattered. 19. The brothers taunted him, saying: astrologer, call upon your ‘stars’ so we never have to face the dreams you saw in the skies! Now you’ll pay for all your wrongs and sins. 20. One of the brothers, who they had to pull aside, begged the others, that Joseph should not die then, despite what the fates seemed to want. 21. So they all agreed it best to cast him in the well on Mount Xeyana, very deep down, where wild beasts and wastelands would consume him, and he would never be seen again.

‫حديث دا يوسف‬ ‫‪ّ .٢٢‬بّانشرن کا دشياشان الشبدرا أنردوا‬ ‫كا بن الش أباجش أن لب اردوا‬ ‫اياّلّش أشطند درمياند ا تانيتن ا يوسف الن كشند‬ ‫ايال لب ملديت ا يوسف أن متد‬ ‫‪ .٢٣‬جقوا أناشتا كمادي أشطب أنتارا ّبّانشد‬ ‫بر رزن دا ل تردا كا نبي ا شفجوا‬ ‫دوزياند اي شاّنّر أنت كاراي ا في‬ ‫تما ورد ا يوسف دا فيارش أ دا فري‬ ‫‪ .٢٤‬جق كن ّبّانشميانت شليو شا ا لش كّرّارش‬ ‫ّبّرشبار دا شش فخجوش نوابش بارددا رش‬ ‫اش ََمرن شا المنتا ّبّشندوا لش كباسش‬ ‫دزياند اي أرمنش دا طن بوانش منارش‬ ‫‪ .٢٥‬لواغ أنكا ّّل أر كيوا امْرْ تاسد‬ ‫كوند ّبّاالغرن شش فمخجش نل فلْرْ ن شانتدوا‬ ‫دزیارن طدش شانر تلد ّبّاردن قنبلد‬ ‫‪ .٢٦‬الّبّنتشا جدش دشالش أنسالد‬ ‫بيمش ا يوسف ادَغَمش ل ّبّر بد‬ ‫ايبرامش ّبّاردن دا نواشتر ّبّدرا أنّرّد‬ ‫يبش برماط ا سالر كونط اباداش جاّرّد‬ ‫‪ .٢٧‬دشيارن لش أرمنش اكاشط نن فرامش‬ ‫مش بيمش ا يوسف ألشمانبارامش‬ ‫أ داش ا نواشتر بدرا اكاشت ال درامش‬ ‫کاشلكمي أل لب ا شارامش كارایدش‬ ‫‪ .٢٨‬کا اْبْق دا ّرّت شّبّد ََرا فوا اكردد‬ ‫دش ا لش شش فخجش دو أش ألم امد‬ ‫كا ل اباداش فا ّّج أند ل أباداش اّجّد‬ ‫أّلّش ال ّرّاشّبّند يارن أل ّلّب سال ابا كميد‬ ‫‪ .٢٩‬ديش نبش كاراي مش فخجش دا لكا ما دازيداش‬ ‫مش كسد ما أل ّلّن أل كول دا دنبانداش‬ ‫كا ي لفرا فبلر قربش لش شش ساربزاش‬ ‫كن ايد دا هللا ألمه ألما در لباردد‬

‫‪24‬‬

Story of Joseph 22. They decided to tell their honorable father that a rageful wolf had come among the sheep, and while they were asleep, Joseph at their side, the wicked wolf had killed him. 23. Jacob sunk into distress and deep worry, for the evening had come, and he had still not seen his son, and cried: Oh Lord, in You I believe and trust! shield Joseph for me, from the cold, and wild beasts. 24. Jacob, distraught, set out to the roads to learn the truth about his sons. They appeared at the mountain, bowing their heads saying: oh brothers, what fine manners we have! 25. Hours later, Jacob fell faint. When his sons arrived, they found him unconscious, and they all prayed: Lord, have mercy on him. 26. Judah rose and spoke passionately, Let us go to Joseph, let us take him aside privately, and ask for forgiveness from our honorable father. I promise you, I can fix whatever is wrong. 27. The brothers said: this we will not do, rather, let us go to Joseph, tear his limbs apart, and then we will tell our father that the wolf ate him, and he will believe us. 28. When their father awoke, he said to his sons: where is my beloved boy? What have you done, and where have you left him? They answered: the wolf devoured him. 29. He said: my sons, I do not believe what you have told me, but, catch the wolf for me, from its birthplace, for I will make it speak by twisting its neck. With the help of Allah, it will tell me the truth.

‫حديث دا يوسف‬

‫‪ .٣٠‬فوارن ا كسر أل ّلّب كن فلشي مي غرن‬ ‫کا دازيارن كابي فا ّّج اكا ّّل موارتا تن غرند‬ ‫اد زيارن لقمس دا يوسف أنشنغارانتد‬ ‫ّتّر ََكا جق كاراياشا أن اميغ دبلد‬ ‫‪ّ .٣١‬رّغوا ا جق الكريدر ايال ّلّ ّّن لواغ قبل‬ ‫دش نمندا �‬ ‫ُهَّللاُ برماط فواشا ا مطر‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫داشترّن تيا ّّر مفيحج بوا ا بشكر‬ ‫مش شداش‬ ‫انما فا ّّج ّبّاكد بيانغ ل الزرر‬ ‫‪ .٣٢‬نن بش كاراي مش فحجش دا لکا ما دازيداش‬ ‫فاّلا سشتاش أنكونت ما برما تداش‬ ‫مش ي في أن هللا کا أن لباراداش‬ ‫کا تدش أشش كشش اأن لش لزررا داش‬ ‫‪٣٣.‬‬ ‫‪٣٣.‬‬ ‫‪٣٣.‬‬ ‫‪٣٣.‬‬

‫______‬ ‫______‬ ‫______‬ ‫______‬

‫‪ .٣٤‬أجرون ل أنن ّبّزوا كن أن كوارد مي غرندا‬ ‫ا مادي أبيارن لكْرْ تد‬ ‫كي أن تيا ّّر ا لش فيارش أن أن ارد‬ ‫ّبّاز دا شش تاّلا نفاّلا سيارن ند‬ ‫‪ .٣٥‬اّلّي أجرن ا يوسف أن اكا ّّل اغو فري‬ ‫ّبّر دون ّبّشرون جانتا كن مي َغَرن ماركدري‬ ‫ابين مي غرن شات كن لكلر دالدي‬

‫‪26‬‬

Story of Joseph

30. They went to hunt this wolf dishonestly, and to claim it had caused this great death, they put forth Joseph’s bloodied shirt so that Jacob would believe the doubled deceit. 31. Jacob begged the wolf ’s father, and at once he spoke, and said: may Allah never will that I should kill, but I am of this land, and I too search for my own son. the brothers sinned against me, and brought him suffering. 32. Then Jacob said: I don’t believe what you say, my sons, you failed in what you promised me, but I have faith in Allah’s one truth that all of these things in time will be made known. 33. [not preserved]

34. They threw him into a well with a very long rope, halfway down they cut it away. He fell to the ground, and the beasts stirred with rage, but they did him no harm. 35. There they cast Joseph into that cold water, where traders passed with their wares, pressed with great thirst from the day’s heat.

Sinon j’oublie (extrait) Clémentine Mélois, 2017

L’humanité se divise en deux catégories : les jeteurs et les gardeurs. C’est de famille. Quand j’étais enfant, les plus beaux dimanches étaient ceux de virées à la décharge publique (le tas d’or dur). A l’époque, on trouvait encore en pleine campagne des fragments de vies inconnues, entassées, comme après un naufrage, mis au rebut, délaissés. Nous avions un prétexte “ chercher des seaux en émail, matière première des sculptures de mon père. Mais nous trouvions aussi des poupées aux cheveux pas trop brûlés, des manteaux en poil de bouc, des chaussures rapiécées, des quincailleries et vestiges divers, brandis comme des trophées et aussitôt fourrés dans le coffre de la Méhari. En toute simplicité, nous accordions à ces choses une nouvelle vie. Au plaisir de découvrir que suscitaient ces explorations s’ajoute le sentiment diffus d’aller à l’encontre d’une règle, de nager à contre-courant, de choquer le bourgeois. Ce que les autres jetaient, nous en faisions des trésors. Les tas d’ordures ont disparu depuis longtemps, mais on trouve aujourd’hui sur les trottoirs des villes des fragments plus fragiles de la vie des autres. Il suffit d’être attentif et de se promener en regardant par terre. Les bouts de papier qui trainent sont souvent des listes de commissions. Personne ne les convoite, il n’y a qu’à se baisser. Comme il y a des coins à champignons, il y a des coins a listes : autour des supermarchés, bien sur, mais aussi n’importe ou ailleurs, et ce sont la les plus belles trouvailles car plus inattendues.

Excerpt from So I Don’t Forget translated from French by Greer Kennedy

Humanity divides itself into two categories: throwers and keepers. It runs in the family. When I was a child, the most beautiful Sundays were those spent driving to the public dump (the pile of solid gold). At the time, we kept finding, amidst the countryside, fragments of unknown lives, heaped up as if after a shipwreck, put out as rubbish, abandoned. We had an excuse: searching for enamel buckets, the primary materials of my father’s sculptures. But we also found dolls with not-too-burnt hair, wool coats, patched-up shoes, scrap metal and various relics, brandished like trophies and immediately stored in the trunk of the Méhari. Put simply? We gave these things a new life. The pleasure of discovery which sustained these explorations was furthered by a vague sense of going against the rules, of swimming against the current, of unsettling the bourgeois. What others threw out, we fashioned into treasures. The piles of rubbish have long since disappeared, but today we find, on city sidewalks, more fragile fragments of others’ lives. It is enough to be aware and to walk with one’s gaze upon the earth. The scraps of paper that lie about often contain grocery lists. No one looks after them; it is nothing to just pick them up. Just as there are good places to forage for mushrooms, there are good places to forage for lists: outside the supermarket, of course, but also wherever else, and these are the most beautiful finds, because they are the least anticipated. I take pleasure in these lists and what they teach me

Sinon j’oublie

J’ai le plaisir des listes et de ce qu’elles m’apprennent de l’intimité des gens, avec un voyeurisme atténué par l’anonymat. Tout le monde ou presque écrit des listes, et c’est bien d’écriture dont il est question à travers cette collection. Ecrire pour ne pas oublier, écrire sans se surveiller, sans fioritures, tel qu’en soi-même, écrire ce dont on a vraiment besoin. Les listes de commissions, comme le journal intime, ne sont pas censées être lues. Elles révèlent les manies, les habitudes, le caractère, la graphie et l’orthographe de chacun. On les jette pourtant sans façons (elles sont biodégradables), on les expose de façon impudique aux yeux de tous. Qui s’intéresse à un bout de papier qui traîne? Cela n’a aucune importance. Et pourtant. Dès que j’en découvre une, je me dis « ah ! Celle-la je ne l’avais pas ! ». Comme pourrait s’écrier un enfant qui collectionne les images Panini. Je me livre ensuite à une parodie d’enquête pour tenter de deviner qui se cache derrière cette écriture. Est-ce un homme ou une femme? Celui-ci suit un régime, celle-là va faire un gâteau, reçoit-elle de la visite? Son chat a l’air trop gâté, il est maniaque, elle est étourdie, quel âge a-t-il? L’étude que je mène n’est qu’une fiction, un jeu. Je me raconte des histoires. Mais la poésie qui se dégage de ces listes est bien réelle. Ces écritures en disent beaucoup sur nos habitudes communes, nos manies, notre histoire et nos tics. Elles captent une vérité qui me touche. De cette collection (qui tient dans plusieurs boîtes à chaussures), j’ai extrait quatre-vingt-dix-neuf listes. Chacune a été écrite par un quelqu’un ou une quelqu’une dont j’ai imaginé la vie, les préoccupations et le langage. Ils forment ensemble les personnages de ce livre, ces histoires sont leurs portraits.

So I Don’t Forget

about the intimacy of people, with a voyeurism softened by the anonymity. Everyone, for the most part, writes lists, and it is good writing that this collection focuses on. Writing to not forget, writing without surveillance, without embellishment, as though to oneself, writing down what we truly need. Grocery lists, like personal journals, are not meant to be read. They give away our obsessions/compulsions, our habits, our character, our spelling, and our handwriting. We throw them away unceremoniously (they’re biodegradable), we expose them shamelessly to the eyes of all. Who’s interested in a bit of paper lying about? They are of no importance. And yet. As soon as I discover one, I go, “ah! Something I didn’t have before!” As if I were a child who collected Panini regalia. I then devote myself to the task of attempting to divine who is hiding behind the writing. Is it a man or a woman? Are they on a diet, are they going to bake a cake, are they having guests? Their cat seems too fat, he’s obsessive, she’s overwhelmed, how old are they? This study that I conduct isn’t just fiction, or a game. I am telling myself stories. But the poetry that emerges from these lists is truly real. These pieces of writing say a lot about our common habits, our manias, our stories, and our mannerisms. They capture a truth which moves me. From this collection (which is kept in numerous shoeboxes), I have extracted ninety-nine lists. Each was written by someone for whom I have imagined a life, preoccupations, and language. Together, they form the characters of this book; these stories are their portraits. That which happens every day and comes back each day, the banal, the commonplace, the obvious, the common, the ordinary, the infra-ordinary, the underlying noise, the habitual, how to report them, how to question them, how to describe them? —George Perec, the infra-ordinary

Sinon j’oublie

Christophe Le « Bonheur des Français ». Non mais sérieusement. Mesurer le bien-être d’une population en fonction de son activité économique, c’est complètement con. Comme si le fait de consommer était une preuve de bonne humeur. « Tout va bien, j’ai une nouvelle voiture ! » J’en ai une, de voiture neuve avec toutes les options, et ça ne va pas du tout. Je sais bien que je fais des raccourcis, mais je ne peux pas m’empêcher d’être agacé par leurs tournures de phrases. Merde, à la fin, avec vos indicateurs de progrès durable et vos taux de croissance. J’ai une carte gold et je vais mal si je veux. farine ⋅ lait ⋅ yaourts fruits ⋅ oeufs ⋅ fromage ⋅ pain ⋅ salade ⋅ fruits ⋅ viande ⋅ légumes ⋅ bière ⋅ beurre ⋅ beurre Stéphane Je boucle le trimestre et on part deux semaines aux States se faire un road-trip en Harley, à la Easy Rider. A nous la côte Ouest, les grands espaces et l’aventure! On pourrait tenter la highway 61 revisited, de La Nouvelle-Orléans à Chicago. Nashville, Saint-Louis, Memphis, au rythme qu’on voudrait et sans se soucier de rien. On passerait la nuit dans des motels louches, on mangerait du jambalaya et de l’alligator, et je m’achèterais une veste en cuir comme quand j’avais seize ans, avec un bandana. Après une journée de route sous le cagnard, on arriverait couverts de poussière dans des bleds paumés ou on serait accueillis à bras ouverts, on boirait du café à volonté dans des grands mugs. Le soir on sortirait dans des clubs de blues ou il n’y a que des gens du coin et pas de touristes et on découvrirait des groupes mythiques inconnus et on aurait le droit de fumer à l’intérieur, même si j’ai arrete. Et je voudrais manger un T-bone et des pancakes au sirop, et du biscuits and gravy avec des frites maison. Et on ferait l’amour comme dans Sailor et Lula. poisson ⋅ huîtres ⋅ 1 citron ⋅ salade ⋅ haricots verts ⋅ 2 p. de terre ⋅ persil ⋅ aïl ⋅ 3 endives ⋅ fromage ⋅ jambon ⋅ savon ⋅ huile d’olives ⋅ huile colza ⋅ pain

So I Don’t Forget

Christophe The “happiness of the French.” No, but seriously. To measure the well-being of a population as a function of their economic activity—it’s completely moronic. As if the fact of consuming were proof of well-being. “All is well, I have a new car!” I have one, a new car with all the added features, and nothing is going well at all. I know that I’m taking liberties here, but I can’t stop myself from being aghast by their little turns of phrase. It’s all shit, in the end, with your sustainable development goals and your growth rates. I have a gold card and I’ll feel awful if I want. flour ⋅ milk ⋅ fruit yogurt ⋅ eggs ⋅ cheese ⋅ bread ⋅ lettuce ⋅ fruits ⋅ meat ⋅ vegetables ⋅ beer ⋅ butter ⋅ butter Stéphane I finish up the trimester and we head out for two weeks in the States roadtripping on a Harley, like in Easy Rider. All ours, the West Coast, all its open space and adventure! We could try that Highway 61 Revisited, from New Orleans to Chicago. Nashville, Saint-Louis, Memphis, moving to the rhythm that we wanted and entirely worry-free. We’d spend our nights in shady motels, we’d eat jambalaya and alligator, and I would buy a leather jacket like when I was sixteen, with a bandana. After a day on the road under the blazing sun, we’d arrive covered in dust at some godforsaken backroads town where we would be welcomed with open arms, we’d drink as much coffee as we wanted in giant mugs. At night, we’d go out to blues clubs where only locals go, not tourists, and we’d discover mythical, unknown groups, and we’d be able to smoke inside, even though I quit. And I would eat a T-bone and pancakes with syrup, and biscuits and gravy with house fries. And we’d make love like in Sailor and Lula. fish ⋅ oysters ⋅ 1 lemon ⋅ lettuce ⋅ green beans ⋅ 2 potatoes ⋅ parsley ⋅ garlic ⋅ 3 endives⋅ cheese ⋅ ham ⋅ soap ⋅ olive oil ⋅ canola oil ⋅ bread

Sinon j’oublie

Christel Ce matin, dans l’un de ces élans de bravoure qui me caractérisent parfois, prête à affronter l’effroyable vérité, je monte sur la balance. Elle a dit « Batterie faible ». Je l’ai assez bien pris. J’ai quelques heures pour acheter des piles et perdre dix kilos. coca zéro ⋅ jus ⋅ concombre ⋅ bonbecs ? ⋅ ce soir… Michel Papa ne me reconnaît plus. Enfin pour être précis, il ne reconnait plus personne. C’est drôle comme on espère toujours, malgré tout. L’autre jour, j’ai eu une fausse joie. J’ai cru un instant qu’il était en rémission, que sa langue maternelle lui revenait et que, peut-être, il m’avait reconnu. Mais l’infirmier a dit qu’il ne fallait pas se réjouir, que s’il disait « Kinder ! Kinder ! » en me voyant, c’est à cause des Kinder Bueno que je lui apporte à chaque fois que je viens le voir. Saucisse ⋅ Lait ⋅ Journal ⋅ Jeu + ⋅ Gruyère ⋅ Poulet 2 ⋅ cheveux d’ange ⋅ Pain ⋅ chien

So I Don’t Forget

Christel This morning, in one of those brave impulses which occasionally hits me, I got on the scale, ready to face the frightening truth. It said, “Battery low.” I took it quite well. I have a few hours to buy some batteries and lose ten kilos. coke zero ⋅ juice ⋅ cucumber ⋅ candy ? ⋅ this evening… Michel Dad no longer recognizes me. Well, to be more precise, he doesn’t recognize anyone. It’s funny how we keep on hoping, despite it all. The other day, I had a false sense of hope. I believed for a moment that he was getting better, that his mother tongue was coming back, and that maybe, he recognized me. But the nurse told me that I shouldn’t rejoice because he said “Kinder, Kinder!” upon seeing me, and that it was really because of the Kinder Buenos that I bring him every time I visit. Sausage ⋅ Milk ⋅ Newspaper ⋅ Game + ⋅ Gruyère ⋅ Chicken 2 ⋅ angel hair ⋅ Bread ⋅ dog

Primavara Lucian Blaga, 1919

A cunoaște. A iubi. Încă-odată, iar și iară, a cunoaște-nseamnă iarnă, a iubi e primăvară. A iubi – aceasta vine tare de departe-n mine. A iubi – aceasta vine tare de departe-n tine. A cunoaște. A iubi. Care-i drumul, ce te-ndeamnă? A cunoaște – ce înseamnă? A iubi – de ce ți-e teamă printre flori și-n mare iarbă? Printre flori și-n mare iarbă, patimă fără păcate ne răstoarnă-n infinit cu rumoare și ardoare de albine re-ncarnate. Înc-odată, iar și iară, a iubi e primăvară.

Spring translated from Romanian by Elena Miinea

To know. To love. Once more, then time and again, to know is winter, to love is spring. To love – this stems from far within me, To love – this stems from far within you. To know. To love. Which path are you condemned to? To know — what does this mean? To love — what are you afraid of between the flowers and the tallgrass? Between the flowers and the tallgrass, fervorous passion without sin overturns us infinitely with the hum and the ardor of reincarnated bees. Once more, then time and again, to love is spring.

Iarna Vasile Alecsandri, 1868

Din văzduh cumplita iarnă cerne norii de zăpadă, Lungi troiene călătoare adunate-n cer grămadă; Fulgii zbor, plutesc în aer ca un roi de fluturi albi, Răspândind fiori de gheaţă pe ai ţării umeri dalbi. Ziua ninge, noaptea ninge, dimineaţa ninge iară! Cu o zale argintie se îmbracă mândra ţară; Soarele rotund şi palid se prevede printre nori Ca un vis de tinereţe printre anii trecători. Tot e alb pe câmp, pe dealuri, împrejur, în depărtare, Ca fantasme albe plopii înşiraţi se pierd în zare, Şi pe-ntinderea pustie, fără urme, fără drum, Se văd satele pierdute sub clăbuci albii de fum. Dar ninsoarea încetează, norii fug, doritul soare Străluceşte şi dezmiardă oceanul de ninsoare. Iată-o sanie uşoară care trece peste văi… În văzduh voios răsună clinchete de zurgălăi.

Winter translated from Romanian by Elena Miinea

From ferocious air, winter churns clouds of snow; After long journeys, they gather in heaps across the sky; Flakes fly, floating like flocks of white butterflies, Spreading shivers of frost on the pale shoulders of this land. In the day, it snows, at night, it snows, and the morning brings snow again! With a silver mesh, it drapes and hugs this proud, majestic land; The sun—round and pale—peaks through the sky and slowly appears Like a fragile dream of youth drifting through passing years. Everything is white, the field, the hills, all things near and distant, Like white phantoms, poplars fade into the horizon, Through deserted lands, without traces, and without any roads, Towns sparkle faintly, lost under clouds of white smoke. But soon the snow falls silent, clouds disperse, the long-awaited sun It shines and gently caresses the vast white ocean stretching wide. Oh look— a lightweight sleigh crosses over the snowy valleys… Through the jovial air, the tinkling of jinglebells resounds and carries far.

太阳和野花海子 [Hai Zi, 1988]

——给AP 太阳是他自己的头野花是她自己的诗

我对你说你的母亲不像我的母亲在月光照耀下你的母亲是樱桃我的母亲是血泪

我对天空说月亮，她是你篮子里纯洁的露水太阳，我是你场院上发疯的钢铁太阳是他自己的头野花是她自己的诗在一株老榆树的底下平原上流过我的骨头

猎人夫妻的眼中在山地那自由的尸首淌向何方

The Sun and the Wildflower translated from Chinese by Elisabeth Peng

—To AP The Sun is his own head The Wildflower is her own poem I said to you Your mother is not like my mother Under the moonlight your mother is a cherry my mother is a tear of blood I said to the sky Moon, she is the pure dew in your basket Sun, I am the maddened steel in your courtyard The Sun is his own head The Wildflower is her own poem Under an old elm tree On the plain my bones flow past In the eyes of the hunter couple among the mountains the corpse of freedom— toward where it winds

太阳和野花

两位母亲在不同的地方梦着我两位女儿在不同的地方变成了母亲当田野还有百合，天空还有鸟群当你还有一张大弓、满袋好箭该忘记的早就忘记该留下的永远留下太阳是他自己的头野花是她自己的诗总是有寂寞的日子总是有痛苦的日子总是有孤独的日子总是有幸福的日子然后再度孤独

是谁这么告诉过你：答应我忍住你的痛苦不发一言穿过这整座城市远远地走来去看看他去看看海子他可能更加痛苦他在写一首孤独而绝望的诗歌死亡的诗歌他写道：平原上流过我的骨头当高原的人在榆树底下休息当猎人和众神或起或坐，时而相视，时而相忘当牛羊和牛羊在草上看见一座悬崖上牧羊人堕下，额角流血再也救不活他了—— 他写道：

The Sun and the Wildflower

Two mothers, in different places, are dreaming of me Two daughters, in different places, become mothers When the fields still had lilies, when the sky still had bird flocks When you still had a big bow, a sack full of good arrows What should have been forgotten had long been forgotten What should have stayed stays forever The Sun is his own head The Wildflower is her own poem There will always be solitary days There will always be painful days There will always be lonely days There will always be happy days and then we’re lonely once more Who was it that told you: Promise me Endure your pain and say nothing Cross the entire city Walk from far away Go visit him go visit Hai Zi He might be even more pained He is writing a lonely and desperate poem A poem of death He writes: On the plain my bones flow past when the people of the highlands are resting under the elm tree when the hunter and the gods are standing or sitting, at times staring into one another, at times forgetting one another when cows and sheep and cows and sheep are on the grass they spot, from a cliff the shepherd falls, the edge of his forehead bleeding He cannot be brought back to life anymore—

太阳和野花

平原上流过我的骨头这时，你要去看看他

答应我忍住你的痛苦不发一言穿过这整座城市

那个牧羊人也许会被你救活你们还可以成亲在一对大红蜡烛下这时他就变成了我我会在我自己的胸脯找到一切幸福红色荷包、羊角、蜂巢、嘴唇和一对白色羊儿般的乳房我会给你念诗：太阳是他自己的头野花是她自己的诗到那时到那一夜也可以换句话说：太阳是野花的头野花是太阳的诗他们只有一颗心他们只有一颗心

The Sun and the Wildflower

He writes: On the plain my bones flow past At this moment, you should go visit him Promise me Endure your pain and say nothing Cross this entire city and you just might save that shepherd You and him can also get married under a pair of big, red candles and that’s when he becomes me I will find all the happiness in my own chest red embroidered pouches, sheep horns, bee hives, lips and a pair of breasts like white lambs. I will read poetry to you: The Sun is his own head The Wildflower is her own poem When that moment, when that night comes we can also say it another way: The Sun is the head of the Wildflower The Wildflower is the poem of the Sun They only have one heart They only have one heart

by Tob

y Platt

Slav es

k Taji

rom

r om df

ce rpt f

a te nsl tra

Below, I have translated an excerpt from chapters 2 and 3 of Sadriddin Ayni’s novel Ghulomon (Slaves). Though more strongly associated with the literary establishment of the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic, the bilingual Ayni published his 600-page magnum opus first in Uzbek (as Qullar) in 1934, then in Tajik as Ghulomon a year later. Testing the limits of the novel form, Slaves spans over 100 years and traces the members of a single family across three generations, from their capture and sale into slavery in the early-19th-century Emirate of Bukhara to their eventual embrace of collectivization under the Soviets. The author is often identified as a standard-bearer for socialist realism and, indeed, the novel at large in a region whose inhabitants long preferred poetry over prose. Here, Ayni’s tight, economical style invites comparison with his contemporary Hemingway and in some ways situates him against the thousand-yearold Persian poetic tradition which he has inherited.

Порча аз Ғуломон Садриддин Айнӣ [Saddridin Ayni, 1935]

Дар музофоти Ҳирот, дар лаби оби Ҳиррӯд аз тарафи як оила як боғи калоне обод карда шуда буд. Атрофи ин боғ бо се похса девор гардонда гирифта шуда, сари девор ҳам хорбаст карда шуда буд. Бо ин тадбир меваи он боғ аз дастбурди роҳгузарон эмин гардида буд. Даруни боғро токҳои ангури гуногун, ноку ношпотӣ, шафтолуву олуи ҳиротӣ ва дигар дарахтони мевадор раста-раста, қатор-қатор фурӯ гирифта буданд. Ғайр аз инҳо полизҳои харбуза, палакҳои каду, палҳои тарбуз низ ин боғро ҳам пурзинат, ҳам пурнеъмат карда буданд. Дар ин бор ғайр аз як айвони дароз иморати дигаре набуд. Ин айвон барои бошиши одамон набу да, балки онро махсусан барои кафтарон сохта буданд, ки дар сар то сари рӯи болорҳояш тахта зада барои хона карда бача гузоштани онҳо муносиб карда буданд. Кафтарон дар ин айвон ҷо гирифта моҳ ба моҳ тухм пахш карда бача бароварда, шумораи худро зиёд намуда, барои ин бор аълотарин поруҳои ҳайвониро тайёр карда медоданд. Миёнаҳои пуштаҳои ток ва дигар ҷоҳои офтобрӯяи ин боғро бо лои серкоҳ андовида буданд, ки дар он ҷо ангур ва дигар меваҳоро мехушкониданд. Ғайр аз ангур меваи муҳимми ин боғ олун ҳироти буд — олуи ҳиротии хушконидашуда аҷаб як толеи баланде дошт. Вайро, чунон ки дар бозорҳои Эрон «олун бухорӣ» гўён харида барои ҳар беморӣ ба ҷои даво кор мефармуданд, дар бозорҳои Бухоро,

Excerpt from Slaves translated from Tajik by Toby Platt

In the province of Herat,1 on the banks of the Hari river, a family had cultivated a large garden. The garden was enclosed by three mud walls, each lined with barbed wire to protect the fruit of the garden from plundering passersby. The garden itself teemed with vines of various grapes, pears of numerous patterns, hairy peaches and Herati plums, and other fruit-bearing trees, all arranged in row after row. Besides these, clusters of cantaloupes, patches of pumpkins, and swathes of watermelons both adorned and blessed the garden. The only building to be found in the garden was a lone wide hut. The hut was not meant for people’s habitation— rather, it had been built especially for pigeons, and, by laying boards across its beams, it was made suitable for nesting and hatching. The pigeons had taken up residence in the hut: month by month, they laid their eggs and raised their birdlings there, increased their numbers, and were now producing manure of the highest quality for the garden. Between the rows of vines and in other sun-drenched parts of the garden, straw-laden clay was spread to create a surface where grapes and other fruits were drying. Besides the grapes, the important fruits of this garden were the Herati plums: curiously, dried Herati plums were worth a fortune. These plums—the same ones that would, in the bazaars of Iran, be bought as “Bukharan plums” and employed in place of medicine against any illness—would, in the 1

A historically Persianate area in what is now Afghanistan.

Ғуломон

Самарқанд, Тошканд ва тамоми Туркистон ҳам «олун ҳиротӣ» гуён харида, ба ҷои даво ба кор мебурданд. Бинобар ин дар тарафҳои Ҳирот мавсими олучини, олуғундори мавсими ҷӯшу хурӯши кор буд. Аммо бо вуҷуди ин, ки олуҳои ин боғ ҳал-ҳал пухта муҳайёи рехтан ва талаф шудан гардида буданд, дар ин ҷо аз олучинон ва олуғундорон асаре наменамуд. Соҳиби ин боғ дар куҷо буд? Дуртар аз ин боғ, ки мо дида гузаштем, дар ободонии мардумнишин деҳае буд, ки атрофи ин деҳаро монанди қалъаҳои шаҳр бо девори баланде иҳота карда гирифта буданд. Аҳли хонаводае, ки ин боғро обод карда буданд, дар қатори дигар боғдорон ва деҳқонони он гирду пеш дар он деҳаи қалъамонанд зиндагони мекарданд. Сардори хонавода — Ҳасан ҳар сол пеш аз ҳамсоягонаш ба кор баромада ҳамаи ҳосилоташро аз ҳама пештар ғундошта мегирифт. Дар он солҳо дар зери дасти Ҳасан дастҳои коркунанда ҳам бисъёр буданд. Хусен ва Ҳамид ном ду бародари 35-40- солааш ва писарони калони инхо Ризо, Маҳмуд ва Али, ки 20, 17 ва 15-сола буданд, хамагӣ дар зери дасти Ҳасан кор мекарданд. Аммо соли гузашта дар мавсими олуғундори фалокате рӯй дод, ки ба сабаби ин Ҳасан аз як тараф аз ҳамаи бародар ва бародарзодагонаш ҷудо шуда бошад, аз тарафи дигар дили худашро ҳам бой дода монда буд. Ин фалокат тохти туркманон буд, ки дар он тохт ғайр аз Ҳасан дигар ҳамаи мардони калонсоли ин хонавода ба асирӣ афтода буданд. Ҳоло маълум набуд, ки туркманон онҳоро ба кадом гӯшаи дунъё бурда ба ғуломӣ фурӯхта бошанд. Имсол дар зери дасти Ҳасан ғайр аз занон, духтарон ва бачагони хурдсол каси дигаре намонда буд. Ҳасан имсол дар мавсимҳои кори баҳорӣ ва тобистони гоҳо ба танҳоӣ ба боғ рафта, баъзе киштукорҳоро карда, об дода, ё ки суфаҳои мевахушккунониро андовида омада бошад ҳам, кори мевағундориро ба танҳоӣ адо карда наметавонист. Дар он ҷо, ки ҳамеша дар зери таҳлукаи тохти туркманон аст, занон ва бачагонро бурдан ҳам

Slaves

bazaars of Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent, and all of Turkestan, be bought as “Herati plums” and likewise used in place of medicine. And so the season of plum picking and plum gathering was, in the areas around Herat, quite the hullabaloo. But even though the plums of this garden had gotten to be so ripe that they seemed ready to fall off and rot away, no trace of plum-pickers or plum-gatherers was to be found.2 So where was this garden’s owner? Beyond the garden through which we passed, over in the settled area, there was a village surrounded by a high wall, much like a city’s fortress. The members of the household that had cultivated the garden lived their lives in this fortress-like village, alongside an array of other garden-owners and peasant farmers from that neck of the woods. The head of the household, Hasan, would, in all previous years, get to work and harvest his crops long before any of his neighbors. In those years, a great number of hands worked under the orders of Hasan. Hussain and Hamid—his two 35 or 40-year-old brothers—and their sons Rizo, Mahmud, and Ali, who were 20, 17, and 15 years old respectively, all labored together under his direction. But the previous year, during plum picking season, a tragedy took place which not only separated him from his brothers and nephews, but also wrenched his heart away. This tragedy was a Turkmen raid, during which all the adult males of the household besides Hasan fell captive. Still no one knew to which corner of the earth the Turkmen had brought them for sale into slavery. This year, no one remained under Hasan’s supervision but the women, girls, and small children. During that spring and summer’s working seasons, Hasan had gone to the garden in solitude to carry out some field work, water the crops, 2

Today, Bukhara, Samarkand, and Tashkent are all located in Turkic-majority Uzbekistan, although the former two cities have deep Persianate histories. Turkestan is a historical designation for Central Asia, though Ayni might be using it to refer only to the southern tier of Central Asia, where the aforementioned cities are to be found.

Ғуломон

пурхатар буд. Бинобар ин бо вуҷуди гузашта рафта истодани мавсими меванғундорӣ Ҳасан барои бурдани аҳли хонаводааш ба боғ, ҷасорат намекард ва танҳо рафтани худаш ки ҳам фоидае намерасонид, зеро мевағундори корест, бо дасти танҳо пеш намеравад. Бинобар ин имсол ғайр аз як сабад, ду сабад ангур ва ду дона, чор дона харбуза, тарбуз ва каду, ки худи Ҳасан гоҳо ба боғ рафта меовард, аҳли хонавода аз ҳосили ин боғ дигар фоидае бурда натавониста истода буданд. Дар ҳамин вақт аз тарафи Машҳад корвоне расида хабар овард, ки дар он наздикиҳо то дурӯза, серӯза роҳ аз туркманон асаре нест. Назар ба қавли корвониён бинобар хушксоли туркманони он атроф ба тарафҳои Сарахс ва Абевард кӯчида рафтаанд. Дар ин ҳафт-ҳашт моҳи охирин ғайр аз як-ду ҳуҷуми бенатиҷае, ки ба деҳқонони Машҳад кардаанд, дигар коре нишон дода натавонистаанд. Корвониён мегуфтанд. ки кушуни шоҳ бо тӯпҳои фарангӣ ва мардони ҷангии монанди Рустам ва Исфандиёр чанд бор ба туркманон ҳуҷум оварда чашми онҳоро тарсонда гирифт. Онхо аз забонашон хат додаанд, ки дигар бурда (ғулом) фурӯши накунанд. «Бинобар ин аст, ки — мегуфтанд корвониён, — мо аз Машҳад, Ҳирот дар роҳ ба ягон туркман вонахурдем ва ҳол он ки солҳои пеш дар ин гуна сафар миёни мо ва туркманон чандин бор заду хурд воқеъ мешуд…» Зотан дар тарафҳои Ҳирот ҳам дар муддати ин як соли охири туркманон ягон ҳуҷуме накарда бу данд. Ин хабари хуши корвониён ҳамаро хотирҷамъ карда ба ҳаракат овард. Пеш аз ин хабар, мардони деҳа бо тарсу ларз ба сари замин ва боғашон рафта меомада бошанд, акнун ҳамагӣ дилҷамъона занон ва бачагонашонро ҳам ба кор баровардан гирифтанд. Аз ин ҷумла Ҳасан хам тайёрии худро дида ба боғ баромадани шуд… ǁ Аввали субҳи рӯзҳои тирамоҳ; ҳанӯз рӯз сафед нашуда буд, ҳанӯз дар осмони кабуди шаффоф си

Slaves

and spread the clay for fruit-drying platforms. He could not, however, pull off the fruit harvest alone. But bringing the women and children there, to a place which was always under threat of a Turkmen raid, was likewise a dangerous endeavor. And so, even though the season for the fruit harvest was passing by, Hasan did not muster up the courage to bring the members of his household to the garden; going on his own was also profitless, for harvesting fruit is a task that cannot get off the ground with a lone hand. As a result, the members of the household had been unable to reap any profit from the garden’s produce this year besides a basket or two of grapes, plus two, maybe four cantaloupes, watermelons, and pumpkins which Hasan had gone and fetched from the garden himself. Just around then, a caravan arrived from Mashhad, bringing news that, from the immediate vicinity to a distance of two or three days’ travel, there was no sign of the Turkmen. According to the caravanners, the Turkmen from that area had all migrated towards Sarahs and Abiward due to drought.3 In the past six or seven months, they were unable to achieve anything besides a fruitless attack or two against the peasant farmers of Mashhad. The caravanners said that the Shah’s troops had, on several occasions, launched attacks against the Turkmen with Western cannons and warriors on par with Rustam and Esfandiyar,4 giving them a good fright. From the troops’ own tongues came the order to cease their slave trade. “It’s for this reason,” said the caravanners, “that on the road from Mashhad and Herat, we haven’t run into a single Turkmen, while in past years such a journey would have brought about several scuffles with them…” Naturally, the Turkmen had also not launched any attack in Herat and its surroundings during the preceding year. The caravanners’ welcome news gave everyone peace of mind and stirred them into motion. Before this news, the men of 3 4

Cities to the north and east of Mashhad, located in modern-day Turkmenistan. Mythic warriors from the Shahname, Iran’s national epic.

Ғуломон

торагон ягон ягон менамуданд, ҳанӯз гунҷишкон аз хонаашон набаромада буданд, ҳанӯз мурғони хонагӣ аз дарахтҳо нафуромада буданд: аммо бачагоне, ки хар рӯз то чоштгоҳ мехобиданд, имрӯз бо шавки боғрави дар қатори калонон дар торикии рӯз аз хоб бедор шуда модаронашонро барои зудтар тайёр шу дан ба сафари боғ ёри медоданд. Раҳимдоди ҳафт сола, ки аз ҳама дертар бедор шуда буд, модари худаш Раъноро: — Барои чи маро зудтар бедор накардӣ, — гўён коҳиш мекард ва хоҳари сесолаи худаш Зеборо аз хоб бедор карда: — Зудтар хез, боғ меравем, ман ба ту гунҷишк бача даст гирифта медиҳам, — гуфта ташвиқ мекард. Зебо, бе он ки чашмашро кушода тавонад, дастони худро ёзонда: — Ҳожир (ҳозир) те, акаҷон, — гуён ба вай хушомад мегуфт… Тайёрӣ тамом шуд. Зани Ҳасан — Зулайхо писарчаи ширмакконаш — Форуқро ба пушташ баст ва духтарчаи сесолааш Хадичаро ба канораш бардошт; зани Хусени порсол ба асири афтода духтарчаи сесолаи худ — Зеборо ба дасташ бардошт ва мехост, ки аз дасти писари ҳафтсолааш Рахимдод гирад, аммо у итоат накарда «ман аз хамаашон пештар ба боғ меравам гўён давон давон ба кӯча баромад. Зани Ҳамиди соли гузашта ба асири афтода, ду духтари 12–15-солаи он ва як духтари кадраси Ҳасан кон халта, облон, сабад, кутти ва дигар чизхон заруриро бардоштанд. Ҳасан як шамшери кӯҳнаро ба миён баста ва як милтики шохдорро ба кифташ гирифта пеш даромад. Хона ва асбоби онро ба модарарус Хасан супурда, пеш аз баромадани офтоб хамагӣ ба роҳ даромаданд. Роҳ дур набуд, бо вуҷуди ба оҳистагӣ рафтан тахминан дар як соат ба боғ расиданд ва даррав ба кор даромаданд… Раҳимдодро ҳам, ки барои гунҷишкдорӣ ба боғ омада буд, модараш намонда ба кор дароварда — Писарам, — гуфт ӯ ба Раҳимдод, — дар вақтҳое ки падарат буд, мо осуда будем, ӯ дар зери бағали акааш

Slaves

the village would go to and from their fields and gardens with fear and trembling; now, with altogether lifted spirits, they prepared to bring their wives and children out to work too. Like the others, Hasan prepared himself to set out for the garden… ǁ One of those early Autumn mornings—still, the day had not turned white; still, a star shone here and there against the transparent blue sky; still, the sparrows had not emerged from their homes; still, the chickens out back had not descended from the trees. But the children, who tended to sleep until late morning each day, today rose from sleep in darkness, excited to go to the garden with the adults, and reminded their mothers to get ready early for the trip. 7-year-old Rahimdod, who had awoken later than the rest, chided his mother Rano, saying: — “Why didn’t you get me up earlier?” and woke his three-year-old sister Zebo: — “Hurry, get up! We’re going to the garden. I’ll give you a baby sparrow to hold.” Zebo, without being able to open her eyes, reached out her hands: — “Give it now, bwudder,” she said, welcoming the gift. The preparations were complete. Hasan’s wife, Zulaykho, bound her nursing son Foruq to her back and carried her three-year-old daughter Khadicha by her side. The wife of Hussain, who himself was captured last year, lifted her daughter in her arm and wanted to take seven-year-old Rahimdod’s hand, but he did not obey: — “I’m going to the garden faster than everyone!” he said, and ran out onto the street. The wife of Hamid—he too was captured last year— brought her two 12- to 15-year-old girls, Hasan’s teenage daughter, a sack of bread, a flask of water, a basket, a box, and other necessities. Hasan came forward, an old sword at his hip and a horned rifle in his bag. Having turned over the house and its

Ғуломон

даромада ҳар корро ба ҷо меовард. Вақте ки ӯ, амакат ва амакбачагонат асир шуда рафтанд, бечора амак-бобот аз болу параш ҷудо шуд. Ӯ маҷбур шуда монд, ки ҳар корро ба сари худ ба танҳоӣ кунад; агар мо ба вай ёри надихем, ба зудӣ монда шуда аз кор баромада мемонад ва ҳамаамон тамоман бекас шуда мемонем. Ту акнун ба ҷои падарат кор кун… Раъно сабади овезаро гирифта ба болои дарахт баромад, сабадро ба як чӯққии дарахт овехта монда, олуҳоро чида ба вай андохтан гирифт. — Ту олун ба замин рехтаро ягон дона ҳам на монда чида ба кутти андохтан гир! — гўён ба писараш амр дод. Раъно чунон саргармона кор мекард, ки ба: — Модарҷон, ман ҳам олу чинам-ми? Ана дар ин ҷо ҳам як дона олу будааст, инро ба куҷо андозам?.. — гуфта ба хизмат тақдим кардани Зебои хурдтарак ва пурсишҳои пайдарҳами он ҳеҷ гуш намедод…. Занон ва духтарони дигар ҳам аз болои дарахтон ва зери онон ба олу чидан даромаданд; онҳо асир афтодагони порсоларо бо ҳасрат ёд мекарданд ва саломат нигаҳдории боқимондагонро аз он гуна балоҳо аз худо ва Шоҳимардон бо зорӣ металабиданд… ǁ Дар майдони олузор, дар зери дарахтони олу, бар рӯи сабза ва себаргаҳо, ки монанди қолини сабз ба замин паҳн шуда рафта буданд, занон ва духтарон ба шакли нимдоира якзону, қатор шуда нишастанд. Дар рӯ ба рӯи онҳо, лекин қадре дуртар аз онҳо шамшер ва милтиқашро ба як дарахт овехта. ба ҳамон дарахт такья карда Ҳасан ҳам нишаст. Зани Ҳасан дар рӯймоли худ як нон печонда бо як сар ангур оварда ба пеши у ниҳод. Занон ва духтарон ҳам дастархони шолро кушода дар вай нон шикаста бо ангур хӯрдан гирифтанд. Ҳасан ҳанӯз даст ба нон дароз накарда буд, ки аз як чанд қадам дуртар аз онҳо аз болои як дарахти гуҷуми

Slaves

furnishings to Hasan’s mother-in-law, they set out on their way before sunrise. The way was not long and, despite their slow pace, they arrived at the garden in roughly an hour and immediately got to work… Even Rahimdod, who had come to the garden for the sparrows, was not spared from work by his mother. — “My son,” she said to Rahimdod, “when your father was around, we had it good. He was taken under his brother’s wing and kept everything in line. But when he, your uncle, and your cousins all fell captive, your great uncle was left helpless; his wings were clipped. He was forced to do all the work alone; if we don’t help him, he’ll soon tire out and quit, and we’ll be stuck all on our own. Now you must work in your father’s place…” Rano took a basket up into the tree, hung it up on a branch, and began picking the plums and tossing them in. — “Now grab the plums that have fallen to the ground and put them in that box. Not one should remain!” she commanded her son. Rano worked with such enthusiasm that she paid no mind to tiny Zebo’s offer of service and continuous queries: — “Mom, can I pick plums too? Look, I found another plum over there, where do I put it?” The other women and girls also got to work at plum-picking from up in the trees and from down below. They recalled with sorrow those who were captured last year, and, in solemn supplication, petitioned God and the King of Men5 to protect the survivors from such calamities… ǁ In the plum orchard, beneath the plum-bearing trees and upon the green carpet of grass and clover which was spread over the ground, the women and girls sat, half-kneeling, in a 5

A note to the original text reads “King of Men — an epithet of Ali, who was the prophet Muhammad’s son-in-law.”

Ғуломон

сархушкшуда овози нофорами чуғзак шунида шуд. Занон овози ин мурғро шум шумурда ба тарс афтоданд. Ҳасан шитобкорона корди худро аз ғилоф кашида бо вай аз замин як парча кулӯх гирифт ва рост шуда хост, ки бо он кулӯҳ он мурғро зада парронад. То аз ҷояш хеста ба тарафи дарахти чуғзак нишаста рўӣ овардани Ҳасан вай парида рафт. Ҳасан барои зада натавонистанаш он мурғи шумро афсус нигоҳ хурда ба тарафи парранда парвоз кардарафта мекард, ки телпакҳои сиёҳи баландмӯи туркманони аз беруни боғ дар таги девор қатор истодаро аз сари девор дид…

Slaves

semicircle. Facing them, but a bit further away, the sword and rifle hung from a tree. Sitting against the same tree was Hasan. Hasan’s wife wrapped up a loaf of bread and a cluster of grapes with her scarf, brought them over, and placed them before him. The women and girls also spread a dastarkhon,6 broke bread above it, and began to eat the bread with grapes. Hasan had still not reached for the bread when the unwelcome call of a little owl was heard from atop a dried-up elm tree just a few steps beyond. The women, taking the bird call as a bad omen, fell into a state of alarm. Hasan hurriedly unsheathed his knife, used it to pick up a chunk of clay from the ground, and stood up straight, hoping to fling the clay and hit the bird. But by the time Hasan had gotten up and turned towards the tree where the owl was sitting, it had flown away. Hasan rued his inability to hit the foreboding fowl and was watching the bird in forced flight when, over the top of the wall, he saw the black, long-haired telpak hats of the Turkmen… 6

The name for a large cloth, traditionally spread on the floor and used for dining in much of Central and South Asia.

Six Elegies Sulpicia, 1st c. BCE translated from Latin by Penelope Pyo Sulpicia is believed to be one of the few Ancient Roman women poets whose work survives. Scholars speculate she may have lived and written during the reign of Augustus in the late 1st century BCE. The Sulpicia translations and notes of Jon Corelis and Lee Pearcy were of great help to me.

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Six Elegies

Tandem venit amor, qualem texisse1 pudori quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis. Exorata meis illum Cytherea Camenis2 adtulit in nostrum deposuitque sinum. Exsolvit promissa Venus: mea gaudia narret, dicetur siquis non habuisse sua. Non ego signatis quicquam mandare tabellis3, ne legat id nemo quam meus ante, velim, sed peccasse iuvat, vultus conponere famae taedet: cum digno digna fuisse ferar.

Invisus natalis adest, qui rure molesto et sine Cerintho tristis agendus erit. Dulcius urbe quid est? an villa sit apta puellae atque Arrentino frigidus amnis agro? Iam nimium Messalla mei studiose, quiescas, heu tempestivae, saeve propinque, viae! Hic animum sensusque meos abducta relinquo, arbitrio quamvis non sinis esse meo.

Scis iter ex animo sublatum triste puellae? natali Romae iam licet esse suo. Omnibus ille dies nobis natalis agatur, qui nec opinanti nunc tibi forte venit.

III

1 2 3

Texisse can mean to cover, veil, or clothe. Cytherea is a Greek epithet for Aphrodite. The Camenae were Italian and Roman goddesses associated with poetry; here, the Camenae are used as a metonymy for poems. Wax tablets were commonly used for writing letters.

Six Elegies

Finally, love has arrived, the kind that I ought to veil for my reputation’s sake, rather than bare myself before someone. I convinced Cytherea with my poems, and she brought him and laid him pressed to my breast. Venus has kept her promises: let her speak of my joy to those who have yet to feel this kind of bliss. I refuse to commit anything to sealed wax tablets, lest anyone read me before him. Yet it is pleasing to have betrayed decency. It is exhausting to maintain reputation’s mask: may I be said to have been worthy of someone worthy.

My stupid birthday is here, which will be spent in the dull countryside without Cerinthus. What’s sweeter than the city? Could a country home and icy river on Arretine soil ever be fitting for a young girl? Now rest, overattentive Uncle Messalla, today’s an awful time to be on the road! I’ve been kidnapped, but I leave behind my mind and soul here. Uncle, you don’t let me use my own judgment for anything.

Did you hear? The miserable trip has been lifted from your girl’s mind. Now I can spend my birthday in Rome! Let’s spend the entire day together. You have no idea that you’re about to run into me!

III

Six Elegies

Gratum est, securus multum quod iam tibi de me permittis, subito ne male inepta cadam. Sit tibi cura togae potior pressumque quasillo4 scortum quam Servi filia Sulpicia:5 Solliciti sunt pro nobis, quibus illa dolori est, ne cedam ignoto, maxima causa, toro.

Estne tibi, Cerinthe, tuae pia cura puellae, quod mea nunc vexat corpora fessa calor? A ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos optarim, quam te si quoque velle putem. At mihi quid prosit morbos evincere, si tu nostra potes lento pectore ferre mala?

Ne tibi sim, mea lux, aeque iam fervida cura ac videor paucos ante fuisse dies, si quicquam tota conmisi stulta iuventa, cuius me fatear paenituisse magis, hesterna quam te solum quod nocte reliqui, ardorem cupiens dissimulare meum.

Scortum means prostitute. The toga was typically a garment for male citizens, but the only women allowed to wear togas were prostitutes. Quasillo (wool basket) implies a spinning girl, a low class occupation. Servi filia Sulpicia (“Sulpicia, daughter of Servus”) echoes formal, aristocratic inscriptions. Latin in antiquity used “v” in place of “u.” I owe the idea of preserving the inscription language to Lee Pearcy’s translation.

Six Elegies

Many thanks to you for being so secure in my affection— now I will not stoop any lower because of your stupidity. May the toga-clad and wool basket-clutching whores take better care of you than SVLPICIA DAVGHTER OF SERVIVS. There is concern for me, as I am afflicted with anguish, and with great reason: heaven forbid I fall into a nobody’s marriage bed.

Cerinthus, do you hold any tender care for your girl, whose feeble body now tosses and turns with fever? I refuse to overcome this wretched illness unless I convince myself that you want me to. But what good is it for me to overcome my illness, if you’re able to bear my pain with a stony heart?

My Light, I still hold a flaming desire equal to that which you saw me harboring a few days ago. If I count every foolish thing I have done in my youth, there is nothing I regret more than leaving you alone yesterday night, yearning to conceal how brightly I burn for you.

Heimwech nach Prag Joseph Roth, 1924

Wenn ich keine Sehnsucht nach Paris hätte, so hätte ich Heimweh nach Prag. Es ist eine Stadt, in der ich niemals zu Hause war und in der ich jeden Augenblick zu Hause sein kann. Man braucht in Prag nicht »verwurzelt« zu sein. Es ist eine Heimat für Heimatlose. Sie hat keine Sentimentalität. Aber ich lebe seit fünf Jahren in Berlin. Ich sitze da, wie im Wartesaal eines großen Bahnhofs undwarte auf den Zug. Um mir das Geld für die Fahrkarte zu verdienen, handle ich inzwischen mit Büchern und Zeitungsartikeln. Es ereignet sich viel in diesem Bahnhof, man kann schreiben, man sieht allerhand fremde Völkerstämme, Arier, Professoren und deutschnationale Juden, Generäle vom Bahnhofskommando und gefallene Soldaten. Eine Familie erwartet eine Tante aus Dresden mit Militärmusik, man spielt »Deutschland über alles«, und die Gepäckträger entblößen ihre Schultern von der Traglast, und alle müssen aufstehen, auch wenn sie dabei sind, ein Wiener Schnitzel aus der Tunke zu heben. Am Tage wandere ich durch den Bahnhof Berlin, die eiligen Reisenden stoßen mich, den Beamten bin ich im Weg, der Polizeipräsident mit der roten Mütze erteilt mir Verbote, der Schaffner ertappt mich bei ihrer Übertretung, die ebenfalls verboten ist. Des Nachts schlafe ich in leeren Wartesäalen, die mít Frühstück zu vermieten sind und in denen sich Klaviere mit Hirschgeweihen befinden. Vom Standesamt erhalte ich die Erlaubnis zum Empfang nächtlicher Besuche, am Abend lasse ich mich trauen, des Morgens scheiden. Denn man achtet hier auf die Moral. In der

Homesick for Prague translated from German by Zachary Suri

If I didn’t long for Paris, I would be homesick for Prague. It is a city where I was never at home and where I could, at any moment, be at home. One need not have “roots” in Prague. She is a homeland for the homelandless. She has no sentimentality. But I have lived for five years in Berlin. I sit here, as if in the waiting room of a great train station and wait for the train. Meanwhile, to earn money for the ticket, I trade in books and newspaper articles. A lot happens in this train station. One can write. One sees all kinds of foreign tribes— Aryans, professors and Jews of the German nation, generals from the train station commando, and fallen soldiers. A family awaits an aunt from Dresden with military music. Someone plays “Deutschland über alles”, the porters strip off their burden, and everyone must stand, even if they’re in the middle of lifting a Wiener schnitzel out of the gravy. By day, I wander through the train station Berlin. The hurrying travellers shove me. I get in the way of the bureaucrats. The police president with the red cap hands me prohibitions, and the conductor catches me in their violation, which is likewise forbidden. At night, I sleep in empty waiting rooms that are rented with breakfast included. where pianos with antlers are found. From the registry office, I obtain permission to receive nightly visits: in the evening, I marry, in the morning, divorce. For here one must respect morality. In the morning, I am awakened by the widow of a high-ranking officer who maintains the waiting room and prefers renters of solid denomination. She wears a swastika on her Adam’s apple.

Heimwech nach Prag

Früh weckt mich die Wirwe eines höheren Offiziers, die den Wartesal in Stand haltund Mieter mit solider Konfession bevorzugt. Sieträgt ein Hakenkreuz am Adamsapfel. Hierauf begebe ich mich in die Abteilung für Herren, erhalte Instruktionen vom Verwalter, der ein eisernes Kreuz trägt und mit seinen Besuchern Gelenksübungen macht.Der Vormittag findet mich in einer Fütterungsstelle, da stehen wir alle mit Eßnapf und Trinkeimer und bedienen die Kellner, die hier polizeilichen Charakter haben. Jede Unhöflichkeit einem Kellner gegenüber wird als Amtsehrenbeleidigung geahndet. Am Nachmittag schreibe ich an einem Stollwerck-Automat: Ich werfe eine Münze in den Spalt, und unten fällt ein Einfall heraus, wenn man kräftig zieht. Manchmal ist der Automat verstopft. Dann müssen die Schriftsteller Konventionalstrafen zahlen. Um mir die Zeit zu vertreiben, gehe ich in die Polizeistation und schreibe Meldezettel. Dadurch macht man sich in Berlin beliebt. Am Abend sitze ich im Kino. Man gibt den Kolossal-Monumental-Film der Decla-Bioscop: »Deutsche, trinkt deutsches Bier!« mit Massenszenen von Lubitsch und Henny Porten als deutscher Heldenmutter, und die Kapelle spielt den Fridericus-Rex-Marsch. Ein paar Wartesäle sind als Kaffeehäuser aufgemacht, sie dürfen ohne Perronkarten nicht betreten werden. Man muß sie vom Portier knipsen lassen. Es ist mir gelungen, hier etwas Geld zu verdienen, mit dem ich mir verschiedene Sekkaturen leisten kann, den Ankauf von Briefmarken, die Bezahlung der Einkommensteuer und schon heimisch. Die tiefe Kniebeuge ist mir wegen guten Verhaltens erlassen. Ich mache nur noch Salutierübungen. Dennoch habe ich, wie gesagt, Heimweh nach Prag und im Paß ein tschechoslowakisches Jahresvisum. In Paris möchte ich die Sonntage verbringen und die Wochentage in Prag. Hier sind die abstrakten Kosmopoliten, in denen die Welt als Wille lebendig ist und die den Willen zur Welt nicht brauchen. Sie haben alle Schmerzen gelitten, alle Freudengenossen, und, weil sie nichts mehr überraschen kann, suchen sie keine Überraschungen. Sie sind Skeptiker,

Homesick for Prague

Then I repair to the department for gentlemen, receive instructions from the custodian, who wears an iron cross and does joint exercises with his visitors. The morning finds me at a feeding trough, where we all stand with mess tin and drinking bucket, and the waiters all have a police-like character. Every impoliteness to a waiter is punished as insulting an official. In the afternoon, I write at a Stollwerck vending machine: I throw a coin in the hole, and an idea falls out below, if you pull firmly enough. Sometimes the machine is blocked. Then the writer must pay a conventional penalty. To waste time, I go to the police station and fill out registration forms. That’s how one gets to be well-liked in Berlin. In the evening, I sit at the cinema. The Colossal-Monumental-Film from Decla-Bioscop is playing: “Germans, drink German beer!” with mass scenes of Lubitsch and Henny Porten as German hero-mother, and the band plays the Fridericus Rex March. Some of the waiting rooms are fitted out as coffeehouses which cannot be entered without a platform ticket. They must be snipped by the concierge. I have succeeded here at earning some money with which I can afford a variety of tortures: the purchase of stamps, the paying of the income tax, and the enjoyment of coffee. I am, in this train station, already almost native. I am exempted from the deep bow of the knee on account of good behavior. I only have the saluting exercises left to do. But still, I am, as I said, homesick for Prague, and in my passport is a yearlong Czechoslovak visa. I should like to spend my Sundays in Paris and my weekdays in Prague. Here are the abstract cosmopolitans, in whom the world as will is alive, and who have no use for will for the world. They have suffered all pains, they have relished all joys, and, because nothing more can surprise them, they don’t look for surprises. They are sceptics, but they love their life, life in Prague. All the voices of minds spread across the world stretch concentrically to Prague. For all the minds in the world come from this city, or else they are an error of creation. If they’ve become sentimental in Paris, solemn in Berlin, objective and crude in America, they return home immediately to Prague,

Heimwech nach Prag

aber sie lieben ihr Leben, das Leben in Prag. Alle Stimmen der Geister, die in der Welt verstreut sind, gelangen konzentrisch nach Prag, denn alle Geister in der Welt stammen aus dieser Stadt, oder es war ein Irrtum der Schöpfung. Wenn sie sentimental in Paris, pathetisch in Berlin, sachlich und roh in Amerika geworden sind flugs kehren sie nach Prag heim, in den Schoß der mütterlichen Skepsis und lassen sich auslachen, bis sie gesund werden. Ich muß es aus rhythmischen Gründen wiederholen, obwohl ich nicht zweifle, daß man es mir glauben wird: Wenn ich nicht so viel Sehnsucht nach Paris hätte – ich hätte Heimweh nach Prag.

Homesick for Prague

to the lap of her maternal scepticism and have themselves laughed at until they are healthy. I must repeat it for rhythmic reasons, although I don’t doubt that you will believe it of me: If I didn’t long so much for Paris, I would be homesick for Prague.

简简吟白居易 [Bai Juyi, 9th c. CE]

苏家小女名简简，芙蓉花腮柳叶眼。十一把镜学点妆，十二抽针能绣裳。十三行坐事调品，不肯迷头白地藏。玲珑云髻生花样，飘飖风袖蔷薇香。殊姿异态不可状，忽忽转动如有光。二月繁霜杀桃李，明年欲嫁今年死。丈人阿母勿悲啼，此女不是凡夫妻。恐是天仙谪人世，只合人间十三岁。大都好物不坚牢，彩云易散琉璃脆。

Jian Jian Lament (Simple Wail) translated from Chinese by Helen Zhang

Su Jian Jian is a girl you will never meet with cheeks of hibiscus flush, eyes of willow leaves. She learnt makeup at eleven, needlework at twelve, Winds and strings at thirteen, rejecting a life of hollow-headed hiding. Clouds bloom from her delicate hair, roses waft from winged sleeves dancing on air. Every movement of hers slips past words; With each twist and turn, her silhouette twinkles. Frost upon frost upon peach and plum; February is her killer — she leaves, a year before she is wed. Father, mother, do not weep; your daughter was not meant to be An ordinary man’s wife, but a celestial spirit in exile among mortals for thirteen years. In this world, beauty is fragility: bruised clouds dissipate, kaleidoscope glass shatters with ease.

Editors-in-Chief Alexia Dochnal ‘27 Toby Platt ‘27 Managing Editor Eliza Josephson ‘26 Editor-at-Large Sahar Mokal ‘29 Treasurer Peter Grande ‘29 Editorial Board Eliza Josephson ‘26 Lily Shukla ‘27 Sahar Mokal ‘29 Erin Lee ‘29 Elisabeth Peng ‘29 Kenny Wang ‘29 Peter Grande ‘29 Madison Melgoza ‘29 Digital Design Alina Susani ‘26 Print Design and Illustration Katya Agrawal ‘27 Advisory Peter Cole Robyn Creswell Printing Cannelli Printing

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