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kimmybartle's review against another edition
4.0
“I offer myself
you frighten me
I offer myself
I don’t give a fuck”
Pizarnik writes like a downpour in Paris, where I lay, and would happily die. Honest. She's heavy droplets of direct, raw prose that wash over you and leave you cold, frozen in the spot. She stings. She makes my heart sing. I'm alarmed at how her works in Spanish were perfectly translated (there were some bits). Unsure how French natives feel about the translations, my native language(s) are Roman, and the sentence structures crisscross. Still, I want to dust off my French after this.
“my language is the priestess”
you frighten me
I offer myself
I don’t give a fuck”
Pizarnik writes like a downpour in Paris, where I lay, and would happily die. Honest. She's heavy droplets of direct, raw prose that wash over you and leave you cold, frozen in the spot. She stings. She makes my heart sing. I'm alarmed at how her works in Spanish were perfectly translated (there were some bits). Unsure how French natives feel about the translations, my native language(s) are Roman, and the sentence structures crisscross. Still, I want to dust off my French after this.
“my language is the priestess”
ckiyoko's review against another edition
3.0
I'm not sure how fair it is to rate a collection of poetry in translation, to be honest. Translation seems like such a difficult and personal art (especially for poetry: what do you prioritize? The literal meaning? The rhythm and melody of the language? The tone? The form? The connotative meaning?), that it seems like making a judgement call on the translation and/or the original text feels odd. Especially when you don't speak both languages—like, who am I to judge? I can't speak or read French.
But the disconnect is felt here. I love translations where you can feel that they're a translation, and that traces of the original language echo throughout. Maybe my disconnect here comes from the fact that I don't feel that, that the texture of the translations is far flatter than the original text. And that is probably more on the nature of English and French as languages than it is an indication of the quality of the translation.
I'm not sure. I've read this multiple times, and I plan to revisit it to give it another shot, but as it stands, I just don't really connect with it.
But the disconnect is felt here. I love translations where you can feel that they're a translation, and that traces of the original language echo throughout. Maybe my disconnect here comes from the fact that I don't feel that, that the texture of the translations is far flatter than the original text. And that is probably more on the nature of English and French as languages than it is an indication of the quality of the translation.
I'm not sure. I've read this multiple times, and I plan to revisit it to give it another shot, but as it stands, I just don't really connect with it.
raluca_p's review against another edition
5.0
Je voudrais vivre pour écrire. Non penser à autre chose qu’à écrire. Je ne prétend pas l’amour ni l’argent. Je ne veux pas penser, ni construire décemment ma vie. Je veux de la paix: lire, étudier, gagner un peu d’argent pour m’independiser de ma famille, et écrire.
*
je me vois nue
entre les déchets
qu’on rejette
chacun son lieu
de hurler
et de dire
une absence
chacun son absence
j’ai choisi
je suis pure
j’ai bue pour le revoir
au fond du vin
ton cri en vain
*
je me vois nue
entre les déchets
qu’on rejette
chacun son lieu
de hurler
et de dire
une absence
chacun son absence
j’ai choisi
je suis pure
j’ai bue pour le revoir
au fond du vin
ton cri en vain
clairesomebody's review against another edition
4.0
Alejandra Pizarnik’s style of poetry is really sparse, yet some of her lines and words pack so much punch. The lack of punctuation and resulting ambiguity is a double-edged sword, but ultimately I think that makes reading her a richer experience, because you’ll be able to find new meanings and appreciation each time. Her sense of wordplay is fun and powerful, which I especially love because of the fact that French isn’t even her first language.
The translation faltered a bit sometimes, though. There are certain words that lost meaning from the original in my opinion, where I might have translated it differently.
I’m super glad I own this, so I can return to it over and over again.
The translation faltered a bit sometimes, though. There are certain words that lost meaning from the original in my opinion, where I might have translated it differently.
I’m super glad I own this, so I can return to it over and over again.
ajswhimsy's review against another edition
emotional
informative
relaxing
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
3.0
spacestationtrustfund's review against another edition
2.0
The book is short, under a hundred pages, many of which are reproductions of Pizarnik's manuscript pages, and the brevity is reflected in an almost hasty feeling present in Patricio Ferrari's and Forrest Gander's translations. The fact that the original French text of the poems is included was nice, but interestingly, I felt the translations suffered from a sort of overly literal application. There are many faux amis between French and English—préservatifs vs preservatives is one of the more notorious, plus there's also excité vs excited and, of course, the less said of bite the better—but perhaps less infamous are words like colérique vs choleric (not to be confused with cholérique!), or loanwords in either direction such as encore vs encore, or even cognates like regard vs regard. Some of these definitions differ more significantly (bras as brassières or arms), while some are similar enough that a sight word gloss won't cause too much harm (rude as difficult or impolite). I could list hundreds of false cognates (envie vs envy, hâte vs hate, demande vs demand, raisin vs raisin, chair vs chair, chance vs chance, coin vs coin, collège vs college, pain vs pain, magasin vs magazine, librairie vs library, sale vs sale, blesser vs bless, affaire vs affair), but that's not the point. Many of these faux amis were translated either incorrectly or deceptively (déception, disappointment; deception, trickery).
Anyway, here's one of my favourite French-language poems by Alejandra Pizarnik:
Souvenir près de l’oubli. Mort lointaine
la voix grince et trépide et tremble
le vent dément
le vent ment
le vain vent
la main ment
la main sainte
le vent saint
le saint enceinte
par le vent qui ment
je mens
je m’en démens
je m’endors
d’or et d’ouïr
j’ai mes mains démentes
mes saintes mains
enceintes de ton ombre
je m’effondre
je m’effleure
un geste de fleur
frêle
froide
je m’offre affreusement
gouffre givre
je m’offre
tu m’effraies
je m’offre
je m’en fous
And its English-language version, from this little book:
Memory near oblivion. Far death
the voice grinds and vibrates and trembles
the wind denies
the wind lies
the vain wind
the hand hides
the holy hand
the sent saint
the saint inseminated
by the wind that lies
I lie
I deny
I lie down
from gold and from grind
these demented hands are mine
my holy hands
inseminated by your shadow
I collapse
I touch myself
a flower’s gesture
frail
cold
I offer myself awfully
abyss frost
I offer myself
you frighten me
I offer myself
I don’t give a fuck
I mean... it could be worse.
Anyway, here's one of my favourite French-language poems by Alejandra Pizarnik:
Souvenir près de l’oubli. Mort lointaine
la voix grince et trépide et tremble
le vent dément
le vent ment
le vain vent
la main ment
la main sainte
le vent saint
le saint enceinte
par le vent qui ment
je mens
je m’en démens
je m’endors
d’or et d’ouïr
j’ai mes mains démentes
mes saintes mains
enceintes de ton ombre
je m’effondre
je m’effleure
un geste de fleur
frêle
froide
je m’offre affreusement
gouffre givre
je m’offre
tu m’effraies
je m’offre
je m’en fous
And its English-language version, from this little book:
Memory near oblivion. Far death
the voice grinds and vibrates and trembles
the wind denies
the wind lies
the vain wind
the hand hides
the holy hand
the sent saint
the saint inseminated
by the wind that lies
I lie
I deny
I lie down
from gold and from grind
these demented hands are mine
my holy hands
inseminated by your shadow
I collapse
I touch myself
a flower’s gesture
frail
cold
I offer myself awfully
abyss frost
I offer myself
you frighten me
I offer myself
I don’t give a fuck
I mean... it could be worse.
jbayer's review against another edition
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
2.75
morebedsidebooks's review against another edition
4.0
Leaving lasting contributions to Argentine poetry after her death at age 36, Alejandra Pizarnik spent several years in Paris in the 60s. Writing also in French, these poems are not altogether forgotten. Taking a line from one such poem is the title for the bilingual collection The Galloping Hour.
See my blog for an in-depth review.