Soldiers are society

"Wars damage the civilian society as much as they damage the enemy. Soldiers never get over it."

Paul Fussell, historian, author, and professor (1924-2012)

Envy

He was such a nice boy! I never thought such an horrible thing would happen.

It's all just so sad. And dark.

The world's mad, mad I tell you.

Every day I watched her buy a sandwich from the shops across the street

– always smiling she was – and then head to the park.

She was always smartly dressed she was. And open.

Them boys who hang around the pound store she always made 'em turn them head rounds.

The lady from Oxfam said she always dropped in on her way to the park to put a penny in – mind ye, penny's a way o' saying she dropped a coin more like she was.

I always thought she was like I was when I was young like her, only she was prettier. And neat.

Shame people say. It's all so horrible what happened.

Her so young and all. Terrible! Terrible.

She was all I could think of,

She was all them girls dream of.

She was that and more. We was so shocked when we heard.

How could no one see what was happening right under our noses? Are we so blind?

Poor boy. Poor boy. And us all thinking him a pity.

I don't know how he must've felt but it mustn't've been pretty.

Betty I think her name was.

One can't play some games.

One can't be some things.

Or life's not worth living.

Jealousy

I am consumed with jealousy. I cannot think. I cannot think clearly.

She could be on her own; she could be with friends. She could be somewhere new; she could be at work; she could be feeding the squirrels with her sandwich during her lunch break. She eats so little. She should eat more.

She could be at a bar, snogging a drunken man, a sober man; she could be drunk herself.

She could be on the phone with her parents, telling them of her weekend in Brighton. She could be on the phone with her brother, telling him of the problems with her computer. She could be chatting over the sales with her friend Sarah.

She could plan to meet her ex.

She could have chosen that dress because she heard on the radio the day would be sunny. She could have chosen it because she fancies it. She could have chosen it because it was a present to her.

She could be wearing it because men look more intently at her. Some crane their neck.

She could be jogging; she could be doing her grocery shopping; she could be taking a shower.

She could be jealous too, and not willing to speak with me.

She could think me an idiot. She could think I'm pathetic. She could think I'm hopelessly in love with her.

She could just be out for dinner with her friends. She could be looking at them only. She could shut herself to the world outside. She could rebuke every suitor, every gazer, every playboy in town, in the world. She could open her arms to them, make them happy and make me sad.

She could have dirty thoughts, sweaty reveries of her having sex in the toilets of a bar, or in a car, with strangers, with colleagues, with her ex, with her friend Sarah, with me.

She could dream of worse things. She could stay with me because she's happy, because she feels secure, because she has no one else on her list.

She could be anywhere else I'd find fault with this.

She could be on her own, minding her own business, I'd find fault with this.

Everything she does sounds suspicious. Everything she says, wears, smells, buys, eats, seems suspicious. Everywhere she goes. Everyone she meets, calls, chats with. My life, because of her, is a hell on earth.

She could be with me, forever. She could think of me only. I could be the only thing on her mind, all day long. She could be with me, but ultimately I'd find fault with this too.

I am consumed with jealousy, and every day I watch her kiss her boyfriend goodbye on the doorstep to her house.

Mayhap

"When you see a man led to prison say in your heart, "Mayhap he is escaping from a narrower prison." And when you see a man drunken say in your heart, "Mayhap he sought escape from something still more unbeautiful.""


Kahlil Gibran, poet and artist (1883-1931)

No other choice

"We should not write so that it is possible for the reader to understand us, but so that it is impossible for him to misunderstand us."

Quintilian (Marcus Fabius Quintilianus), rhetorician (c. 35-100)

Snow din

The snow is falling

falling falling

and I wish I had the guts to stop it

stop it and lashing, lashing

at'em with a French double bass bow

from the bottom of my pit.

Record-low

in the tank

in the bank

yet there is snow

falling

in peace peace peace

yet I hate the

coming from their mouth

for it means nothing

nothing nothing

comefroms the stage where actors

aren't actors playing actors but actors

playing playing pretending

being snowflakes on the swaying grass

embracing a bonnie lass

yet it's too late

too late

to dance.

What if we fell like snow?

Snowliness is the worst state of the mind –

shantih shantih shantih where art thee –

“I never meant to hurt them snowflakes, Officer, I swear!”

yet I lashed at'em relentlessly

the bow showed no dent, no wear and tear,

and the drysmeared blood on it most unkind

as it is of the irremovable sort

and the wind, the wind!

comes howling

reaches me there

at the bottom of my cistern

where we take turn

every century or so.

Mines comes now.

Mines comes now.

Mines comes now.

I have forgiven what it was I had to say

to the next reservoir-bound fey.

Perhaps the snowflakes will say.

Look up at the hollow shaft

watch the hollow specks

listen to the hollow voice

yet some would argue nothing's hollow.

How wrong they are. How wrong!

No throng, no raft, no decks, no choice,

but what dreams conceive

but what dreams allow.

For years I mistook die for dream

in we live as we die, alone

seemed to me a better line,

a better scream,

befitting the moans,

the whining,

the tears

we shed.

I was misled

waylaid

by the lure of the snow

damn the snow!

May it burn and drown

in the see o' darkness!

Pack the world in a nice urn

watch it burn, burn, burn

and the flare of the sun

has that effect upon the snow

chars the tea in my glazed flagon

blackens the base bow

ashens my brow

darkens my sweat

“I swear, I swear!”

Be hanged with'em!

Be hanged with'em!

The snowflakes gather

and chant, and dance.

and the world seems more hollow then it ever used to be.

More hollow, more hollow.

Aye, we can fall like snow.

From the floor of my underground tower

I can see but few hours

yet I feel them all, them all,

and sour is the frail

hurt in the small

of his offal.

Fingernails broke yesteryear

trying to dislodge the fray

I failed, I failed

dim is the snow, lightless is the day

they all fell like snow

down a hollow.

The hour is now.

Contentuous

"Contempt is the weapon of the weak and a defense against one's own despised and unwanted feelings."

Alice Miller, psychologist and author (1923-2010)

One in a million

"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas."

Linus Pauling, chemist, peace activist, author, educator; Nobel Prize in chemistry, Nobel Peace Prize (1901-1994)

Movements of translation

"Translating is writing"

Marguerite Yourcenar, writer (1903-1987)

Big up to my friend Seb who posted this on Facebook to mark what could be a big step in my life as a writer, and not only as a translator.

Translating a novel is an arduous job, and like writing it requires a healthy lifestyle, diligence and, more often than not, having to force oneself to settle to the desk and down to the task. About one fifth of the book is done so far, but the amount of work has been tenfold as I had to research a part of history and of the world I had only dim knowledge about: Persia in the eleventh century. I read roughly a hundred articles on different topics, people, regions, battles, events. It connected with what I already knew and this is perhaps what I like best in my job: connecting things. Because everything is connected. Even picking up a German-made map of Persia in the fourteenth century (in order to find the old names of the cities, burgs and rivers, which change through the centuries, of course) can make you connect what you know with what you learn. Knowledge is like a multi-layered spider's web, only way more intricately woven, and not plane, but three-dimensional, for the webs criss-cross. So is history, and the world.

Chi va piano va sano

"To read fast is as bad as to eat in a hurry."

Vilhelm Ekelund, Swedish poet (1880-1949)