Nour 1947
Hey all,
I've just translated the first 3 pages of what is possibly the best text ever written in French. Nour, 1947. It tells the tale of the aftermaths of an attempt at autonomy by the people of Madagascar against the French in the 1940s (when Madagascar was still part of France's colonial empire.) Yet, it's told in a very Faulkner-ian way. It's told from the point of various characters (priests from the 1700s, priests from the 1800s, the main character following the death of his female companion in the rebellion (in 1947) and the main character in 1943 (during World War II). It's a little hard to read at times, since the novel jumps back and forth between the different voices, trying to construct a history of Nour's, the narrator's lover, death and also one of Madagascar. Here are the first 3 pages, which demonstrate his thought processes in the poetic and end as he heads towards a more expository style. I've attempted to conserve wordplay wherever possible, or at least note it in translator notes, [n]. As you read this keep in mind that any awkwardness is probably originating from the text itself, since this passage itself, recounting a possible (mythical, lyrical) birth of Madagascar's people, is given over to "poetic" effects. Do read the footnotes, they'll help.
1
Amhaby - Night that tears and lacerates itself at the dawn of lucidities, on eyelids that fall shut upon thoughts. [1] Pour myself softly into the cold shadow that opens nakedly on the rocks. The sun undresses the world and, out of prudishness, the wind blows across the sands, blinds the eyes. I come back upon my footsteps and precipitate them without end upon all of my wanderings. How shadow is slow to take us in...Am not more than a dream, but a trace of time that frays itself in thoughts. Drifting in the shadows which stretch and recline themselves. I make my breath stumble upon the curdled clots that block off my lungs--spit! spit! -- trip my steps on the beach still heavy with obscurity.
Blood, my blood upon the black sand.
Say [2] : "This blood that bespatters the rocks sketches the face of the injured one."
Say again: "We have picked the shadow from the stone, we have dressed ourselves in it and the night was outside."
A heavy tree splinters the daybreak, one thousand shadows disperse themselves in my soul, one thousand leaves upon my skin.
This isle, Ambahy, is made of all regrets. To my lips, I've brought the salt of its beaches and I've seen, with my jellyfish-like eyes that turn to stone [3], the mother [4] that we've been told was born of light to give herself to the ocean again. She has opened her stomach and the shadow, within her, was swallowed up.
Sing as if during an evening of legends:
"Shadow has bloated up the womb of the mother and has created us black and poverty-stricken."
Sing once more:
"In the blackness, we will return. In the blackness, we will fall once again. In the blackness of the womb. In the blackness of the tomb."
The mother erased herself like a wave upon the dunes and I still wondered if I haven't dreamed it. The wind, half-open, vomits out silences. This isle is made of all regrets. Children kill themselves here while I can think only of saving my saddened skin. Cries of unknown beasts. Movements of invisible insects. Shiverings of leaves rolling in regular rustles. I get drunk on uncertainty, collapse of darkness. It's on a night like this one that I got lost. One night on the other side. One night on the Great Isle. One night that should have been the night of our liberations. June 1947. Spears against rifles. Magic against bullets. And the convoys of the colonial. And of our frantic escapes towards the forests...
[1] Subject Pronoun deliberately omitted here and in other places as well. - Translator's Note.
[2] Not yet clear if this refers to "I say" with an omitted pronoun, or "say" the command form. The reader should accept both interpretations for now.
[3] The original text states "méduse" here. In French, this word refers both to the mythical Medusa but also to jellyfish. So "yeux médusés" literally, "medusa eyes" has been translated as "jellyfish-like eyes that turn to stone".
[4] la mère literally means, the mother, but its homophone, la mer, the ocean, should not be ignored given the aquatic setting.
I've just translated the first 3 pages of what is possibly the best text ever written in French. Nour, 1947. It tells the tale of the aftermaths of an attempt at autonomy by the people of Madagascar against the French in the 1940s (when Madagascar was still part of France's colonial empire.) Yet, it's told in a very Faulkner-ian way. It's told from the point of various characters (priests from the 1700s, priests from the 1800s, the main character following the death of his female companion in the rebellion (in 1947) and the main character in 1943 (during World War II). It's a little hard to read at times, since the novel jumps back and forth between the different voices, trying to construct a history of Nour's, the narrator's lover, death and also one of Madagascar. Here are the first 3 pages, which demonstrate his thought processes in the poetic and end as he heads towards a more expository style. I've attempted to conserve wordplay wherever possible, or at least note it in translator notes, [n]. As you read this keep in mind that any awkwardness is probably originating from the text itself, since this passage itself, recounting a possible (mythical, lyrical) birth of Madagascar's people, is given over to "poetic" effects. Do read the footnotes, they'll help.
1
Amhaby - Night that tears and lacerates itself at the dawn of lucidities, on eyelids that fall shut upon thoughts. [1] Pour myself softly into the cold shadow that opens nakedly on the rocks. The sun undresses the world and, out of prudishness, the wind blows across the sands, blinds the eyes. I come back upon my footsteps and precipitate them without end upon all of my wanderings. How shadow is slow to take us in...Am not more than a dream, but a trace of time that frays itself in thoughts. Drifting in the shadows which stretch and recline themselves. I make my breath stumble upon the curdled clots that block off my lungs--spit! spit! -- trip my steps on the beach still heavy with obscurity.
Blood, my blood upon the black sand.
Say [2] : "This blood that bespatters the rocks sketches the face of the injured one."
Say again: "We have picked the shadow from the stone, we have dressed ourselves in it and the night was outside."
A heavy tree splinters the daybreak, one thousand shadows disperse themselves in my soul, one thousand leaves upon my skin.
This isle, Ambahy, is made of all regrets. To my lips, I've brought the salt of its beaches and I've seen, with my jellyfish-like eyes that turn to stone [3], the mother [4] that we've been told was born of light to give herself to the ocean again. She has opened her stomach and the shadow, within her, was swallowed up.
Sing as if during an evening of legends:
"Shadow has bloated up the womb of the mother and has created us black and poverty-stricken."
Sing once more:
"In the blackness, we will return. In the blackness, we will fall once again. In the blackness of the womb. In the blackness of the tomb."
The mother erased herself like a wave upon the dunes and I still wondered if I haven't dreamed it. The wind, half-open, vomits out silences. This isle is made of all regrets. Children kill themselves here while I can think only of saving my saddened skin. Cries of unknown beasts. Movements of invisible insects. Shiverings of leaves rolling in regular rustles. I get drunk on uncertainty, collapse of darkness. It's on a night like this one that I got lost. One night on the other side. One night on the Great Isle. One night that should have been the night of our liberations. June 1947. Spears against rifles. Magic against bullets. And the convoys of the colonial. And of our frantic escapes towards the forests...
[1] Subject Pronoun deliberately omitted here and in other places as well. - Translator's Note.
[2] Not yet clear if this refers to "I say" with an omitted pronoun, or "say" the command form. The reader should accept both interpretations for now.
[3] The original text states "méduse" here. In French, this word refers both to the mythical Medusa but also to jellyfish. So "yeux médusés" literally, "medusa eyes" has been translated as "jellyfish-like eyes that turn to stone".
[4] la mère literally means, the mother, but its homophone, la mer, the ocean, should not be ignored given the aquatic setting.