Language Minutiae

I don't recall the exact context, but last week in one of my readings there was a reference to AAA bonds. The author, using the singular, wrote "an AAA bond". I was slightly irritated, because one rarely hears "an AAA bond". Rather, we say "a triple A bond". Of course, we learn that in writing, the indefinite article changes to "an" before words beginning with a vowel sound. (Not always a vowel: "an honest mistake," etc. Other exceptions would be the 'u' sound [as in "you"]: "a united front," etc., and the 'w' sound in some words beginning with 'o': "a one-run inning.") If we write "an AAA bond" we are conforming to the usage norms regarding the indefinite article, but at the same time we create a little static for the reader, who typically converts written signs to vocal expression. In fact, the norm itself arises from that (higher?) principle: writing reflects the spoken language: we write "an apple a day..." because the consecutive 'a' sounds, when pronounced, like to have that 'n' sound added.

Of course, I don't really care much how writers resolve the AAA bond bind, but I find it interesting and am now reminded of a truly fascinating article from the Wall Street Journal that was sent to me the other day: "Lost in Translation". The article reports on recent research that demonstrates how language actually determines culture, perhaps to an extent we could not have imagined. I learned that many languages do not have the concept of "left and right". Rather, they use the cardinal points for this kind of lateral orientation, even for the body. And, experiments have shown that people in cultures whose languages do this tend to have better spatial orientation. That is, they have "a great sense of direction." Learning another language can expand our horizons. The metaphor is perhaps more appropriate than we had imagined.

Tourists?

Reading José Angel Cilleruelo's blog El Visir de Abisinia is always a pleasure and it never fails to offer the reader fresh surprises. There are often little jewels. In a recent entry José Angel, who lives in Barcelona, makes a very interesting observation about the nature of tourism. Here's a spontaneous translation:

 

Tourists

I sit in Holy Family Square and watch the tourists go by. Just as they happily contemplate the city of monuments and its beauties, I admire the passion of the traveling couple, the friendship of the groups of friends, the family spirit of the families. Neither they nor I participate in an illusion. The naivety that surrounds tourism is an important path to happiness: belief that the world is well made* somewhere else. What they do not know about us –what I do not know about them– makes it possible to perceive only that which is pleasing. Which also exists.

 *The world is well made: "El mundo está bien hecho." A famous line, often poorly interpreted, from a poem by Jorge Guillén, a famous XX century Spanish poet.

In any case, a tourist makes for a rich metaphor. When we get back to Carlisle, I want to be like a tourist, to see anew. And I'll need to do this translation anew. After all, José Angel has been cultivating for over a couple of years now this particular textual form, which is defined by the text having exactly one hundred words. Form and content. Oh, a slow start to the week: I haven't got either just right yet. (A little later: I still don't have it right, but I did get my translation into a one hundred word block. So, back to the Modernists: Make it new!  (In the photo, a couple of happy tourists in Nerja.)

Walt Whitman

Last night we had the first session of the Leer la voz americana (Reading the American Voice) series I'm organizing with the Centro Cultural del 27. We started with Whitman. (The other sessions will be dedicated to Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stevens, and Sylvia Plath, then we'll end with a bilingual reading by my colleague Adrienne Su.) The idea is to have poets, critics, and translators lead conversations about the reception of these poets in Spain. We had a great start: Juan Jesús Zaro (translator) and María Eloy García (poet) were excellent, students Kennon Pearre and Anna Elliot recited two poems beautifully, and the turnout was quite gratifying. Juan gave a good review of the history of Whitman translations and a brief overview of the polemic between Spanish poet León Felipe and Jorge Luis Borges regarding Felipe's translation of "Song of Myself." María's account of Whitman's impact on her was stellar and at the same time entertaining. She's got energy!

Birth by Chance

Yesterday I was catching up with José Angel Cilleruelo's blog and came across one of his funny little dialogues. I don't know if this is pure invention, but I doubt it; I can imagine this happening pretty much the way he presents it. He presents it under the category "little theatre works." The conversation is between a lottery seller and client, which is immediately obvious for a reader of the original, but not necessarily so for one unfamiliar with Spanish life. Something about it caught my fancy so I went ahead and translated it:

–Please, could you give me a number that ends in 85.

–Does it have to be 85?

–Yes, it's got to end in 85.

–85, let's see what I can find. Here's one in 58 that smells like a winner. Will it do?

–How funny. I was born that year. In 58.

–A good reason.

–I'd prefer one that ends in 85.

–That means your reason is better.

–Well, perhaps.

–A reason better than having been born? Could there be one?

–I don't think so, none.

–So? 58?

–So: 85!

–Better than being born?

–To be born again.

–Another time?

–Not another time, the first time.

–Now I get it! But in 85... Nothing!

And speaking of birth, how about that woman in California and her eight newborns! That's hitting the lottery! I'm hoping not to be unborn today. Have a little trip to Cordoba to see Pablo today; should be fun.

Searching

Yesterday after finishing with work I went to a book presen- tation at the new FNAC store. Juvenal was presenting Manuel Alcántara's most recent anthology. I got there late, but in time to listen to Alcántara reflect on his life (he's 80) then read some poems. Nothing really special about the event itself, which was very well attended, but it was nice to be able to say hello to Manolo. (Speaking of older-young-at-heart poets, Pablo was in town last week and we were able to have lunch together; as always, a wonderful gathering.) Last night I also had the opportunity to meet Manuel Pimentel, a former government minister who decided to engage his interest in poetry a few years ago, after he left the government; he was there as the publisher of the anthology. Last year I translated twelve of Alcantara's sonnets. Here's one of my favorites, which the poet recited last night:

I search for myself in time badly spent

and in calendars whose pages are old,

but the scent of my soul has gone cold,

and the old man I knew he up and went.

The one I was just a one time event?

I want news of myself, news to unfold

the layers of myself, these words of gold

to relieve oblivion, my one lament.

The small adventure of this boat that sails

blue seas and feels the force of big strong gales:

yet no mermaid with any answer sings.

My wine and questions are in the same cup.

Pains and doubts. Everything piles up.

And God's answer is to not say a thing.

We're all searching. The Red Sox too. They just got beat badly again. The lost autumn of Big Papi? He's got one more chance to find it. They all do. I hope today isn't my last chance. I don't think it will be. (First I've got to figure out the 'it' I'm supposed to be looking for; actually this life as search idea isn't really my cup of tea. I just keep rooting for extra innings, endless, infinite extra innings. And it's softball, none of this three strikes and you're out nonsense. Damn, with those rules I'd have been gone long, long ago.) We had a funny family meeting last night: Asun and I here in Malaga video talking to Alma and Cristina, who were rather comically seated in one of the little campus information booths where Alma sometimes works, and Daniela in Madrid participating via speaker phone. A couple of times we had to stop so Alma could give directions to campus visitors. And at times there were several conversations going on at once: travel plans, help with homework, just catching up, boyfriends, etc. Today's word is: Discombobulated. (In the photo, Manuel Alcántara.)

Two languages. Two me's?

Yesterday I was reading the paper and was sur- prised (and somewhat flattered) to see myself quoted in Pedro Aparicio's weekly article. He was discussing J. Soto's new collection of poetry and quoted the review I wrote for El Mundo. In any case, he seemed to like my description of one of the book's qualities as an espejismo vital. When I wrote that I new exactly what I was referring to and precisely what I meant to say. But a few minutes after reading Pedro's article I fund myself thinking in English. It occurred to me that I would be at a loss to express that same concept in English. A lively mirage? It doesn't sound right at all. I guess I could use a good bit of circumlocution and describe what I meant, but that wouldn't do very well. Just one little example of why translating one brief poem can take so darn long. (And this example doesn't even take into account all the attention that must be given to questions of rhythm, sometimes of rhyme and meter, metaphor, etc.) Do I think differently in Spanish than in English? No doubt there are some differences, since we think verbally. So when I'm thinking in Spanish I'm drawing on the Spanish dictionary in my brain, in many ways poorer than my English dictionary, but in some ways richer. And going back and forth, that is, drawing on both dictionaries simultaneously, is not as easy as it may seem. I do that some, of course, but it's a process that slows down my thinking and can often be an unwelcome interference. (OK, another off the cuff gloss of that expression: organic self-deceptions/revelations; not that it sounds much better, but to some degree it gets at what I was referring to: the poet's unavoidable tendency to express feelings and desires that he knows are partially artifice, yet are rhetorically necessary steps on the path to his poetic truth.) Perhaps the photo does a better job of exemplifying how a creative fiction can suggest a profound truth. This bronze in the center of Malaga is a homage to Rafael Pérez Estrada and it's based on one of his wonderful ink drawings. This imaginative hybrid ("Ave quiromántica") suggests many things; among them, peace, liberty, and friendship. So I guess looking for me in two different languages is fun. But maybe, after all is said and done, certain qualities of silence will turn out to be the most fruitful path.