394: And This is Why We Translate...
Lots of stuff going on the past few days... but I'm waiting for it all to pan out before I spill the beans.
Actually, I've spent most of the last two days labouring over this translation; my Italian is come-ci come-ca at best (only got to il passato prossimo), so I did this using both the excellent Word-Reference dictionary site and an archaic italian dictionary from 1611... and Grennan's helpfully literal translation. XP
(His is actually a fairly good translation, I just make different choices, and go for my own tone it seems. Methinks the boi dost improve as renderer of verse written in foreign tongues!...or something like that. XP)
Now to see if LJ will let me do parallel texts... *crosses self*
NON. Okay,
*
*
*
La Sera del Dì di Festa
Dolce e chiara è la notte e senza vento,
E queta sovra i tetti e in mezzo agli orti
Posa la luna, e di lontan rivela
Serena ogni montagna. O donna mia,
Già tace ogni sentiero, e pei balconi
Rara traluce la notturna lampa:
Tu dormi, che t'accolse agevol sonno
Nelle tue chete stanze; e non ti morde
Cura nessuna; e già non sai nè pensi
Quanta piaga m'apristi in mezzo al petto.
Tu dormi: io questo ciel, che sì benigno
Appare in vista, a salutar m'affaccio,
E l'antica natura onnipossente,
Che mi fece all'affanno. A te la speme
Nego, mi disse, anche la speme; e d'altro
Non brillin gli occhi tuoi se non di pianto.
Questo dì fu solenne: or da' trastulli
Prendi riposo; e forse ti rimembra
In sogno a quanti oggi piacesti, e quanti
Piacquero a te: non io, non già, ch'io speri,
Al pensier ti ricorro. Intanto io chieggo
Quanto a viver mi resti, e qui per terra
Mi getto, e grido, e fremo. Oh giorni orrendi
In così verde etate! Ahi, per la via
Odo non lunge il solitario canto
Dell'artigian, che riede a tarda notte,
Dopo i sollazzi, al suo povero ostello;
E fieramente mi si stringe il core,
A pensar come tutto al mondo passa,
E quasi orma non lascia. Ecco è fuggito
Il dì festivo, ed al festivo il giorno
Volgar succede, e se ne porta il tempo
Ogni umano accidente. Or dov'è il suono
Di que' popoli antichi? or dov'è il grido
De' nostri avi famosi, e il grande impero
Di quella Roma, e l'armi, e il fragorio
Che n'andò per la terra e l'oceano?
Tutto è pace e silenzio, e tutto posa
Il mondo, e più di lor non si ragiona.
Nella mia prima età, quando s'aspetta
Bramosamente il dì festivo, or poscia
Ch'egli era spento, io doloroso, in veglia,
Premea le piume; ed alla tarda notte
Un canto che s'udia per li sentieri
Lontanando morire a poco a poco,
Già similmente mi stringeva il core.
Feast Day Evening
The night is bright and cool, windless,
The moon which hangs above the rooftops
And calmly rests between the kitchen gardens
Clearly revealing each distant mountain. Oh, my dear,
Already all paths are silent, and fewer
The windows pierced by light:
While in your hushed rooms you lie,
Having easily welcomed slumber,
Untroubled by care, with never a thought
For the wound you have opened in my heart.
You sleep: while I turn my face to the sky,
Saying goodbye to its benign view
And to ancient, almighty nature,
Which made me for suffering. To you,
You told me, even hope is denied; your eyes
Will shine with nothing but tears.
Today was a holiday: and now you rest
From your games, perhaps remembering
In a dream how many you liked, how many
Liked you: I cannot, could never hope
That you think of me. And asking
How much life is left in me, I sink
To the earth, crying and shaking. Oh horrible days
In such green season! Ay, in the nearby street
I can hear the solitary song
Of an artisan, returning late from
His sportings to his poor lodgings;
And fiercely it grips my heart,
To think how all the world passes by,
And leaves almost no trace behind. See
How this day of festival gives way
To the work, and time takes with it
Every human accident. Now where is the sound
Of those ancient peoples? Where is the cry
Of our famous ancestors, Rome’s great empire,
Her arms, that she sent thundering
Over the earth, choking the very waves?
All is peace and silence, the whole world
Still, and they are spoken of no more.
In more youthful seasons, I would anticipate
This day in a fever of desire, and once
its light was extinguished, I would lie awake
And, in my sorrow, press against my pillow;
And through the darkness a song I’d hear
Dying little by little through the far-off streets,
Would grip my heart like it does now.
***
Comments are welcome, even if you don't know Italian... It's not that my translation is so loose, but I was trying to find layers, and equivocate something of Leopardi's music here. (Did I mention this was l"italiano nihilist suffering from domestic entrapment, romantic failure, and general misery and early death? Yeah, 1820's fer ya...)
Grennan's introduction helped illuminate things as well (not just his translation, but, yanno, the *theory*), and taking into account the supposed "impossibilities" of Leopardi... I think I might try line-breaks to smooth out his transitions? And though I don't stray as far from actual meaning as Grennan does, I do have the little quirks of twisting the language for double meanings, or basically anything that I thought was more in Leopardi's spirit.
Basically, does this sound like romantic poetry? Or at least, less emo and more gothic? Thanks! ^_^
Actually, I've spent most of the last two days labouring over this translation; my Italian is come-ci come-ca at best (only got to il passato prossimo), so I did this using both the excellent Word-Reference dictionary site and an archaic italian dictionary from 1611... and Grennan's helpfully literal translation. XP
(His is actually a fairly good translation, I just make different choices, and go for my own tone it seems. Methinks the boi dost improve as renderer of verse written in foreign tongues!...or something like that. XP)
Now to see if LJ will let me do parallel texts... *crosses self*
NON. Okay,
*
*
*
La Sera del Dì di Festa
Dolce e chiara è la notte e senza vento,
E queta sovra i tetti e in mezzo agli orti
Posa la luna, e di lontan rivela
Serena ogni montagna. O donna mia,
Già tace ogni sentiero, e pei balconi
Rara traluce la notturna lampa:
Tu dormi, che t'accolse agevol sonno
Nelle tue chete stanze; e non ti morde
Cura nessuna; e già non sai nè pensi
Quanta piaga m'apristi in mezzo al petto.
Tu dormi: io questo ciel, che sì benigno
Appare in vista, a salutar m'affaccio,
E l'antica natura onnipossente,
Che mi fece all'affanno. A te la speme
Nego, mi disse, anche la speme; e d'altro
Non brillin gli occhi tuoi se non di pianto.
Questo dì fu solenne: or da' trastulli
Prendi riposo; e forse ti rimembra
In sogno a quanti oggi piacesti, e quanti
Piacquero a te: non io, non già, ch'io speri,
Al pensier ti ricorro. Intanto io chieggo
Quanto a viver mi resti, e qui per terra
Mi getto, e grido, e fremo. Oh giorni orrendi
In così verde etate! Ahi, per la via
Odo non lunge il solitario canto
Dell'artigian, che riede a tarda notte,
Dopo i sollazzi, al suo povero ostello;
E fieramente mi si stringe il core,
A pensar come tutto al mondo passa,
E quasi orma non lascia. Ecco è fuggito
Il dì festivo, ed al festivo il giorno
Volgar succede, e se ne porta il tempo
Ogni umano accidente. Or dov'è il suono
Di que' popoli antichi? or dov'è il grido
De' nostri avi famosi, e il grande impero
Di quella Roma, e l'armi, e il fragorio
Che n'andò per la terra e l'oceano?
Tutto è pace e silenzio, e tutto posa
Il mondo, e più di lor non si ragiona.
Nella mia prima età, quando s'aspetta
Bramosamente il dì festivo, or poscia
Ch'egli era spento, io doloroso, in veglia,
Premea le piume; ed alla tarda notte
Un canto che s'udia per li sentieri
Lontanando morire a poco a poco,
Già similmente mi stringeva il core.
Feast Day Evening
The night is bright and cool, windless,
The moon which hangs above the rooftops
And calmly rests between the kitchen gardens
Clearly revealing each distant mountain. Oh, my dear,
Already all paths are silent, and fewer
The windows pierced by light:
While in your hushed rooms you lie,
Having easily welcomed slumber,
Untroubled by care, with never a thought
For the wound you have opened in my heart.
You sleep: while I turn my face to the sky,
Saying goodbye to its benign view
And to ancient, almighty nature,
Which made me for suffering. To you,
You told me, even hope is denied; your eyes
Will shine with nothing but tears.
Today was a holiday: and now you rest
From your games, perhaps remembering
In a dream how many you liked, how many
Liked you: I cannot, could never hope
That you think of me. And asking
How much life is left in me, I sink
To the earth, crying and shaking. Oh horrible days
In such green season! Ay, in the nearby street
I can hear the solitary song
Of an artisan, returning late from
His sportings to his poor lodgings;
And fiercely it grips my heart,
To think how all the world passes by,
And leaves almost no trace behind. See
How this day of festival gives way
To the work, and time takes with it
Every human accident. Now where is the sound
Of those ancient peoples? Where is the cry
Of our famous ancestors, Rome’s great empire,
Her arms, that she sent thundering
Over the earth, choking the very waves?
All is peace and silence, the whole world
Still, and they are spoken of no more.
In more youthful seasons, I would anticipate
This day in a fever of desire, and once
its light was extinguished, I would lie awake
And, in my sorrow, press against my pillow;
And through the darkness a song I’d hear
Dying little by little through the far-off streets,
Would grip my heart like it does now.
***
Comments are welcome, even if you don't know Italian... It's not that my translation is so loose, but I was trying to find layers, and equivocate something of Leopardi's music here. (Did I mention this was l"italiano nihilist suffering from domestic entrapment, romantic failure, and general misery and early death? Yeah, 1820's fer ya...)
Grennan's introduction helped illuminate things as well (not just his translation, but, yanno, the *theory*), and taking into account the supposed "impossibilities" of Leopardi... I think I might try line-breaks to smooth out his transitions? And though I don't stray as far from actual meaning as Grennan does, I do have the little quirks of twisting the language for double meanings, or basically anything that I thought was more in Leopardi's spirit.
Basically, does this sound like romantic poetry? Or at least, less emo and more gothic? Thanks! ^_^