Translation: Francis Jammes, It's going to snow

Edvard Munch, New Snow in the Avenue, 1906

This is Bora Mici's original French to English translation of the poem "Il va neiger" or "It's going to snow" by the French 19th- to 20th-century poet Francis Jammes. Even though it is currently the beginning of spring in the Washington, DC area, I was feeling somewhat nostalgic for winter's silence and was drawn to this poem in Georges Pompidou's anthology of French poetry. What I like about this poem is its background of snow falling and the constant and enduring everyday quality of the objects it describes. It evokes a sense of peace and comfort and quiet and eternity, and a reckoning with our innermost strivings to change the world around us by labelling things and thus seeking to possess them and make our imprint on them.  

Francis Jammes, Il va neiger... by Bora Mici

It’s going to snow…

It is going to snow in a few days. I recall
a year ago. I remember my sad thoughts
by the fire pit. If you had asked me though: what is it?
I would have said: let me alone. It’s nothing at all.

I have thought long, last year, in my room, I remember
whilst the heavy snow fell out the door,
My thoughts were naught. Now as before
I am smoking a wooden pipe with an end piece of amber.

My old chest of drawers still smells good of oak,
I was stupid because so many things

could not change and it’s just posing
to want to estrange the things we cannot stoke.

So why do we think and speak? It’s
our tears and kisses, they, don’t speak, [funny thing;
and yet we understand them, and the steps
of a friend are sweeter than sweet words linked.

We have baptized the stars without much thought
and they did not need a name, and the numbers,
which prove that the pretty comets in dark slumbers
will pass, all the same, will not make them change their lot.

And even at this moment, where are my sad fits
from last year? I barely remember them.
I would persevere: Leave me alone, it’s nothing ahem,
if you came into my room to ask me: what is it?

Message to the World, An Existentialist Meditation

This is Bora Mici's original short analysis in French of the reason why people like to imitate each other and want the same things. The conclusion indicates a different, more subtle, approach to life.

Un soupçon

Je voudrais expliquer ici les causes latentes du désir mimétique, identifié comme concept par René Girard dans son livre éponyme. Le désir mimétique nous pousse à vouloir imiter les autres. A titre d’exemple, dans le cas de l’engouement pour les smartphones, on dirait que tout le monde a voulu le même produit en même temps, ce qui a explosé les ventes et a fait du smartphone un objet à la fois indispensable, pour les consommateurs, et rentable, pour les créateurs. Mais qu’est-ce qui se cache derrière cette impulsion de briguer tous les même choses en même temps, de se ruer comme des moutons de Panurge pour avoir du dernier cri? Tout d’abord il y a la vanité. Notre vanité et par conséquent notre estime de nous-mêmes dépend du regard d’autrui, comme l’a défini Jean-Paul Sartre au sein de sa philosophie existentialiste, qui veut que l’existence précède l’essence.

Tout simplement, on tire l’idée qu’on se fait de notre propre valeur de ce que nous pensons les autres pensent de nous. Au cours du déroulement de ce mécanisme subtil intersubjectif, on se plie à notre nature innée en tant qu’êtres sociaux, qui ont besoin de s’accorder pour mieux vivre ensemble et pour donner un sens aux choses de la vie. Donc, on essaie de nous cerner nous-mêmes à travers la façon qu’on perçoit que les autres nous cernent à leur tour, et comment ils cernent d’autres personnes encore. Cela fait un effet domino, et tout d’un coup, on se retrouve tous avec la même idée.

C’est en établissant des normes en commun et définissables qu’on est mieux placés pour réussir notre coexistence. En conséquence, on joue des rôles prédéterminés qui nous aident à établir et maintenir un ordre et souvent une hiérarchie sociale, c’est-à-dire on assigne des essences préalables à notre identité sociale. Ces rôles, selon Sartre, relèvent de la mauvaise foi. Par exemple, nous nous disons qu’on est des employés de banque, alors qu’avant tout, on devrait revendiquer notre liberté radicale et ne pas se conformer à l’ordre établi sans reflexion.

En même temps que nous souhaitons épater nos collègues par notre adhésion bien adaptée aux règles sociales, on reste aussi des êtres foncièrement individualistes qui veulent surpasser nos homologues. On assure donc notre primauté aux yeux de nos semblables en empruntant des chemins qui sont socialement acceptables, soit la concurrence sous-entendue et bien valorisée. Donc on va tout faire pour garder ou améliorer notre statut social parce que ça nous permet une meilleure situation économique et aussi un meilleur contrôle sur comment on est perçus, par les autres, mais surtout par nous mêmes. Un tel atout fait en sorte qu’on puisse mieux s’intégrer et donc satisfaire notre besoin social, et en même temps de se distinguer pour mieux nourrir notre envie de vaincre. On dit qu’on est notre pire critique, mais en même temps on est notre meilleur agent de pub, engendrant chez autrui le désir d’être comme nous, de vouloir ce qu’on possède, de se voir à travers nos yeux.

C’est pour toutes ces raisons qu’il faut plus se laisser absorber par le moment présent. On a moins d’attentes et on anticipe moins, deux façons d’exister qui sont anxiogènes, et que les smartphones par exemple suscitent en nous demandant d’être toujours connectés à un monde virtuel. On devrait par contre profiter pleinement de la vie, qui se déroule au présent. De toute façon, il faut aussi apprendre du passé et se projeter dans l’avenir parce que la vie en société l’exige, mais je pense qu’on devrait minimiser ces deux aspects de vivre et être plus sereins. Ce sont les querelles du passé qui nous hantent dans l’avenir et ce sont nos aspirations pour protéger notre propre avenir qui peuvent conduire à des guerres insensées. On devrait être moins rancuniers, moins égoïstes et plus généreux et indulgents. On doit comprendre que lorsque nous regardons dans les yeux d’autrui on cherche avant tout l’amour. Mais comme on ne sait pas aimer parfaitement puisque on est tous différents et avons vécus des expériences divergentes, on est toujours obligés de pardonner à autrui et de faire de notre mieux pour communiquer avec honnêteté. Après tout, la vie en société est une projection en continu.

Translation: Italo Calvino, The Adventure of a Reader

George Bellows, Forty-two kids, 1907

This is Bora Mici's original translation from Italian into English of an extract from the short story "The Adventure of a Reader" or "L'avventura di un lettore" taken from Italo Calvino's collection of short stories Difficult Loves, or Gli amori difficili, in Italian. This collection contains several uniquely constructed love stories that highlight the psychological distance between the protagonists and those whom they love. In this particular story, Amedeo, an avid reader, who is more interested in books than in real life, is progressively torn between the engaging narrative he has his nose in and a typically attractive beach going woman, whose presence he initially observes and comments silently to himself from a distance, and the awkward encounters that ensue, bringing them closer and closer. In all of Calvino's short stories in this collection, as readers, we slowly zoom into the complexities and anticipations that get in the way of two lovers communicating clearly with each other. 

Italo Calvino, L’avventura di un lettore, by Bora Mici

At that point, Amedeo began talking about jellyfish: his direct knowledge was not very extensive, but he had read some books about famous fishermen and undersea explorers so—overlooking the minute fauna—he got around to speaking about the famous manta ray. The woman on holiday was listening to him while showing great interest, and now and then, she chimed in, always exaggeratedly, like women do. “Do you see this red spot I have on my arm? Do you think it could have been a jellyfish?” Amedeo touched the spot, located a little above the elbow, and said no. It was a little reddish because she had leaned on it while sunbathing.

And that was that. They said goodbye. She returned to her spot, and he returned to his and started reading again. It had been an intermission that had lasted just the right amount of time, neither more nor less, an unanticipated human interaction, (the lady had been polite, discrete and docile) precisely because it had been so understated. Now he experienced a much fuller and much more concrete attachment to the reality in his book, where everything had a meaning, a rhythm, and was important. Amedeo felt that everything was perfect: the printed page revealed a true life to him, deep and captivating, and when he raised his eyes, he encountered a random but pleasing correspondence between colors and feelings, a secondary and decorative world that could not engage him in any way. The tanned lady smiled at him and hinted a greeting from her beach mat. He also responded with a smile and a vague gesture and immediately looked down again. But the lady had said something.

“What?”

“Are you reading? Do you always read?”

“What?”

“Is it interesting?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy the rest!”

“Thanks.”

He needed to no longer raise his eyes. At least until the end of the chapter. He read it in one breath. Now the lady had a cigarette in her mouth and was gesturing at him while pointing at it. Amedeo was under the impression that she had been trying to attract his attention for some time. “What?”

“Sorry, a match…”

“Ah no, you know what? I don’t smoke.”

The chapter was over. Amedeo quickly read the first few lines of the next one, which he found surprisingly enticing, but in order to attack the new chapter without distractions, he needed to deal with the problem of the match first. “Wait!” He got up, started jumping across the rocks, half stunned by the sun, until he found a group of people smoking. He borrowed a box of “Minerva” matches, ran back to the lady, lit her cigarette, and ran back to return the “Minerva” box. “Just keep it, you can keep it,” they told him. He ran back to the lady again and left the “Minerva” with her. She thanked him. He waited a moment before saying goodbye, but then he understood that after such hesitation, he had to say something else, and he said, “You’re not going into the water?”

“In a bit,” said the lady. “What about you?”

“I’ve already been.”

“And you won’t go in again?”

“Yes, I’ll read another chapter and then go for another swim.”

“Me too. I’ll smoke my cigarette and jump in.”

“Ok then. See you later.”

“Later.”

This semblance of an appointment restored a calmness in Amedeo, which, as he now realized, he had not experienced since he had first noticed the presence of the solitary woman on holiday. His conscience was no longer weighed down by the need to maintain any kind of imaginable relationship with that lady. Everything was postponed until the moment of the swim—a swim he would have taken anyways, even if it had not been for the lady—and now he could abandon himself to the pleasure of reading without regrets. He did so to such a degree that he had not realized that at some point—while he had still not reached the end of the chapter—the woman on holiday, who had finished her cigarette, had stood up and had come up to him to invite him to go swimming. He saw her wooden sandals and straight legs a little beyond his book, looked up, looked back down at the page—the sun was blinding—and read a few lines hurriedly. Then he went back to looking up and heard her saying, “Isn’t your head bursting? I’m jumping in!” It was still nice staying there, continuing to read and looking up now and then. But not being able to delay things any longer, Amedeo did something he would never have done. He skipped almost half a a page, until the conclusion of the chapter, which he read very attentively instead, and then he stood up.

“Let’s go! Are we jumping off the top?”

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