alles nahe werde fern
The following is my prose translation of a poem by Jorge Luis Borges.
The Gold of the Tigers
Until the sun is cleft by the west and bursts yellow, how often will I have watched the mighty Bengal tiger, patrolling its determined path, behind a grid of iron bars, with no inkling that these might imprison him. Afterwards, other tigers would come, Blake's tiger of fire ... afterwards, come various golds, the amorous metal that once was Zeus, the ring that every nine nights, begets nine rings, and these another nine, and there is no ending. Over the years, they've abandoned me, the other beautiful hues, and now, I only have left: the hazy light, the inextricable shadow, and the gold from the beginning, of Western sights or tigers or brilliancies -- of myth and epic poetry -- or a gold more precious, your hair, which these hands have grown anxious to touch.
El oro de los tigres
Hasta la hora del ocaso amarillo
Cuántas veces habré mirado
Al poderoso tigre de Bengala
Ir y venir por el predestinado camino
Detrás de los barrotes de hierro,
Sin sospechar que eran su cárcel.
Después vendrían otros tigres,
El tigre de fuego de Blake;
Después vendrían otros oros,
El metal amoroso que era Zeus,
El anillo que cada nueve noches
Engendra nueve anillos y estos, nueve,
Y no hay un fin.
Con los años fueron dejándome
Los otros hermosos colores
Y ahora sólo me quedan
La vaga luz, la inextricable sombra
Y el oro del principio.
Oh ponientes, oh tigres, oh fulgores
Del mito y de la épica,
Oh un oro más precioso, tu cabello
Que ansían estas manos.
The Gold of the Tigers
Up to the moment of the yellow sunset,
how many times will I have cast my eyes on
the sinewy-bodied tiger of Bengal
to-ing and fro-ing on its paced-out path
behind the labyrinthine iron bars,
never suspecting them to be a prison.
Afterwards, other tigers will appear:
the blazing tiger of Blake, burning bright;
and after that will come the other golds --
the amorous gold shower disguising Zeus,
the gold ring which, on every ninth night,
gives light to nine rings more, and these, nine more,
and there is never an end.
All the other overwhelming colors,
in company with the years, kept leaving me,
and now alone remains
the amorphous light, the inextricable shadow
and the gold of the beginning.
O sunsets, O tigers, O wonders
of myth and epic,
O gold more dear to me, gold of your hair,
which these hands long to touch.
[tr. Alastair Reid]
As much as I enjoy translation work, I don't usually have time enough for it to be much of a hobby. I have a fond respect for Alastair Reid. Most of his work on Borges's fiction is flawless and as faithful as one can be to the original work. It helps that Borges keeps his prose tight, and most translators aren't left with any questionable space to take liberties. His poetry is a different matter. Reid gets somewhat abusive with this one, which makes me wonder about his method, whether he had too many to drink the night before, and in his tired state, let escape the spirit of Borges, because the thing is SPRITELY and can get lost at a glance.
I tried to do it line by line, but the unwieldiness of the opening assured me that it would be impossible to handle it simply. For those unaware, this poem is about Borges having fallen victim to congenital blindness, how he slowly lost sight of most colors, but stayed his friendship with yellow, which he would romantically deem faithful to him. I wrote this translation paying special heed to Borges's lecture, Blindness, which is collected in Seven Nights and Everything and Nothing (both by New Directions) and in one of the Penguin commemorative compilations. In it, he vividly reveals his thoughts on his condition and the extents of its deprivations and its gifts.
The essay calls on a recollection of boyhood trips to the zoo, its tigers, instances of yellow, an especial fondness for lost colors, their etymolgies, and he ends with a study on the comparative pantheon of literary figures that have also gone blind. In order to understand the severity and beauty of the poem, it must be understood how deeply immersed Borges was in the profession of letters, that his reputation for being an avid reader of many languages and classics preceded him internationally, and how devastating the loss of his sight must have been for him is something that I don't think anyone can truly ascertain. Even so, his lecture maintains the optimistic and comical air that remain the stamp of Borges.
Nadie rebaje a lágrima o reproche
esta declaración de la maestría
de Dios, que con magnífica ironía
me dio a la vez los libros y la noche.
(No one should read self-pity or reproach
into this statement of the majesty
of God; who with such splendid irony
granted me books and blindness at one touch.)
In his lecture, Borges mentions a point, which I find agreeable, that the Spanish word for yellow, amarillo, sounds like a weakling compared to other colors, because its double l followed by the i ending marks it with a feebly embellished and childish sound. He preferred the English yellow, which I find to have a smooth and languishing thickness. I didn't know what to make of it in the opening line. I figured that he used it to contrast the mightier and more dignified pronouncements of gold, which would come later. Ocaso is the fancier way of saying sunset (puesta del sol) because it brings into play (with the o) the vision of the western horizon. How many schoolchildren can recognize that the sunset is interminably linked to the west, beyond Shakespeare? When people think of a sunset, is the west always a direct and declarative afterthought? My translation makes sure the reference exists for those of whom might have it slip their mind from time to time. Twilight and dusk would have been a too tardy and atmospheric description. I had to spread it out something special because yellow sunset wasn't doing it for me.
I pulled a very personal take on Borges, but at least I didn't pull anything out of my ass. For some reason, Reid either babies the reader or he adds words that obviously signify Borges. I may have sacrificed some of the literal meaning for better flow, but whatever possessed Reid to add sinewy-bodied and labyrinthine is beyond me. Labyrinthine, how Borges! There is no implication in the original that suggests these additions. Poderoso is a heavy intonation of power. I chose mighty for the sake of the prevailing i-sounds in the lines before. Ir y venir, the simple coming and going, I supplanted with patrolling because it carried on the sense of authority from the previous line, even though it is used to describe the tiger's limited movement in its caged space, like a security guard that is prisoner to his own tiresome beat, who shines his badge out of boredom. Barrotes is a hard word along the lines of poderoso. Barro would be a skinny bar, whereas barrote at once goes for the imagery of pillars, girders, and even crosses. Borges then begins with a series of exemplary echoes of gold, the ripples made by the splash of the tiger in time and memory.
Next few lines, Reid is beside himself with creativity. Like, hey, remember that poem by Blake about the tiger burning bright? You know, in the darkness of the night? Yeah, that's what Borges was talkin' 'bout! I assumed that nobody would know but me, so I thought I'd horn in with a definitive line-drop. Go me!
Curious mention of Zeus. First off, Borges says nothing of showers. I suppose Reid was going for the imagery of a lightning storm and the thought of Zeus pulling the strings behind it. What's so loving about a lightning storm, then? Wasn't it Demeter that handled the rain for thirsting crops? I think Borges just wanted to juxtapose the vision of lightning and Zeus, the golden element and royalty, but I'm not very sure, so I left it literal, rather than risk an assumption.
From Greek to Norse mythology. Borges alludes to Odin's ring, Draupnir, which could replicate itself to infinity, and to my knowledge, got yellower and yellower with every new manifestation. I know little else concerning this lore. I gather that there are so many versions of the story that this mere hint was meant to touch them all.
When I originally read the finale, the sad lines concerning the desertion of color, I also assumed, like Reid, that Borges meant to say that the colors and the years had left him hand in hand, like it was some sort of conspiracy. I now realize that such a thing would be too pitiful a complaint; I strongly doubt that Borges would whine so pathetically about his old age. Specifically, he lost the color red, white lost its clarity and turned to varying shades of grey, and he lost the ability to discern between blue and green. What was left must be similar to the mist of night vision goggles with an overcast of yellow replacing the green.
Poniente, cardinal point of the West, anything roughly of Western origin, which could include the sunset, the winds, or cowboys for God's sakes ... Reid is a bit repetitious in keeping the reader from certain confusion. Wonders are tepid. Fulgores are akin to sunbursts, to rays, things that literaly blind one with brightness.
Awww, the ending, my favourite part. Reid lays it down like it should be done, because the meaning is so beautiful that it could be worded several different ways, and each are touching in their own way. Borges refers to the ambiguity of ansiedad. Anxiety of the core. When I hear a confession, when someone admits me da ancía, me da no sé que!, I immediately gather that they've been pricked by a mysterious animation. They cannot specify this inspiration, no word can exorcise it; an action might. There's a swirl infecting the wants of their every muscle. They can dash for one hundred yards at full sprint, but the goal won't be achieved, because they won't recognize when to stop; they will have exhausted themselves, but not for the purpose at hand. They don't know! The soul aims to leap out the pores.
The Gold of the Tigers
Until the sun is cleft by the west and bursts yellow, how often will I have watched the mighty Bengal tiger, patrolling its determined path, behind a grid of iron bars, with no inkling that these might imprison him. Afterwards, other tigers would come, Blake's tiger of fire ... afterwards, come various golds, the amorous metal that once was Zeus, the ring that every nine nights, begets nine rings, and these another nine, and there is no ending. Over the years, they've abandoned me, the other beautiful hues, and now, I only have left: the hazy light, the inextricable shadow, and the gold from the beginning, of Western sights or tigers or brilliancies -- of myth and epic poetry -- or a gold more precious, your hair, which these hands have grown anxious to touch.
El oro de los tigres
Hasta la hora del ocaso amarillo
Cuántas veces habré mirado
Al poderoso tigre de Bengala
Ir y venir por el predestinado camino
Detrás de los barrotes de hierro,
Sin sospechar que eran su cárcel.
Después vendrían otros tigres,
El tigre de fuego de Blake;
Después vendrían otros oros,
El metal amoroso que era Zeus,
El anillo que cada nueve noches
Engendra nueve anillos y estos, nueve,
Y no hay un fin.
Con los años fueron dejándome
Los otros hermosos colores
Y ahora sólo me quedan
La vaga luz, la inextricable sombra
Y el oro del principio.
Oh ponientes, oh tigres, oh fulgores
Del mito y de la épica,
Oh un oro más precioso, tu cabello
Que ansían estas manos.
The Gold of the Tigers
Up to the moment of the yellow sunset,
how many times will I have cast my eyes on
the sinewy-bodied tiger of Bengal
to-ing and fro-ing on its paced-out path
behind the labyrinthine iron bars,
never suspecting them to be a prison.
Afterwards, other tigers will appear:
the blazing tiger of Blake, burning bright;
and after that will come the other golds --
the amorous gold shower disguising Zeus,
the gold ring which, on every ninth night,
gives light to nine rings more, and these, nine more,
and there is never an end.
All the other overwhelming colors,
in company with the years, kept leaving me,
and now alone remains
the amorphous light, the inextricable shadow
and the gold of the beginning.
O sunsets, O tigers, O wonders
of myth and epic,
O gold more dear to me, gold of your hair,
which these hands long to touch.
[tr. Alastair Reid]
As much as I enjoy translation work, I don't usually have time enough for it to be much of a hobby. I have a fond respect for Alastair Reid. Most of his work on Borges's fiction is flawless and as faithful as one can be to the original work. It helps that Borges keeps his prose tight, and most translators aren't left with any questionable space to take liberties. His poetry is a different matter. Reid gets somewhat abusive with this one, which makes me wonder about his method, whether he had too many to drink the night before, and in his tired state, let escape the spirit of Borges, because the thing is SPRITELY and can get lost at a glance.
I tried to do it line by line, but the unwieldiness of the opening assured me that it would be impossible to handle it simply. For those unaware, this poem is about Borges having fallen victim to congenital blindness, how he slowly lost sight of most colors, but stayed his friendship with yellow, which he would romantically deem faithful to him. I wrote this translation paying special heed to Borges's lecture, Blindness, which is collected in Seven Nights and Everything and Nothing (both by New Directions) and in one of the Penguin commemorative compilations. In it, he vividly reveals his thoughts on his condition and the extents of its deprivations and its gifts.
The essay calls on a recollection of boyhood trips to the zoo, its tigers, instances of yellow, an especial fondness for lost colors, their etymolgies, and he ends with a study on the comparative pantheon of literary figures that have also gone blind. In order to understand the severity and beauty of the poem, it must be understood how deeply immersed Borges was in the profession of letters, that his reputation for being an avid reader of many languages and classics preceded him internationally, and how devastating the loss of his sight must have been for him is something that I don't think anyone can truly ascertain. Even so, his lecture maintains the optimistic and comical air that remain the stamp of Borges.
Nadie rebaje a lágrima o reproche
esta declaración de la maestría
de Dios, que con magnífica ironía
me dio a la vez los libros y la noche.
(No one should read self-pity or reproach
into this statement of the majesty
of God; who with such splendid irony
granted me books and blindness at one touch.)
In his lecture, Borges mentions a point, which I find agreeable, that the Spanish word for yellow, amarillo, sounds like a weakling compared to other colors, because its double l followed by the i ending marks it with a feebly embellished and childish sound. He preferred the English yellow, which I find to have a smooth and languishing thickness. I didn't know what to make of it in the opening line. I figured that he used it to contrast the mightier and more dignified pronouncements of gold, which would come later. Ocaso is the fancier way of saying sunset (puesta del sol) because it brings into play (with the o) the vision of the western horizon. How many schoolchildren can recognize that the sunset is interminably linked to the west, beyond Shakespeare? When people think of a sunset, is the west always a direct and declarative afterthought? My translation makes sure the reference exists for those of whom might have it slip their mind from time to time. Twilight and dusk would have been a too tardy and atmospheric description. I had to spread it out something special because yellow sunset wasn't doing it for me.
I pulled a very personal take on Borges, but at least I didn't pull anything out of my ass. For some reason, Reid either babies the reader or he adds words that obviously signify Borges. I may have sacrificed some of the literal meaning for better flow, but whatever possessed Reid to add sinewy-bodied and labyrinthine is beyond me. Labyrinthine, how Borges! There is no implication in the original that suggests these additions. Poderoso is a heavy intonation of power. I chose mighty for the sake of the prevailing i-sounds in the lines before. Ir y venir, the simple coming and going, I supplanted with patrolling because it carried on the sense of authority from the previous line, even though it is used to describe the tiger's limited movement in its caged space, like a security guard that is prisoner to his own tiresome beat, who shines his badge out of boredom. Barrotes is a hard word along the lines of poderoso. Barro would be a skinny bar, whereas barrote at once goes for the imagery of pillars, girders, and even crosses. Borges then begins with a series of exemplary echoes of gold, the ripples made by the splash of the tiger in time and memory.
Next few lines, Reid is beside himself with creativity. Like, hey, remember that poem by Blake about the tiger burning bright? You know, in the darkness of the night? Yeah, that's what Borges was talkin' 'bout! I assumed that nobody would know but me, so I thought I'd horn in with a definitive line-drop. Go me!
Curious mention of Zeus. First off, Borges says nothing of showers. I suppose Reid was going for the imagery of a lightning storm and the thought of Zeus pulling the strings behind it. What's so loving about a lightning storm, then? Wasn't it Demeter that handled the rain for thirsting crops? I think Borges just wanted to juxtapose the vision of lightning and Zeus, the golden element and royalty, but I'm not very sure, so I left it literal, rather than risk an assumption.
From Greek to Norse mythology. Borges alludes to Odin's ring, Draupnir, which could replicate itself to infinity, and to my knowledge, got yellower and yellower with every new manifestation. I know little else concerning this lore. I gather that there are so many versions of the story that this mere hint was meant to touch them all.
When I originally read the finale, the sad lines concerning the desertion of color, I also assumed, like Reid, that Borges meant to say that the colors and the years had left him hand in hand, like it was some sort of conspiracy. I now realize that such a thing would be too pitiful a complaint; I strongly doubt that Borges would whine so pathetically about his old age. Specifically, he lost the color red, white lost its clarity and turned to varying shades of grey, and he lost the ability to discern between blue and green. What was left must be similar to the mist of night vision goggles with an overcast of yellow replacing the green.
Poniente, cardinal point of the West, anything roughly of Western origin, which could include the sunset, the winds, or cowboys for God's sakes ... Reid is a bit repetitious in keeping the reader from certain confusion. Wonders are tepid. Fulgores are akin to sunbursts, to rays, things that literaly blind one with brightness.
Awww, the ending, my favourite part. Reid lays it down like it should be done, because the meaning is so beautiful that it could be worded several different ways, and each are touching in their own way. Borges refers to the ambiguity of ansiedad. Anxiety of the core. When I hear a confession, when someone admits me da ancía, me da no sé que!, I immediately gather that they've been pricked by a mysterious animation. They cannot specify this inspiration, no word can exorcise it; an action might. There's a swirl infecting the wants of their every muscle. They can dash for one hundred yards at full sprint, but the goal won't be achieved, because they won't recognize when to stop; they will have exhausted themselves, but not for the purpose at hand. They don't know! The soul aims to leap out the pores.