Poème d’octobre: A translation

Sometimes I think I feel the most like myself while riding on a train. I wrote this Sunday afternoon coming home from New York, not on a train but on a Greyhound bus. It rained the whole time. The English translation follows.

“Poème d’octobre”

J’en ai marre des feuilles mortes. Elles sont biens des feuilles, elles connaissaient une fois la tendresse du soleil, elles savaient bien sûr respirer, absorber, plier, répondre. Une fois. Mais nous promenons dans cette saison un jardin de morts, d’odeurs de la tristesse, de regrets. Nous nous trouvons seules au fond imprévisible du musée, entourée de peintures desséchées, de paysages dénaturés, de fictions désespérées. Les odeurs me fait dégueuler. Les images me piquent. Je m’en fou de la décomposition d’automne.

Vous allez encore vous promener dans cette forêt, ressentir la fraicheur de ces bois. Dans les ombres sous les arbres vous reprendrez du repos. Des ouvertures ensoleillées vous surprendront.

Vous aurez du courage en trouvant les beaux anciens chemins même de sentir les parfums des morts. Parmi les feuilles vous allez trouver le pardon. Dans l’acte de pardonner vous n’allez pas vous faire peur.

Les silences vous offriront le calme pour lequel vous avez tant agacé. La musique de vent, le noir du soir vous accorderont la paix.

Vous allez monter dans les hauteurs. Votre regard va percer des branches. Vous aurez le droit de contempler les paysages lointains.

Vous verrez les étoiles. Vous tremblerez dans la lumière. Votre cœur aura des rêves d’automne dans l’abri d’une nuit profonde …

Nous nous touchons les mains.

Je lui fais un regard et tiens la main qui reste ouverte,
celle qui a saigné autant que les yeux.

Il m’invite à déshabiller,
lui qui a déjà mis ses robes,
en me montrant leur tissue léger.

Entouré d’un multitude frères et sœurs
aussi nombreux que les chambres de la forêt,
doucement, pleinement, et sachant que je révèlerais mes blessures
j’enlève mes vêtements, mes peurs si proches
qu’ils ont imprimés leur marques sur la peau,
mes feuilles mortes et meurtrières.

Une fois nus, nous montons ensemble
dans la robe de tissu rayonnant,
celle où est brodé le longueur de nos histoires,
structurée dans le profondeur de nos pardons,
façonnée à l’ampleur de nos amours.

Liés, nous dansons jusqu’à l’aube.

“October Poem”

I’m sick of dead leaves. They are leaves. They once knew the tenderness of the sun. They knew how to breathe, absorb, bend, respond. Once. But in this season we walk a garden of deaths, scents of sadness, regrets. We find ourselves alone in the back corner of a museum, surrounded by dried up paintings, denatured landscapes, desperate fictions. The smells sicken me. The pictures sting. I’ve had enough of the decomposition of the fall.

You will still walk in this forest, feel the freshness of these woods. In the shadows under the trees you will rest. Openings filled with sunlight will surprise you.

You will have courage in finding the beautiful old paths, enough even to smell the scents of deaths. Among the leaves you will find forgiveness. In the act of forgiving you will not give yourself fear.

The silences will offer you the calm for which you have so long agitated. The wind’s music, the evening darkness will grant you peace.

You will go up in the heights. Your eyes will pierce branches. The distant landscapes you will have the right to contemplate.

You will see the stars. You will tremble in the light. Your heart will have dreams of autumn in the shelter of a deep night …

Our hands touch each other.

I give him a look and hold his hand which remains open,
the one that bled as much as his eyes.

He invites me to undress,
he who has already put on his robes,
showing me their light fabric.

Surrounded by a multitude of brothers and sisters
as numerous as the rooms of the forest,
gently, fully, knowing that I am revealing my wounds,
I take off my clothes, my fears so close
that they have printed their marks on the skin,
my dead and murderous leaves.

Once naked, we rise together in the robe of radiant fabric,
the one that is embroidered with the length of our stories,
structured in the depths of our forgiveness,
shaped to the fullness of our loves.

Linked, we dance until dawn.

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Two poems of love and marriage: Translations

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1. Les vœux

Une fois je t’ai promis le tout
quand je t’ai offert ma vie.

Je t’ai promis les nuits et les soirées,
les matins ensoleillées, les journées de pluie.

Je t’ai offert la bouche qui sait désirer,
le front qui sait rêver dans tes caresses,
les bras qui gardent leur chaleur.

Je t’ai offert des sensations et des sensitivités
des mots justes et des sonorités.
Le lustre et les sauvageries une fois je t’ai représentés.

Je t’ai promis l’amour sous la souffrance,
le cœur qui ne cesse pas de se donner.
Les pleures et les regards ne t’ai-je pas jurés ?
Les yeux qui comptent les larmes,
mes propres sentiments ne t’ai-je pas offerts ?

Accepte donc la totalité de mes promesses,
l’addition, la somme, le début et la fin du compte.

Veuille recevoir alors la signe de mes promesses,
la main droite tremblante, la vérité blessante, la sincérité.

Et je te supplie, chère toi qui as déjà mon cœur,
qui as mes veines, mon souffle et mon sang,
d’entendre la voix de mon serment,
celle-là tout bas,
comme si elle venait de lointain,
obscurée de doutes,
celle-là que peut-être tu trouves trop tendre,
celle-là qui ne cesse pas de poser la question,
celle-là qui attend de toi une réponse.

Dis-moi.
Notre vie ensemble n’est-elle pas qu’une promesse ?

1. Vows (English translation)

I once promised you everything when I offered you my life. 

I promised you nights and evenings, sunny mornings and days of rain.

I offered you a mouth that knows desire, a brow that can dream in your caresses, and arms that can keep us warm.

I offered you sensations and sensitivites, right words and sonorities. Of brightness and wildness I gave you a vision.

I promised you love underneath suffering, a heart that never ceases to give of itself. Didn’t I promise you weaping and eyes that see you and eyes that count tears. Have I not offered my own feelings ?

Accept, then, the totality of my promesses, the sum, the bill, the beginning and end of the account.

Receive the sign of my promesses, a trembling right hand, truth that hurts, and my sincerity.

And I beseech you, you my dearest who have already my heart, you who have my veins, my blood and my breath, to hear the voice of my pledge to you—the voice soft and low as if it were coming from far off, obscured by my doubts, the voice that maybe you have found too tender, the one that will not stop asking the question, the one that is waiting for a response :

Tell me, is are life together not a promise?

2. La fête

Qu’il y aient à notre mariage des violons,
des bouquets de fleurs et des parfums de roses,
à chaque table des tintements de verres.

Qu’il y aient des costumes gris et des tissus légères,
de nouvelles robes et des aromes de cuir.
Pour chaque jubilation, une danse.
et pour chaque silence, une pause.
De la fraicheur à chaque fenêtre
et à chaque table une carafe d’eau.
Que les danseurs viennent mouiller leurs lèvres desséchées.

À tous ceux qui veulent causer, un partenaire.
À tous ceux qui veulent danser, des battements de cœur.
Et à tous ceux qui veulent en contempler, des points d’or
au moment où la marée nuageuse révèle ses perles.

Et que nous quittions, ma chère, la salle de danse,
avant que les pétales sortent de leur bouquets et les carafes se vident.
Avant les tremblements de branches
et les premiers soupirs du vent,
avant l’avance rosâtre aux champs
et les premières étoiles aux cieux,
que nous retrouvions notre propre espace de cœur.
Là nous nous donnerons notre amour.

Que nous nous offrions nos chuchotements
alors que les cadences des violons commencent à s’allonger.

Car notre amour est comme une fleur rare
si fine et si inconnue
qu’elle n’a qu’un seul nom dans une seule langue.
Or, notre amour est comme un chant,
si intime, si inscrutable
qu’elle ne fait aucun rythme ni aucun sens
aux ceux qui en déchiffreraient.
Mais que nous sachions, ma chère, mon cœur à moi,
quand nous partageons nos secrets
que nous touchons un amour de si sacré et de si commun
que les amoureux de tous les pays
ont pour lui leur propres adresses,
leurs propres salutations,
leurs propres tendres noms.

Que cet amour soit suffisamment grand pour entourer
un univers de solitude et de pertes dans son étendue.
Que le vent du soir, mêlé à la musique,
soulage chaque blessure.
Qu’ils trouve à chaque souffrance un regard,
à chaque espoir un accord.

Qu’il y aient des violons et des extases,
des saveurs, des danses et des parfums,
des carafes d’eau et des perles d’étoiles
l’entrechoquement de verres, des roses, des rires,
et à chaque table, des rêves du cœur.

2. The feast (English translation)

May our wedding have violins,
bouquets of flowers and perfumes of roses,
at each table the clinking of glasses.

Let there be gray suits and light fabric,
new dresses and smells of leather.
For each cry of joy a dance,
for each silence, a moment of stillness.
At every window may there be cool air
and at each table a carafe of water.
May the dancers moisten their dried lips.

To all who want to talk, may there be a partner.
To all who want to danse, stirrings of the heart.
And to all who would contemplate it, points of gold
at the moment when the tide of clouds reveals its pearls.

And let us, my love, leave the dance hall
before the petals spring from their bouqets and the carafes run dry.
Before the trembling of the branches
and the first sighs of the evening wind,
before the fields are filled with their pink
and the skies are filled with stars,
may we find our heart’s own space.
There, we will give each other our love.

When the cadences of violins begin their lengthening
let us offer each other our whispers.

For our love is like a rare flower
so fine, so unfamiliar
that it has only one name in one language.
Or it could be that our love is like a song,
so intimate and inscrutable
that it makes no sense or rhythm
to those who would decipher it.
But may we know, my love, my own heart,
when we share our secrets
that we touch a love so sacred, so common
that those who love from every country
have for it their own titles,
their own greetings,
and their own tender names.

May this love be big enough to circle
a world of losses and loneliness in its reach.
May the evening wind, mingled with violin music,
salve each wound.
May those who suffer find one who sees them,
and may those who hope find an answer.

Let there be violins and ecstasies,
flavors, dances, and perfumes,
carafes of water and pearls of stars,
the clinking of glasses, roses and laughs,
and at each table, dreams from the heart.


 

My Pablo Neruda scrapbook: This week

Para que tú me oigas
mis palabras
se adelgazan a veces
como las huellas de las gaviotas en las playas.

…like the tracks of the seagulls on the beaches.

Who introduced me to Pablo Neruda? It has to have been Joshua. He posts his poetry all the time and I think it was he who told a beautiful story–an incredible story–about a Spanish speaking worker, or someone like that, who discovered that they shared an affinity, and maybe developed one for each other, when the man noticed Joshua’s book of Neruda poems on his dashboard. I also had friends in college before this who read to each other poems and stories and translated vocabulary pages at the same table as me. It could have been a few months ago too, when I read as many banquet speeches of the Nobel literature prize as there were writers I was familiar with. I recommend Márquez’s, Camus’s, and Svetlania Alexiavich’s. I had to have at least recognized Neruda by then.

In his banquet speech, Neruda offered thanks and said that he would return “to the blank page which every day awaits us as poets so that we shall fill it with our blood and our darkness, for with blood and darkness poetry is written, poetry should be written.”

Part of me thinks of the suffering of political prisoners in Chile as Neruda knew it and in every civilization that oppresses its workers.

…porque con sangre y sombra se escribe, se debe escribir la poesía.

The Christian in me thinks of Jesus.

The still growing up part of me wants to shout, “This is when art is” and return to browsing the movies in the HBO GO account I don’t even pay for. And count out my likes later.

The child in me wants to share this with all of my friends.

And then they will come watch with me the 2016 film Neruda, directed by the Chilean filmmaker Pablo Larraín. It made me want to visit Chile–its cobbled streets lined with plane trees, its mountains filled with snow. It made me want to sing when I read poetry aloud. It made me want to read Spanish detective novels in bed and fall in love. It made me above all want to read more of his poetry.

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I texted my sister on Wednesday night saying, “I wrote a love poem in French. I’m a poet now.” She said something like, “Send it to me.” My sister “reads” paragraphs to me from French philosophical treatises on the subway in New York City. She even does her own “translations.” One time, in 2009, she was reading to me about the horse négligée that Lindsay Lohan once wore. My sister is as obsessed with language as I am. She does Spanish toasts in weddings. She has studied for the GRE.

I wanted to be as free as he was. I wanted not just to see the evening haze rise into the hills across from San Francisco, I wanted to feel it roll through me, like spirit. One of my favorite images from scripture is the Spirit of God moving in our hearts, filling them with love.

But I still get caught in the rhythms of what love poetry was supposed to be, what it must have meant for Victor Hugo. What people who love each other say out loud. “I strove to love you in the old high way of love,” wrote Yeats. And doesn’t language too often have a way of smoothing–as with a rich butter on a piece of crust–the sensations of our life together? I wasn’t picturing someone I’ve been in love with. That would have been different. That wouldn’t have been“Come to me, I see you standing by the lake.” It wouldn’t have been “The moon is rising on your skin.” These sound like bad translations of Chekov. We can’t be more in love with the moon than we are with the one we love or the words of love we share. It would have been “Your body is wet with the crests of waves. I’m chasing you.” It would have been “Your hair is dripping in shiny pearls, falling on your chest,” if I were picturing someone whom I loved.  Nevertheless, this is what I wrote, trying to be free.

Les eaux sont calme ice-bas, ce soir.
Les eaux qui te caresseraient le visage
qui t’appeleraient et qui t’emmèneraient au plus profond
qui t’embraseraient avec leur fraîcheur
ne sifflent plus, ne tremble plus,
ne chuchote qu’en mots d’écume.

Et toi qui savais une fois danser
qui exultais dans la valse vagueuse
de touches brusques, de secrets partagés, et de douces retraites,
es capté par le même silence
la même intransigence,
la même crépuscule douloureuse.

Veille bien tendre l’oreille,
faire descendre la main,
regarder autour de toi.
Fais un seul pas.
Toi, qui ne vois qui l’image d’amertume,
le reflet fixe, la surface mate,
tu vas voir le monde contorsionne à fleur d’eau.
Toi, qui ne sens que l’air frigide, tu vas réussir à sauter
avec des cris de joie.
Et toi, qui n’entends rien de vagues ni de soupirs de vent
tu vas ressentir, même au centre de cette nuit pesante,
les palpitations du cœur qui bat.

The water is calm here this evening, still.
The waves that would caress your face
that would call to you and lead you farther out
that would embrace you with a cool kiss
no longer stir, or tremble,
or whisper anything but words of foam.

And you who once knew how to dance,
who gleamed in the waves’ waltz
of quick touches, secrets shared, and soft goodbyes,
are stuck in the same silence,
the same intransigence,
the same painful obscurity of the evening.

 But come incline your ear,
lower your hand,
look around you.
Make just one step.
You, who only see the bitter image
of your fixed reflection, a matte surface,
you will see the world twist itself on the upper layer of water.
You who who only feel the frigid air
will rise to jumping with cries of joy.
And you, who now hear nothing of waves
or the breathing of the wind
will feel, even in the middle of this heavy night,
the palpitations of a beating heart.

 

The Nobel prize committee in 1971 evoked Pablo Neruda’s sense of, his yearning for, man’s harmony with nature. Some day, we’ll find this harmony. We won’t dream of disaccord and intransigence. We won’t be an unsettled people. We’ll sing our suffering and our jubilation, ours and each others, from the fullness of our breaths in our once sunken chests. Some poets have reached this. Some poets have lived this. Some poets have died for this. For the rest of us, and until then, we will have them–the ones like Neruda–to help us search our darkness and find our blood still moving in the life inside.

 

 

The lesser-valued foreign language skills, and maybe rightly so: A list

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Because it is not always about the grand moments, the flourishes, the ecstasies. It is not even the culminations, necessarily, the closing of good books after a prolonged period of study, that characterize our knowledge of a foreign language. We may use them to define our ability and ease–I have asked for a seat on a bus–I have read Balzac–I have made a friend–but these are just benchmarks. If, in life, there are a few simple, uncomplicated rules that govern the new heights and depths, the few important moments of our lives, there are countless complicated rules that govern everything else. And I wonder if getting to know another language, like getting to know another person, resides mostly in the expansive matrix of everything else.

When I was studying abroad in France, I convinced myself to ride my bike from where I was staying in Tours to the nearby town of Ambroise, a popular route, one that followed a river, clung perilously to a highway, took me over a bridge to avoid a railway, and then deposited me in a forest of dark green leaves where I discovered a network of mountain bike trails. Not having a mountain bike, I stuck to the safest-looking paths, but what little I did of the twists and bumps and rises and falls was exhilarating enough to make me dream of coming back someday to take the trails more adventurously.

When we learn a language, we we follow the wide-ranging paths, laid by wide-stepping people who have crossed in both directions and in every direction (can I just add that the word for direction in French translates to “sense?”) we experience the same movements that we undergo when we meet a new “other”–the same awkwardness, the same formality, the foul and fair territory, the shifting between the poles. And whatever our capacity for familiarity or intimacy may be–will she be a friend, a regretted companion, a counselor to me (a judge, an executioner, a priest)?–few would argue that they knew the precise moment their love for each other became something different. Few could say that the warmth of their companionship consisted in the outline of cold hard facts of desires recorded, laughs counted, and tears measured. No one who is in love can keep track of the hours spent together. Time flies from this. So it is with the languages we learn to love, to hate, to reject, and sometimes to forget, but ultimately, I hope, to cherish.

These have never made my list of defining moments. We don’t get to learn them in class. No one thinks of these skills when they applaud your ability. But they are the kinds of things we do–and often half to do–when we choose a path and step into the matrix. And though we were following a clear, well-established thoroughfare, before we realize it and after several steps and missteps, we find ourselves cycling in the afternoon shadows on a woods-rutted path somewhere outside of Ambroise, rushing through the bushes down a sudden incline at full speed.

1. That one word.

For decades scientists, moralists, and middle school teachers everywhere have debated how often the human mind thinks about sex. I can’t speak for everybody, but I can say that at the very least, I think about it every time someone uses the reflexive verb “s’exprimer:” to express oneself. This has been a source of untold giggling, and please tell me I not alone. We all need that one word that keeps our 11-year-old self within reach, that keeps his unparalleled mind-unraveling wonder at the transgressive beauty of language–its curious new forms, its inexplicable forces, its bodies of work–in fresh supply. We keep him just around the corner. Because we have entered a new room: We are twenty-two. One of our classmates is applying Bourdieu’s theory of social reproduction to a novel by Émile Zola that we did not take the time to read. We cannot concentrate. Our mind buzzes with white noise. If there is cultural capital to be gleaned, we are on the wrong field. We want to look out the window, but this classroom has none. We are enveloped in darkness with nothing but the gently intoned words of our classmate dripping like pieces of melted silver onto the blank pages of our notebook. And then we hear him first, the 11-year-old’s clinking footsteps on the hallway tile. He peers in the doorway, and at that moment, like a thunderclap, the word is used. Bourdieu sexpresses himself. We sexpress ourselves. The individual suffering the blight of a post-industrialist existence sexpresses himself. Words cannot sexplain the vistas, the curtains raised, shuttered windows flung open, and, in less than a second, if we can respect our classmate who is still presenting, our 11-year-old self disappears, he has run down the hallway, he is basking in the morning sunshine, he is doing somersaults in the quad grass. And, invigorated, we are listening to our classmate’s lecture and, finally, taking notes.

2. We still need to know how to do things

I didn’t want to get political, but I discussed Sarah Palin’s possible candidacy once in 2011 with an older French woman. She said, “Dans la politique, il faut savoir. In politics, you have to know things.” And I would agree wholeheartedly, except that I had just been stopped when walking by the cathedral. A woman had noticed the watch on my arm, and she asked me what time it was. This is among the first things we learn in language class. Don’t ask me why I still wear an analog watch. Don’t ask me why I am twenty-seven and I still cannot tell time. This is among the first things we learn in kindergarten class. Don’t ask me why a French woman was asking me for the time like she didn’t already know it. (Telling time and complaining about the presidents all the way back to Henry IV are France’s national obsessions.) I looked at my watch. I looked at my wrist. I fumbled awkwardly in my pocket, opened my phone, and translated to one minus fourth in my head before brashly proclaiming it to the woman who, miraculously, was still standing there. When she heard my accent, she apologized. I’m sorry too, I wanted to say. I’m sorry for being a foreigner. Every time I look at a clock, I murmur an apology to this woman who accosted me at the cathedral. In politics and in life, you have to know things.

3. We still need know things, like really basic things.

Students who travel abroad are counseled to let moments sink in, to cultivate a sense of presence, to catalogue their sights and joys and then, in the angled sunlight of a different terroir, to let the pages ruffle open, and for several precious seconds, to practice breathing. I did this for a half hour once in an outdoor café in Montmartre. Actually, it may even have been longer. And I did it because I could not figure out how to pay for my coffee. Do I go up to the front? Do I keep looking around for a server? No one is coming. Do I just keep practicing breathing cigarette smoke and staring at a man reading a newspaper? The coffee was less than four ounces and took fewer than four seconds to drink. Do I just keep watching all the schoolchildren walking home from school? Do I wait for the next presidential election so that maybe the man will look up and I can say something witty I thought of myself about Sarah Palin? Is the person who served me invisible now? Is she a ghost? Are there ghosts all around us? Is this how the world ends? Is there even a man behind this newspaper? Finally, I just walked back inside, found the nearest human being–not even sure if she worked there–and said, of all things, “I need to pay.” And then I whimpered, “Where…” This is how the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper. She told me to wait, disappeared–(French servers are great at this)–and then came back to receive my payment. On the counter was a toilet paper-looking roll of receipt paper, the kind that the machine keeps printing but that is never torn, the mythical snake not even looking for its tail that keeps growing. It was on this ledger that she recorded my payment. Ghosts don’t keep short accounts.

4. Culture

There might be a lot that I do not know, but there are a number of things I know how to do. One time I was so interested to know how the French internet interpreted Adele’s “Send My Love,” that I looked it up and went line by line, ultimately agreeing that on the whole it worked as a translation. I don’t even like that song.

5. More culture

One time I stood at the edge of a glacier field during a family trip to British Columbia reading the wonderfully informative description on a placard of Earth’s unchanging forces that have joined to create this icy marvel of eternally advancing ephemera. Because the placard was also wonderfully succinct, I read the same description in French. I still had time to watch the wind blow and think about my heart and wonder how many more minutes it would take until we were all back in the car if indeed the glacier could outlast the length of the line at the visitor’s center restroom.

6. Social media capital

Sometimes I make French posts on Facebook and then wonder why know one likes them. In these times, I need a friend to talk me through this–it could even be my 11-year-old self. He could say to me, “John, no one speaks French. No one knows who Marguerite Duras is. And look at what you wrote, ‘Tu as le droit to sangloter.’ You have the right to sob? No one is going to like, love, laugh, or be thankful for this. Even if Facebook had a baguette button no one would use it. Your posts would make Charles de Gualle himself quit the presidency again.”

I just want to add that the photo at the top of this page, which I took in Paris, received only one like. This is the kind of thing that happens in our world.

But thank you, small John, for your advice. I will take it to heart.

7. Trial but mostly error

Except I didn’t, because this was a conversation that I tried to have with my English-speaking family.

Mom: Who wants a slice of pie for dessert?
John: Moi, j’en veux.
Mom: Daniel, would you like a slice of pie?
John: Moi, j’en veux.
Daniel: Yes, please.
Mom: Here you go.
John: Moi, j’en veux.
Mom: Catherine, would you like a slice of pie?
Catherine: Yes, please. Thank you.
John: Moi, j’en veux.
Mom: Anyone else? Any last takers?
John: WHY IS NOBODY LISTENING TO ME?
[Silence.]
11-year-old self: Because you need to speak in English for your family to understand you when you say, “I, I want of the that.”

8. I would have liked to see…

Sometimes I feel frustrated that people who don’t speak French don’t quite know the thrill of starting a sentence with the words, “J’aurais…” Perhaps some of the most interesting sentences–in any language–begin with the words, “I would have…”

9. More “J’aurais”

And though there are many times I regret having spent years learning a language that has only served to help me judge the translations of Adele songs and glacier placards in Canada, I feel the regret the strongest when I think of all the Gabriel García Márquez novels I could have been reading (“J’aurais pu lire?”) in Spanish all these years. My 11-year-old self tells me there is still time. That’s actually a lie. Those books leave him alone in his room crying.

10. The modern conversation

But of course, nothing can compare–even if nothing can prepare us–to the everyday conversation with a familiar speaker of the foreign language into which we have invested our hearts across years of trial and error, classrooms full of inspirational messages and blank stares, and embarrassing encounters with the authorities in airport security lines. I was playing basketball with an uncle who speaks French. Another family member asked him to do something, and though my uncle is never given to complaining, I could tell that he wanted to keep beating me at horse rather than fulfill this request. Seasoned with a semester’s worth of the vibrant literary culture of 17th-century France, I turned to him and said, “Le devoir est beau. Duty is beautiful.” He shrugged and said, “What?,” sunk a basket, and then went inside to do his beautiful duty leaving me alone in the driveway to practice my breathing.

But the beauty of basketball is that one can still shoot hoops with oneself, even if one’s self is 11 years old. His defense is no good, but he knows how to s’exprimer once he gets you in the key.

 

 

 

A Translation

For Christmas, my sister gave me a book by Nina Bouraoui, who is becoming one of my favorite authors. I told my sister that this book, called Mes Mauvaises Pensées (or “My Bad Thoughts”) was changing the way I perceive both the world and language. I also admitted that I had just had a huge cup of McDonald’s coffee. Attribute it to whatever you will, but as I was walking through Walmart the morning after reading a little chunk of the book, I felt like I was swimming in a world of untouched motives, of violences hidden inside violences, of new loves and old identities, of DVD racks, children’s clothing, and women buying children’s cough medicine.

I thought I’d translate a couple of passages to share some of what has been touching me lately in my reading.

…from Garçon Manqué (the Franco-Algerian protagonist’s reflections about an oppressive experience of aloneness at the beach while visiting her French family).

Who here will say: Are you okay, Nina? Are you figuring it out? It’s not too hard? What do you dream about at night? What are your images? Have you come to accept them? To live with it? With these moments? With what you brush against every day? With what defines you? And why this sadness in your eyes?

…from Mes Mauvaises Pensées (my favorite quotes about writing)

I’ve always wanted to run away from life; writing and love are the ultimate means.
* * *
With you, I am in life, in my life, within its folds, and it’s a way for me to rediscover writing.
* * *
I could write my own history book and make myself a subject with deep roots; books are like arms–I put myself to sleep in their warmth.