[lit-ideas] Torgeir Fjeld's translation and other Literature
- From: "Lawrence Helm" <lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Thu, 3 Aug 2017 07:29:58 -0700
Donal,
It feels as though I ought to apologize for something, but I don’t know what.
I didn’t intend to be insulting, but if I was I suspect an unintended
ambiguity in the construction of my statement. Lit Ideas used to be “Phil Lit”
and I tend to think of it in those terms, especially in the last few years:
Philosophy and Literature. Surely you would agree that aside from David
Ritchie and me, the emphasis has been upon philosophy. . . Ah, I can see this
approach to the matter isn’t going to work . . .
As an analogy, In the DPReview photographic forums, at least the ones I’ve been
on, there are two main categories of photographers: Pros and Enthusiasts. A
Pro seems to be a photographer who earns money from his photography, however I
suspect that pros who work for National Geographic might look down upon pros
that make a meager living doing weddings. The enthusiast can run the gamut
from someone little better than a beginner to someone who knows quite a bit
about almost everything involving cameras and lenses – as well as being able to
take competent photos which he occasionally posts. I would probably be
considered a medium gauge enthusiast. I know a fair amount about Olympus and
Pentax DSLR cameras and the lenses for them, and have a photographic site where
I post my better-than-average photos. I have an interest in photography as
art, but there isn’t a category for that; so I am an “enthusiast.” But if
someone were to ask me if I’m a photographer, I’d probably hesitate. That
broad a term is almost meaningless, or at least doesn’t mean anything
important, in the photographic world of the forums. Most people who take
photos today probably do so with their cell phones, so are such people
“photographers,” well sure, in a sense, but really [heavy scorn implied].
Returning to Lit Ideas which used to be Phil Lit where the broad categories
Philosophy and Literature were and may still be used. At the time the title
“Lit Ideas” was being created, I was posting quite a lot on foreign affairs and
so was happy that this fit into “ideas.” History, another of my interests at
the time, fit into “ideas” as well. I have even delved into the philosophical
realm from time to time. But I think of myself as a poet for the most part – a
poet who is also interested in photography, history, foreign affairs, theology,
philosophy and several other things – and all (or most) that I’ve posted
recently has been in the “Lit” realm.
Coming now to my note to Torgeir Fjeld, complementing him on his translation of
a passage from the recent novel Alt det lyse og alt det mørke (All that is
Light and all that is Dark) by the Norwegian novelist Brynjulf Jung Tjønn, who
was born in Seoul, Korea, I saw Torgeir’s translation as fitting into the
“Lit” category here in Lit-Ideas.
As to “ideas” people who feel they belong to the “Lit” category as well, I
recall that Robert Paul is working on a novel. I think of Geary as being in
the “Lit” category even though he hasn’t posted many of his poems or much of
his prose. He too is working on a novel. There are other “Lit” people out
there, but they haven’t been posting “Lit” recently on Lit-Ideas, unless I
missed it, and being old I may have. Thus, while I have been thinking that
only David Ritchie and I have been “doing” lit recently, others may be thinking
differently about that in some way, e.g., perhaps certain writings about Popper
or Grice may seem “literary” to the authors of these writings. If so then I
could see that I have been insensitive and can apologize for not being so.
Lawrence
From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On ;
Behalf Of Donal McEvoy (Redacted sender "donalmcevoyuk" for DMARC)
Sent: Wednesday, August 02, 2017 2:54 PM
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: All that is light and all that is dark (excerpt in
translation)
Another inroad by the neglected but not totally cowed Lit-Ideas literati. :-) >
As someone long neglected and totally cowed, I can only dream of becoming
neglected but not totally cowed - and it's my purest fantasy that, having
fulfilled that dream, I might make any kind of inroad on anything.
To me the literati are the glitterati. How dare I trouble anyone on this list
with my half-baked idee fixe and pop-eyed Popper-poppycock - I only do it to
mask intense feelings of inadequacy and shame, as all who know me shall
testify. As Beethoven remarked, the literati will have the last laugh - many
are laughing already.
In the meantime I remain, humbly, everyone's faithful servant,
D
L
_____
From: Lawrence Helm <lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sent: Wednesday, 2 August 2017, 21:11
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: All that is light and all that is dark (excerpt in
translation)
Torgeir,
Another inroad by the neglected but not totally cowed Lit-Ideas literati. :-)
Btw (1), one of my part time jobs while I was in high school was cutting wood
for a fellow with a home-made saw-mill. He collected scraps and odd pieces
which he had me cut up into smaller pieces -- can't remember why, perhaps for
firewood. But I do recall that he had a lovely daughter, much older than me
whom I never saw again once he no longer needed me. I don't remember being
quite as covered in sawdust as the father in this story.
Btw (2) My father was a dock worker and we lived in a small house. My brother
and sister slept in the same room with my parents and I slept in the living
room with my grandmother who would read herself asleep and leave the light on.
This went on until I was 10 when my mother divorced my father and my
grandmother, my father's mother, moved away. So I never had any concerns about
night noises when I was small -- that I can remember. Now I live in a large
house with three dogs and worry about the noise my one-year-old Irish Terrier
makes. Her bark creates harmonics that are painful, probably due to the
deterioration of some old thing or another inside my head. The dogs worry
about sounds outside. Jessica barks at all sorts of things. Ben, my Rhodesian
Ridgebacks hates explosions which occur on the Fourth of July and for many
nights afterward. He cowers up next to me with his 125 pounds. When it
thunders all three dogs cower near me. And when a delivery man needs my
signature and rings my bell, I don't hear it. The dogs however bark in a
distinctive frenetic way when this happens; so I run downstairs and get my
package before the delivery man makes it quite back to his truck. The father
in the story should have gotten his little girl a dog. Of course he is an
alcoholic and soon leaves his daughter to her own devices -- not a good dad.
Btw (3) I was in Korea during the war and my impression from the Koreans I met
is that they were very backward and I continually find it remarkable that they
have come as far as they have. When I lived in Garden Grove I used to go into
one store where the Korean owner knew I had been over there with the Marines
and always used to say, "thank you for your service." He always charged me
full price for everything however. :-) And once again, here, the respected
South Korean Norwegian writer Brynjulf Jung Tjønn. I can almost get a Korean
pronunciation out of Jung Tjønn, but not Brynjulf.
Thanks,
Lawrence
-----Original Message-----
From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [
mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On ;
Behalf Of Torgeir Fjeld
Sent: Wednesday, August 02, 2017 10:42 AM
To: Lit Ideas
Subject: [lit-ideas] All that is light and all that is dark (excerpt in
translation)
The saw cut through the wood. I held my hands before my eyes. Sawdust spurted
like a snowstorm. Dad stood in the midst of the storm wearing protective
glasses and earmuffs. Sometimes he would spit sawdust:
coughing, but not stopping. Sometimes I thought of all the sawdust he'd
swallowed, that it piled up in his stomach: perhaps the reason that he hardly
ate was that his stomach was filled with the doughy, sticky mass of sawdust.
And yet he made me dinner. He shut the saw and the storm settled. He was white
as a snowman, brushed off the splinters of wood so as to become Dad again,
walked me home, cooked a warm meal and made sure I sat by the table to do my
homework, even though I didn't always want to. And then he would put his work
gloves back on -- his knotty, orange gloves -- and went back to the sawmill. A
bit later he would return home and go over my homework. He smelled so good. His
beard was filled with remnants of forest. Dad made supper. Then I watched TV
for a while, brushed my teeth, put on the P.J., and lay under the blanket. Dad
sang, and, even though he didn't believe in God, he made a sort of prayer. I
didn't know to whom. But each night he said: watch over my girl in all that is
light and all that is dark. Then he closed his eyes. It was as if he every time
would hold back his tears. He kissed my cheek, got up, turned off the lights,
left the door ajar, and stood there for a while until I dared to be alone.
Is it all right now, Vibeke? Dad whispered.
No, wait a minute, I whispered back with the blanket draw to my chin, thinking
of the sounds that sort of stayed away for as long as Dad was close, all the
shadows that didn't come forward when Dad was here. But soon he'd have to go,
and it was as if it was me that had to tell him if it was all right, because
otherwise the sounds and the shadows would tease me for not daring to be alone.
So I said -- before I was really ready to -- while my heart ached that, Dad,
now you can go, I said as quietly as I could. And I heard Dad walk down the
stairs and disappear into the night. And right away the creaking in the
corners, the creaking below the ceilings, the creaking behind the curtains, the
crawling along the walls and over the floors would begin. These sounds always
arrived when Dad left. After the sounds followed the shadows, and I pulled the
blanket over my head and forced myself not to scream, not to cry for Dad, but
only to think that it would soon pass. Soon all the sounds and creaking would
give up. They only wanted to test me. They only wanted to see for how long I
could hold out, to see how long it would take before I cried for Dad. But I'd
show them. I'd show them I wouldn't cry for Dad. I would manage all on my own
through this night as I had the others.
From Brynjulf Jung Tjønn, _All that is Light and All that is Dark_ (Alt det
lyse og alt det mørke), Oslo: 2017.
--
Mvh. /Yrs.
Torgeir Fjeld (translator)
http://torgeirfjeld.com ;<
http://torgeirfjeld.com/>
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