E-Book, Englisch, 101 Seiten
Harlamov / ZakrajSek / Klari? LITERARY EXCHANGE DURING LOCKDOWN IN 2020
1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-961-6995-87-0
Verlag: Slovene Writers' Association
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
INTERNATIONAL LITERARY PEN PALS IN THE BIRTH YEAR OF COVID-19
E-Book, Englisch, 101 Seiten
ISBN: 978-961-6995-87-0
Verlag: Slovene Writers' Association
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
This e-book is part of the Ulysses' Shelter project started in 2017 with the objective to build a network of exchange literary residencies aimed at young writers and literary translators. The second stage of Ulysses' Shelter is once again being co-funded by the Creative Europe Programme of the European Union, and coordinated by Croatian publishing house and literary agency Sandorf, with four partners, Literature Across Frontiers and Wales Literature Exchange in Wales, Krokodil in Serbia, Thraka in Greece and Slovene Writers' Association in Slovenia. This e-book represents a cross-section of external and internal events from each young literary creator in the months between August 2020 and the end of 2020. It consists of five chapters, each offering a unique insight into the artists' lives, thinking and fears in the last quarter of 2020, that is, in the year Covid-19 was born. At the end of the book, there is a short reflection by the young literary creators on the guest performances carried out in Ljubljana, Slovenia. Then there is a short presentation of all the literary correspondents.
Weitere Infos & Material
GAINED IN TRANSLATION OR REPETITION WITH VARIATION The well-known phrase ‘lost in translation’ usually refers to unintentional (over)interpretation in the interpreting process or the inability to satisfactorily convey all the nuances and multi-layered aspects that can be captured in one language and not in another – a fact that especially translators of more demanding literary works are well aware of, as they are often faced with the dilemma or irreconcilable dichotomy that lies between being faithful to the original or interfering with the text itself through linguistic innovation. Gained in translation (see the well-known phrase ‘lost in translation’) turns on its head the driving force behind the poems that were created within this project – it is precisely the problematic discrepancy between the original and the translation. We, the undersigned Sergej Harlamov and Thomas Tsalapatis, exchanged our own poems written in a language (Greek or Slovene) the other doesn’t understand, let alone master, in order to create something new and different, with the help of existing software for automatic translation, with all its occasional (in)abilities to transfer all written material and multi-layered aspects from one language into another. For this purpose, I mainly used translation programs, which have received poor user opinions online (which programs I used doesn’t matter, and neither would I advertise them here, since, given how they are rated, I don’t want to advertise them); first I translated Tsalapatis’s poems from Greek into languages unknown to me, blindly counting on the fact that the database that allows for translations between Greek and an arbitrarily chosen obscure language is not yet sufficiently refined and optimized to ensure accurate interpretation. And all this was done with a single goal: to create algorithms to drive the wheels of a veritable little translation or linguistic catastrophe, which would either destroy a certain linguistic matter and substitute it with a new one or cause a deviation, unforeseen mutation of the existing text. To repeat it, but with a difference – be it barely noticeable or flagrant. POLJE Imam škatlo, v kateri je bil nekdo ubit. Nekoliko vecja je od škatle za cevlje. Malce neprimerna za shranjevanje cigar. Ne vem, kdo, ne vem, kdo, ampak nekdo je bil v njej ubit. Neslišno (razen takrat, ko sem slišal krike). Odnesel sem jo v knjižnico, sedel za mizo, da bi postavil naš cas v perspektivo. Vzel sem jo iz vrecke (in sonce je spet porumenelo), odnesel v svojo posteljo, da bi razmislil, ce si vse zgolj domišljam. V škatli. Nekoga ubijajo. Tudi v naši hiši. Se praznuje, cetudi je nedelja, cetudi dežuje. Ko sem našel škatlo – ne bom povedal, kako, ne bom povedal, kje – sem jo prinesel domov. S soglasjem. Zazdelo se mi je, da sem slišal pesem dneva. Toda ne – bili so množicni pomori. Zaradi teh vtisov sem zbolel, poznam namrec dogodke, ki se odvijajo v škatli. Njena prisotnost me podžiga. Moral bi nekaj narediti, se osvoboditi, se nekako umiriti, okopati se. Zdaj je odlocitev na dlani. Mogoce bo všec prijatelju; škatlo sem poslikal z nedolžnimi barvami, jo položil v karton in namesto nedolžne pentlje uporabil lisice. Zdaj je v kartonasti škatli škatla, ta škatla, v kateri se ubija. Cakam, da pride prijatelj. Prijatelj, ki ga cakam samo, ko potrebujem njegovo pomoc. THE BATTLE(FIELD) I have a box in which someone was killed. It’s a little bigger than a shoebox. A little unsuitable for storing cigars. I don’t know who, I don’t know who, but someone was killed in it. Without a sound (except when I heard screams). I took it to the library, sat at the desk to put into perspective our times. I took it out of the bag (and the sun turned yellow again), took it to my bed to contemplate if I was imagining it all. In a box. There’s somebody getting killed. In our house. We are celebrating, even if it’s Sunday, even if it’s raining. When I found the box – I won’t tell you how, I won’t tell you where – I brought it home. The decision was consensual. I thought I heard the hit of the day. But no – it was just a mass murder. These impressions made me sick, because I knew about the events that are taking place in the box. Its presence fuels me. I should do something, break free, calm down or take a bath. But now the decision is at hand. Maybe a friend will like it; I painted the box with innocent colors, put it in cardboard and used handcuffs instead of an innocent bow. Now the box is in the cardboard box, the box in which somebody is getting killed. I’m waiting for my friend. A friend I am waiting for only when I need help. The Box (the original poem) I have a small box in which someone is always being slaughtered. A little larger than a shoebox. A little plainer than a cigar box. Don’t know who, don’t know whom, but they’re slaughtering someone. You can’t hear a sound (except for the times you can). I place it on the bookshelf, on the table when I want to spend time looking at it, away from the window so the sun won’t discolor it; underneath my bed when I’m feeling naughty. They’re slaughtering someone, even when we’re having a party in our house, even on Sunday, even when it’s raining. When I found the box – I won’t say how, won’t say where – I brought it home, very satisfied. At first I thought I’d be able to hear the sound of the sea. But no, in there massacres are taking place. I started to be sickened by the noise, the knowledge of the events, the acts inside the box. The box revolted me. I had to do something, to liberate myself, calm down, take a shower. I needed to take charge. So, I mailed it to a friend. A friend I keep just for giving presents to. I wrapped the box in an innocently-colorful cardboard, I wrapped the cardboard in an innocently-colorful ribbon. Inside the mail box there’s a box and in that box they’re slaughtering someone. Placed inside the mailbox, it’s waiting to reach a friend. A friend I keep just to give presents to. Translated by Elena Anna Mastromauro * * * OSAMLJENA DEŽELA To je soseska, naseljena izkljucno z Nietzscheji. Izcrpani od vecnega vracanja, meteorizirajo onkraj dobrega in zla, hodijo na romanticne sprehode, prekupcujejo z idoli. V somraku. Fotografirajo brke na Wagnerjevih plakatih, na veliko klepetajo o grbcu, orlu in kaci. Poljubljajo konje na usta, poljubljajo cas na lica, na splošno pocnejo, kar pocnejo Nietzscheji. Ob zori se smejijo z zlomljenimi zobmi. Nekega dne so našli tri Nietzscheje umorjene pod jablano. Njihova stara, a cista trupla so bila zabodena in vsa jabolka potrgana. Toda oblasti niso hotele spregovoriti o tem obracunu. Ko so nam izstavile racun, smo z gotovostjo vedeli, da je bil ta incident veliko pomembnejši od preproste omembe v tajnem porocilu. COUNTRY OF LONELINESS This neighborhood is populated exclusively by the Nietzsches. Exhausted from the persuad of return, meteorizing beyond good and evil, going for romantic walks, peeing on idols. In the twilight. They photoshop the mustache on Wagner’s posters, chatting a lot about the hump, the eagle and the snake. They kiss horses on the mouth, kiss time on its cheeks and generally do what the Nietzsches do. They laugh at dawn with broken teeth. One day, they found three Nietzsches murdered under the apple tree. Their old but clean corpses were stabbed and all the apples ripped. But the authorities refused to talk about this bloodbath. When they sent us the check, we knew with certainty that this incident was far more important than the simple mention in the classified report. City of Loneliness (the original poem) This neighborhood is inhabited primarily by Nietzsches. Fatigued by their infinite return, lingering afar from good and evil, strolling romantic promenades, looking listlessly at idols and twilight, drawing moustaches on posters of Wagner, conversing aloud about the little hunchback, the eagle and the snake. They kiss horses on the lips, they kiss time on the cheeks, they generally do what Nietzsches do. And dawn smiles with all its broken teeth. One day, three Nietzsches were found murdered. Their bodies covered in knife wounds, their age untouched and all their apples eaten. Even when authorities alluded to a revenge killing, we knew, with sufficient certainty, that this incident was far more important than a mere mention on the news. Translated by Elena Anna Mastromauro * * * Konstantni Tine Spoznal sem ga ob koncu tega dne. Vstajal je in sedal. Nato koncno obmiroval. Ena roka iz gline, druga iz cesarkoli že. Njegove veke težke in za njimi en sam jarek. Še kar stoji tam, pokoncen in neumrljiv. Opit od jeze, z vodno pištolo cilja skale. Mrzim ljudi, mi rece. Vse? Vse. Vendar nekatere...
