Posts filed under 'grandparents'

Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from “The Gift” by Nevena Mitropolitska

her answer had already been thought out: she wanted him and her grandmother to take her to a real ballet performance.

This Translation Tuesday, Asymptote presents a tale of parental love from Bulgaria, written by Nevena Mitropolitska and translated by Zlatomira Terzieva. Neda’s grandfather, a woodcarver, has always prided himself on his ability to carve whatever birthday gift his granddaughter asks for—but on her seventh birthday, she makes an unexpected request, one that tests the limits of what he can give. What follows is a touching story that is as much about class and art in late communist Bulgaria as it is about the love between a grandparent and grandchild, about the hope that our descendents will have more than what we were given. Read on!

Everything started with a question. On the eighteenth of October, nineteen seventy-eight, exactly three months before Neda turned seven years old, her grandfather, as he was sitting in front of the TV in his rocking chair and stroking its scuffed armrest, asked her what kind of present she wanted for her birthday. That wasn’t an ordinary question, but a ritual, which repeated itself every year on the same date. He needed three months to get ready. Whatever she wished for, her grandpa would create out of wood. Had she purchased a piece of clothing, he would have carved that too. He would find a large piece, he would lock himself down in his small basement workshop, full of odd chisels, and the place would buzz with activity. When he formed his creation, he would paint all over it with thin brushes and he would varnish it. She could watch for hours how his coarse fingers lovingly danced on the wood and breathed form, feelings, and even movement into it. For her fourth birthday, she had chosen a baby doll—he had made it with a hole in the mouth so she could put a pacifier inside. For her fifth birthday—a house—complete with everything—with a chimney, with two windows (they had no glass, he covered them with nylon), with a door that could be opened and had a painted handle, and inside—a miniature bed. For her sixth birthday, she received a small table with four small chairs, and she sewed a green tablecloth together with her grandmother. And on that eighteenth of October, three months before her birthday, as he was asking her the fateful question, her grandpa was already delightfully anticipating—even his mustache was trembling from excitement, the joy of his unity with the wood. This time, however, Neda was going to surprise him.

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In Conversation: Susanna Nied

Acclaimed translator Susanna Nied on polymath author Inger Christensen and their parallel lives

A giant in world poetry and experimental text, much of Inger Christensen’s influence can be seen cascading to many generations of writers, in several languages. Her book-length poem, Det (1969) shook the foundations of Danish poetry, and in its translations, continues to startle and affect readers profoundly. Her essays have been translated into English and collected into a volume for the first time. To mark this literary event, poet and former Asymptote team member Sohini Basak spoke via email to Susanna Nied, who has translated into English Christensen’s poetic oeuvre as well as the forthcoming book of essays The Condition of Secrecy (New Directions).

SOHINI BASAK: For those of us bound by the English-language, it is because of you that we’ve come to know of Inger Christensen’s poetry. And as you’re the translator of her complete poetic oeuvre, it’s very interesting that you started with her first book (Light), and then the sequence almost coincides with the order in which the original collections were published … although not entirely. How did you decide your working order?

SUSANNA NIED: I actually didn’t do anything like choosing a working order. When I started on Light, in the 1970s, I didn’t know Inger had written anything besides Light and Grass. I didn’t even know who Inger was, and I certainly didn’t know that I was going to become a translator, much less her translator. I was just a university student browsing the library stacks for something Danish to read for pleasure, and I happened upon this little bibliography of contemporary Danish poets. When I got to “C” I found “Christensen, Inger”.

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Translation Tuesday: ‘Moss’ by Julia Fiedorczuk

I shall have to overcome the vanity, the applause, my own self, and measure up to life—measure up to death.

Much of the prose in Asymptote‘s Spring 2018 fiction section (especially Jon Fosse’s Scenes from a Childhood) includes keenly observed sketches from childhood. This Tuesday, we bring you a piece from Poland that continues that theme. In Julia Fiedorczuk’s ‘Moss’, the narrator’s recollections of her grandmother are a powerful evocation of a child’s experience through the grown-up’s consciousness. And fair warning: you’re probably gonna shed a tear or two when you get to the last line.

But I’m still a child, then, who doesn’t know how to read yet.

I’m five, maybe six years old, in a purple flannel dress with little green roses. That child’s thin legs are sticking out from under the dress. Scratched and bruised like seventy sorrows. I’m sitting on a high stool in front of a mirror, legs dangling in mid-air. She’s standing behind me. Brushing my hair. I have long hair, the colour of ripe corn. Fine hair; it won’t survive adolescence: it’ll have to be cut when I hit fifteen.

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