{"id":3352,"date":"2015-10-12T09:19:28","date_gmt":"2015-10-12T16:19:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=3352"},"modified":"2016-04-20T04:11:41","modified_gmt":"2016-04-20T11:11:41","slug":"transtromer-beheld","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=3352","title":{"rendered":"Transtr\u00f6mer Beheld"},"content":{"rendered":"

It was a funeral.<\/span>
\nI sensed the deceased<\/span>
\nread my thoughts<\/span>
\nbetter than myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

The organ fell silent. Birds sang.<\/span>
\nA grave opened to the sun.<\/span>
\nMy friend’s voice rang as far<\/span>
\nas the minutes’ darkside.<\/span><\/p>\n

I drove home transfixed<\/span>
\nby the glare of summer day,<\/span>
\nby rain and stillness,<\/span>
\ntransfixed by the moon.<\/span><\/p>\n

From Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer, Fr\u00e5n juli 90<\/i><\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

Det var en begravning
\n<\/i>och jag k\u00e4nde att den d\u00f6de
\n<\/i>l\u00e4ste mina tankar
\n<\/i>b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n jag sj\u00e4lv.\u00a0<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Orgeln teg, f\u00e5glarna sj\u00f6ng.
\n<\/i>Gropen ute i solgasset.
\n<\/i>Min v\u00e4ns r\u00f6st h\u00f6ll till
\n<\/i>p\u00e5 minuternas baksida.\u00a0<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Jag k\u00f6rde hem genomsk\u00e5dad
\n<\/i>av sommardagens glans
\n<\/i>av regn och stillhet
\n<\/i>genomsk\u00e5dad av m\u00e5nen.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span>
\n Transtr\u00f6mer has an uncanny knack. One might call it musical, given his love for and skill at piano, even after the stroke which left him without use of his right hand. I am sure he thought of Paul Wittgenstein, the philosopher\u2019s older brother, the pianist who lost his right arm in what is now Ukraine during the First World War, not the second cousin, about whom Thomas Bernhard wrote so compellingly in Wittgensteins Neffe<\/i>. Maurice Ravel composed a Concerto for the Left Hand at the first Paul\u2019s request. One wonders about Transtr\u00f6mer\u2019s own left-handed repertoire in his later years. Did he stick with Haydn or try out the repertoire Paul Wittgenstein commissioned from Ravel, Hindemith, Prokofiev and Britten, among others?<\/span><\/p>\n

In this poem in particular, there is certainly counterpoint (the deceased \/ myself<\/i>; the organ fell silent \/ the birds sang;<\/i> a grave<\/i> dug into soil \/ the<\/em> sun<\/i>). There is also what could be called modulation, as when the poet moves in the last stanza from the glare of summer day<\/i>, through rain and stillness<\/i>, and then on to the moon.<\/i>\u00a0 \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Critics have spoken of the quality of Transtr\u00f6mer\u2019s diction, choice of words. This makes him especially useful to a student of the language.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There is much less of a Latinate register in Swedish than English. The language of Rome never sunk roots that far away, though late Latin was the preferred instrument of elite scientific communication for a long time. Look at Swedenborg.<\/span><\/p>\n

My Latiny\u00a0transfixed<\/i> for gemonsk\u00e5dad<\/i> goes against the instincts of an English translator. Archaic or poetic sk\u00e5da <\/i>means to behold, watch or observe. It shows up now mainly in compound forms, as in\u00a0sk\u00e5despelare<\/i>, actor \/ Schauspieler<\/i>.\u00a0\u00a0If all things were equal, which they are not, gemonsk\u00e5dad<\/i> av m\u00e5nen<\/i> would call for an Anglo-saxonish “seen through” or “beheld” by the moon. But “looking through” means\u00a0“seeing what is beyond,” as in perceiving what is on the backside of the moon, of the \u00a0minutes as they tick, of time. As in prefiguring, at an inhumation, one\u2019s own death. To be transfixed is also to be caught in some Medusa\u2019s stare, her glance, her glare.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then breaks forth a cadenza. The dead friend\u2019s words, which best expressed the poet\u2019s own thoughts, had hung in the void, resounding from the far side of time, as if from the occulted dark side of the moon. Driving home from the obsequies through unsettled afternoon weather and into a night clearing of clouds, the poet is transfigured in the sight of the moon.<\/span><\/p>\n

Like music, poetry is composed of structures which make things happen in our mind.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It was a funeral. I sensed the deceased read my thoughts better than myself. The organ fell silent. Birds sang. A grave opened to the sun. My friend’s voice rang as far as the minutes’ darkside. I drove home transfixed by the glare of summer day, by rain and stillness, transfixed by the moon. From … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Transtr\u00f6mer Beheld”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

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