Wednesday, May 11, 2005
To write, to wrest from life
Ernesto has a quotation from the Mexican writer Rafael Toriz which makes a mind-stopping contribution to the ‘why do we blog?’ debate:
Así, mientras se acaba el amor, la tinta y la melancolía con la que vivimos, permanece al final la huella: la marca en la piel del texto recuerda aquello que fue y estuvo, lo que en algún momento latió y aún en el presente puede ser leído.
Sólo se escribe cuando ya se ha perdido todo, cuando sólo queda arrebatarle a la vida –con palabras– todo aquello que nos va negando.
Translation – more or less:
So, while the love, the stain, the melancholy that we live with cease, in the end there is still the trace – the brand on the skin of the text recalls what was, what was there, what beat with life at some moment and may still be read.
We only write when all is lost, when all that’s left is to wrest from life – with words – everything it keeps denying us. ¶ 12:55 pm
Así, mientras se acaba el amor, la tinta y la melancolía con la que vivimos, permanece al final la huella: la marca en la piel del texto recuerda aquello que fue y estuvo, lo que en algún momento latió y aún en el presente puede ser leído.
Sólo se escribe cuando ya se ha perdido todo, cuando sólo queda arrebatarle a la vida –con palabras– todo aquello que nos va negando.
Translation – more or less:
So, while the love, the stain, the melancholy that we live with cease, in the end there is still the trace – the brand on the skin of the text recalls what was, what was there, what beat with life at some moment and may still be read.
We only write when all is lost, when all that’s left is to wrest from life – with words – everything it keeps denying us. ¶ 12:55 pm
Comments:
<< Home
Thanks for the link, Jean. I liked your translation of "tinta" as "stain". "Tinta" means "ink", though.
I always have my fingers stained with ink, because I write with a Lamy fountain pen. People keep asking: what's that stain of?
And, the other day, when someone saw some purple ink of my new tattoo, asked me if I had hit myself, if it was a bruise.
Ink leaves stains, a trace, a mark. Even if sometimes it can be erased or cleaned off.
I remember an exchange I had with poet Jean Vengua more than a year ago on why we blog. It must be somewhere in our archives.
Thanks again for a beautiful blog.
I always have my fingers stained with ink, because I write with a Lamy fountain pen. People keep asking: what's that stain of?
And, the other day, when someone saw some purple ink of my new tattoo, asked me if I had hit myself, if it was a bruise.
Ink leaves stains, a trace, a mark. Even if sometimes it can be erased or cleaned off.
I remember an exchange I had with poet Jean Vengua more than a year ago on why we blog. It must be somewhere in our archives.
Thanks again for a beautiful blog.
Thanks for the translation, Jean. I have a hard time with anything that isn't straightforward, direct Spanish - news, conversation. Poetic language makes my head hurt to try to puzzle out! Too lazy, I guess. :-)
"...when all that’s left is to wrest from life – with words – everything it keeps denying us"
I love this.
"...when all that’s left is to wrest from life – with words – everything it keeps denying us"
I love this.
Ernesto, 'the ink we live with' sounds odd. Toriz, who's obviously a considerable wordsmith, endowing every sentence with a rhythm and balance I can't begin to translate, would not want to sound odd, I think. I'm sure we could debate translation for a long time - and enjoyably...
I will look for the exchange you mention in your archives.
I will look for the exchange you mention in your archives.
It's a little bit embarrassing, but here are my reasons for blogging, as of the first of May, 2003.
Most of it is still true.
Post a Comment
Most of it is still true.
<< Home
