lunes, agosto 27, 2007

DESPUÉS-ANTES / BEFORE-AFTER

*
14


14.Traducida: Amaranta Caballero Prado
Desde: Tijuana, México.


Before







After



Jeanne d'Arc
Jules Bastien-Lepage, 1848-1884



:


EJERCICIO/poema a traducir # 1 :Homofónicas


Det är något som inte är som det ska härinne.
Det är något skräckslaget
som inte kan ta sig ut härifrån.
Det är någonting som har givit vika
under mina fötter.

Det är någonting som har rämnat
över mitt huvud.


Det är någonting som sitter vid min huvudgärd
och hyperventilerar.
Det är någonting arríen
som går mig på nerverna.
Jag tror att det har uppstått ett livshotande
förståndslidande här i huset.
Jag tror att det är smittsamt.
Jag tror att jag måste akta mig
så att jag inte blir farlig.
Det måste finnas en rätsida.
Det måste finnas en nödlösning.
Det måste finnas en jourhavande låssmed.
Det måste finnas en utrymningsplan.
Det måste finnas en katastrofberedskap.



¿=?



Sí Sí/poëma ♂ : Sinfónicas voces


Detonar la gota, sombra entre sombra, descaro.
Detonar la gota, escarchar la sed:
Sombra interna canta signos de azafrán.
Detonar la gota: sombra, aire, dando vida
bajo mi suerte de pie.

Detonar la gota sombra, rama, gritar
sobre mi hueso.

Detonar gota son sitios, vid, mi vastedad
hoy hiperventilada.
Detonar gota de nada.
Son par mi par: verbena.
Ya tres el acto de dar, estar y lid yo tarde.
Forza estar distante como tú dices.
Ya. Tres. Dar: Armisticio.
Ya. Tres. Dar: este acto mío.
Saber ya entablar distancia:
De las más finas, enraizada.
De las más finas en nodo, lodo, noche.
De las más finas en tu lavanda, hazme.
De las más finas en otro de mis planes.
De las más finas en catástrofe que escapa.




Para las traducciones homofónicas de la Inquietante Semana de las Mujeres Traducidas, Amaranta Caballero Prado.

miércoles, agosto 22, 2007

DESPUÉS-ANTES / BEFORE-AFTER

*
13


13.Traducida: Patricia De Souza
Desde: Lima, Perú.


Before





After





:


Je n’ai jamais pu me reconnaître dans le regard d’un homme. C’est comme un jeu d’ombres qui projette une quantité infinie des femmes, celles que je n’ai pas été et celles que je ne serais jamais. Pendant longtemps j’ai cru avoir des yeux pour cette lumière. C’est une enquête constante, obstinée, semblable à une musique qu’on ne parvient pas à composer et que l’on ne peut pas jouer, alors, j’évoque cet étrange mythe d’Electre, symbole d’une lutte pour me débarrasser de cette domination, d’une origine. Pour posséder mon propre nom. Toute mon existence tient à ce regard de reconnaissance. Pendant longtemps j’ai cru avoir les yeux pour cette lumière.



¿=?



Electra en la ciudad, de Patricia De Souza, Alfaguara 2006, Lima.

lunes, agosto 20, 2007

DESPUÉS-ANTES / BEFORE-AFTER

*
12


12.Traducida: Mayra Castañeda
Desde: Sta Barbara, CA.


Before






After








:



En tanto que de rosa y de azucena
se muestra la color en vuestro gesto,
y que vuestro mirar ardiente, honesto,
con clara luz la tempestad serena;

y en tanto que el cabello, que en la vena
del oro se escogió, con vuelo presto
por el hermoso cuello blanco, enhiesto,
el viento mueve, esparce y desordena:

coged de vuestra alegre primavera
el dulce fruto antes que el tiempo airado
cubra de nieve la hermosa cumbre.

Marchitará la rosa el viento helado,
todo lo mudará la edad ligera
por no hacer mudanza en su costumbre.



Soneto XXIII
Garcilaso de la Vega


¿=?


Enquanto que da rosa e da açucena
revela-lhes a cor o vosso gesto,
e que vosso mirar ardente, honesto,
incende o coração e, entanto, o frena;

e enquanto que o dourado da melena,
de áureo veio escolhido, em vôo presto
pelo formoso colo branco, em esto,
o vento move, esparze e desordena:

colhei da primavera lisonjeira
o doce fruto antes que o tempo airado
dos cabelos vos torne em neve o lume.

Murcha-se a flor no entardecer gelado,
a tudo a idade mudará ligeira
por não fazer mudança em seu costume.


Soneto XXIII
Garcilaso de la Vega


[Traducción al portugués por Mayra Castañeda]

--Walter Benjamin, "The Task of the Translator"

(Introduction to a Baudelaire translation, 1923; this text translated by Harry Zohn, 1968)

[This, and the Chamberlain article I photocopied for you, are taken from the anthology, The Translation Studies Reader, ed. Lawrence Venuti (London: Routledge, 2000).]


1. In the appreciation of a work of art or an art form, consideration of the receiver never proves fruitful. Not only is any reference to a certain public or its representatives misleading, but even the concept of an "ideal" receiver is detrimental in the theoretical consideration of art, since all it posits is the existence and nature of man as such. Art, in the same way, posits man's physical and spiritual existence, but in none of its works is it concerned with his response. No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener.

2. Is a translation meant for readers who do not understand the original? This would seem to explain adequately the divergence of their standing in the realm of art. Moreover, it seems to be the only conceivable reason for saying "the same thing" repeatedly. For what does a literary work "say"? What does it communicate? It "tells very little to those who understand it. Its essential quality is not statement or the imparting of information -- hence, something inessential. This is the hallmark of bad translations. But do we not generally regard as the essential substance of a literary work what it contains in addition to information -- as even a poor translator will admit -- the unfathomable, the mysterious, the "poetic," something that a translator can reproduce only if he is also a poet? This, actually, is the cause of another characteristic of inferior translation, which consequently we may define as the inaccurate transmission of an inessential content. This will be true whenever a translation undertakes to serve the reader. However, if it were intended for the reader, the same would have to apply to the original. If the original does not exist for the reader's sake, how could the translation be understood on the basis of this premise?

3. Translation is a mode. To comprehend it as mode one must go back to the original, for that contains the law governing the translation: its translatability. The question of whether a work is translatable has a dual meaning. Either: Will an adequate translator ever be found among the totality of its readers? Or, more pertinently: Does its nature lend itself to translation and, therefore, in view of the significance of the mode, call for it? [. . .]

4. Translatability is an essential quality of certain works, which is not to say that it is essential that they be translated; it means rather that a specific significance inherent in the original manifest itself in its translatability. It is plausible that no translation, however good it may be, can have any significance as regards the original. Yet, by virtue of its translatability the original is closely connected with the translation; in fact, this connection is all the closer since it is no longer of importance to the original. We may call this connected a natural one, or, more specifically, a vital connection. Just as he manifestations of life are intimately connected with the phenomenon of life without being of importance to it, a translation issues from the original -- not so much for its life as from its afterlife. For a translation comes later than the original, and since the important works of world literature never find their chosen translators at the time of their origin, their translation marks their stag of continues life. The idea of life and afterlife in works of art should be regarded with an entirely unmetaphorical objectivity. [. . .] The concept of life is given its due only if everything that has a history of its own, and is not merely the setting for history, is credited with life. In the final analysis, the range of life must be determined by history rather than by nature, least of all by such tenuous factors as sensation and soul. The philosopher's task consists in comprehending all of natural life through the more encompassing life of history. And indeed, is not the continued life of works of art far easier to recognize than the continual life of animal species? The history of the great works of art tells us about their antecedents, their realization in the age of the artist, their potentially eternal afterlife in succeeding generations. Where this last manifests itself, it is called fame. Translations that are more than transmissions of subject matter come into being when in the course of its survival a work has reached the age of its fame. Contrary, therefore, to the claims of bad translators, such translations do not so much serve the work as owe their existence to it. [. . .]

5. With this attempt at an explication [that languages "are not strangers to one another, but are, a priori and apart from all historical relationships, interrelated in what they want to express"] our study appears to rejoin, after futile detours, the traditional theory of translation. If the kinship of languages is to be demonstrated by translations, how else can this be done but by conveying the form and meaning of the original as accurately as possible? To be sue, that theory would be hard put to define the nature of this accuracy and therefore could shed no light on what is important in a translation. Actually, however, the kinship of languages is brought out by a translation far more profoundly and clearly than in the superficial and indefinable similarity of two works of literature. To grasp the genuine relationship between an original and a translation requires an investigation analogous to the argumentation by which a critique of cognition would have to prove the impossibility of an image theory. There it is a matter of showing that in cognition there could be no objectivity, not even a claim to it, if it dealt with images of reality; here it can be demonstrated that no translation would be possible if in its ultimate essence it strove for likeness to the original. For in its afterlife -- which could not be called that if it were not a transformation and a renewal of something living -- the original undergoes a change. Even words with fixed meaning can undergo a maturing process. The obvious tendency of a writer's literary style may in time wither away, only to give rise to immanent tendencies in the literary creation. What sounded fresh once may sound hackneyed later; what was once current may someday sound quaint. To seek the essence of such changes, as well as he equally constant changes in meaning, in the subjectivity of posterity rather than in the very life of language and its works, would mean -- even allowing for the crudest psychologism -- to confuse the root cause of a thing with its essence. More pertinently, it would mean denying, by an importance of thought, one of the most powerful and fruitful historical processes. And eve3n if one tried to turn an author's last stroke of the pen into the coup de grâce of is work, this still would not save that dead theory of translation. For just as the tenor and the significance of the great works of literature undergo a complete transformation over the centuries, the mother tongue of the translator is transformed as well. While a poet's words endure in his own language, even the greatest translation is destined to become part of the growth of its own language and eventually to be absorbed by its renewal. Translation is so far removed from being the sterile equation of two dead languages that of all literary forms it is the one charged with the special mission of watching over the maturing process of the original language and the birth pangs of its own.

6. [Benjamin talks about language 'kinship,' which to him is not a matter of likeness or identities of origin but in "intentionality." Nonetheless, words from two different languages are not 'interchangeable.'] this, to be sure, is to admit that all translation is only a somewhat provisional way of coming to terms with the foreignness of languages. An instant and final rather than a temporary and provisional solution of this foreignness remains out of the reach of mankind; at any rate, it eludes any direct attempt. Indirectly, however, the growth of religions ripens the hidden seed into a higher development of language. Although translation, unlike art, cannot claim permanence for its products, its goal is undeniably a final, conclusive, decisive stage of all linguistic creation. In translation the original rises into a higher and purer linguistic air, as it were. In cannot live there permanently, to be sure. [. . .] The transfer can never be total, but what reaches this region is that element in a translation which goes beyond transmittal of subject matter. This nucleus is best deigned as the element that does not lend itself to translation. Even when all the surface content has been extracted and transmitted, the primary concern of the genuine translator remains elusive. Unlike the words of the original, it is not translatable, because the relationship between content and language is quite different in the original and the translation. While content and language form a certain unity in the original, like a fruit and its skin, the language of the translation envelops its content like a royal robe with ample folds. For it signifies a more exalted language than its own and thus remains unsuited to its content, overpowering and alien. This disjunction prevents translation and at the same time makes it superfluous. For any translation of a work originating in a specific stage of linguistic history represents, in regard to a specific aspect of its content, translation into all other languages. Thus translation, ironically, transplants the original into a more definitive linguistic realm since it can no longer be displaced by a secondary rendering. The original can only be raised there anew and at other points of time. [. . .]

7. The task of the translator consists in finding that intended effect upon the language into which he is translating which produces in it the echo of the original. This is a feature of translation which basically differentiates it from the poet's work, because the effort of the latter is never directed at the language as such, at its totality, but solely and immediately at specific linguistic contextual aspects. [. . .] The traditional concepts in any discussion of translations are fidelity and license -- the freedom of faithful reproduction and, in its service, fidelity to the word. These ideas seem to be no longer serviceable to a theory that looks for other things in a translation than reproduction of a meaning. [Benjamin discusses the 'untranslatability' of connotation, etc.] Finally, it is self-evident how greatly fidelity in reproducing the form impedes the rendering of the sense. Thus no case for literalness can be based on a desire to retain the meaning. Meaning is served far better -- and literature and language far worse -- by the unrestrained license of bad translators. Of necessity, therefore, the demand for literalness, whose justification is obvious, whose legitimate ground is quite obscure, must be understood in a more meaningful context. Fragments of a vessel which are to be glued together must match one another in the smallest details, although they need not be like one another. In the same way a translation, instead of resembling the meaning of the original, must lovingly and in detail incorporate the original's mode of signification, thus making both the original and the translation recognizable as fragments of a greater language, just as fragments are part of a vessel [Benjamin here invokes the Kabbalistic doctrine of tsim-tsum, the breaking of the vessels and the gathering up of the 'sparks of light,' which will usher in Messianic time, one of Benjamin's life-long concerns]. In the realm of translation, too, the words 'in the beginning was the word' [Benjamin writes the Greek here] apply. On the other hand, as regards the meaning, the language of a translation can -- in fact, must -- let itself go, so that it gives voice to the intentio of the original not as reproduction but as harmony, as a supplement to the language in which it expresses itself, as its own kind of intentio. Therefore it is not the highest praise of a translation, particularly in the age of its origin, to say that it reads as if it had originally been written in that language. Rather, the significance of fidelity as ensured by literalness is that the work reflects the great longing for linguistic complementation. A real translation is transparent; it does not cover the original, doe snot black its light, but allows the pure language, as though reinforced by its own medium to shine upon the original all the more fully. This may be achieved, above all, by a literal rendering of the syntax which proves words rather than sentences to be the primary element of the translator. For if the sentence is the wall before the language of the original, literalness is the arcade.

8. Fidelity and freedom in translation have traditionally been regarded as conflicting tendencies. This deeper interpretation of the one apparently does not serve to reconcile the two; in fact, it seems to deny the other all justification. For what is meant by freedom but that the rendering of the sense is no longer to be regarded as all-important? Only if the sense of a linguistic creation may be equated with the information it conveys does some ultimate, decisive element remain beyond all communication -- quite close and yet infinitely remote, concealed or distinguishable, fragmented or powerful. In all language and linguistic creations there remains in addition to what can be conveyed something that cannot be communicated,; depending on the context in which it appears, it is something that symbolizes or something symbolized. It is the former only in the finite products of language, the latter in the evolving of the languages themselves. And that which seeks to represent, to produce itself in the evolving of languages, is hat very nucleus of pure language. Though concealed and fragmentary, it is an active force in life as the symbolized thing itself, whereas it inhabits linguistic creations only in symbolized form. While that ultimate essence, pure language, in the various tongues is tied only to linguistic elements and their changes, in linguistic creations it is weighted with a heavy, alien meaning. To relieve it of this, to turn the symbolizing into the symbolized, to regain pure language fully formed in the linguistic flux, is the tremendous and only capacity of translation. In this pure language -- which no longer means or expresses anything but is, as expressionless and creative Word, that which is meant in all languages -- all information, all sense, and all intention finally encounter a stratum in which they are destined to be extinguished. This very stratum furnishes a new and higher justification for free translation; this justification does not derive from the sense of what is to be conveyed, for the emancipation from this sense is the task of fidelity. Rather, for the sake of pure language, a free translation bases the test on its own language.. It is the task of the translator to release in his own language that pure language which is under the spell of another, to liberate the language imprisoned in a work in his re-creation of that work. For the sake of pure language he breaks through decayed barriers of his own language. [Here Benjamin talks about various German translators.]

9. The extent to which a translation manages to be in keeping with the nature of this mode is determined objectively by the translatability of the original. The lower the quality and distinction of its language, the larger the extent to which is information, the less fertile a field is it for translation, until the utter preponderance of content, far from being the lever for a translation of distinctive mode, renders it impossible. The higher the level of a work, the more does it remain translatable even if its meaning is touched upon only fleetingly. This, of course, applies to originals only. Translations, on the other hand, prove to be untranslatable not because of any inherent difficulty, but because of the looseness with which meaning attaches to them. Confirmation of this as well as of every other important aspect is supplied by Hölderlin's translations, particularly those of the two tragedies by Sophocles. In them the harmony of the languages is so profound that sense is touched by language only the way an aeolian harp is touch by the wind. Hölderlin's translations are prototypes of their kind; they are to even the most perfect renderings of their texts as a prototype is to a model. This can be demonstrated by comparing Hölderlin's and Rudolf Borchardt's translations of Pindar's Third Pythian Ode. For this very reason Hölderlin's translations in particular are subject to the enormous danger inherent in all translations: the gates of a language thus expanded and modified may slam shut and enclose the translator with silence. Hölderlin's translations from Sophocles were his last work; in them meaning plunges from abyss to abyss until it threatens to become lost in the bottomless depths of language. There is, however, a stop. It is vouchsafed to Holy Write alone, in which meaning has ceased to be the watershed for the flow of language and the flow of revelation. Where a text is identical with truth or dogma, where it is supposed to be "the true language" in all its literalness and without the mediation of meaning, this text is unconditionally translatable. In such case translations are called for only because of the plurality of languages. Just as, in the original, language and revelation are one without any tension, so the translation must be one with the original in the form of the interlinear version, in which literalness and freedom are united. For to some degree all great texts contain their potential translation between the lines; this is true to the highest degree of sacred writings. The interlinear version of the Scriptures is the prototype or ideal of all translation.

martes, agosto 14, 2007

DESPUÉS-ANTES / BEFORE-AFTER

*
11


10.Traducida: June Crouch
Desde: Sta Barbara, CA.


Before





After






After del after





:


Ever since I was a little girl, Mommy always told me to be nice and clean my room, clean my brother’s room, clean the kitchen & clean the bathroom. Desde niña pequeña mamá me decía que me comportara bien, que limpiara mi cuarto, lo de mi hermano, la cocina, el baño.


¿=?


Now I’m a big girl and I’ve come a long way, baby! I work all week and want to come home to a clean house, but first…. Ya que soy mujer ¡cuan lejos he viajado pa’ llegar acá! Trabajo toda la semana y quiero regresar a una casa limpia, pero primero…

I dance, I create, I play, I explore the many facets of myself. And my house? Well, sometimes I have a little time to clean. But mostly, I just play. Yo bailo, yo creo, yo juego, yo descubro mis muchos lados. ¿Y mi casa? Pues, de cuando en cuando tenga un ratito pa’ limpiarla. Sobre todo, yo nada más juego.

sábado, agosto 11, 2007

DESPUÉS-ANTES / BEFORE-AFTER

*
10


10.Traducida: Jeanna Heck
Desde: Sta Barbara, CA.


Before




After








:

Childhood Memories
Por Tim Bovee
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/childhood-memories-sung-to-the-tune-of-shawnee-w/

Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with green and growing things
Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with purple peonies
Mine is sere
Throughout the year
Nothing grows here

Some people have a childhood rainbow
A sea of colors all aglow
Some people have a childhood rainbow
Red to violet in a row
Mine is gray
Bow of clay
Without a ray

Some people have a childhood temple
Covered with a million treasured dreams
Some people have a childhood temple
A sunny Wat of Gods and kings
Mine is plain
Squats in the rain
Functional 'n sane

Where childhood memories abound
Life flows vividly around
Where childhood memories have fled
Hearts lie dead


Los recuerdos de mi niñez americana e ideal son muchos y, por lo general, dulces. Pasé la mayor parte de mis días leyendo libros, jugando con mi hermana en frente de nuestra casa, inventando historias con mis muñecas y pásandomelo chupi. Uno de mis pasatiempos favoritos en aquella época era montar en bicicleta. La bici era mi forma de transporte favorita para todo: ir a la escuela, investigar el barrio, ir a casa de mis amigos. Me encantaba la sensación de libertad que sentía cuando iba a toda velocidad por todas partes. Encima de ella yo era… una superheroína yendo a rescatar a un menospreciado… una doctora corriendo a toda prisa para salvar a un paciente enfermero… o simplemente una niña sin preocupaciones ni obligaciones disfrutando de la vida.




¿=?

Olvidada, dejada de lado. Ya no tengo tiempo para montar en bicicleta. Tengo demasiadas cosas que hacer.
Pobre bici… y pobre de mí.

NOCTURNO "B"
Por Carlos Pellicer
http://www.los-poetas.com/l/pellicer1.htm

No tengo tiempo de mirar las cosas
como yo lo deseo.
Se me escurren sobre la mirada,
y todo lo que veo
son esquinas profundas rotuladas con radio,
donde leo la ciudad para no perder tiempo.
Esta obligada prisa que inexorablemente
quiere entregarme el mundo con un dato pequeño.
Este mirar urgente y esta voz en sonrisa
para un joven que sabe morir por cada sueño.
No tengo tiempo de mirar las cosas,
casi las adivino.
Una sabiduría ingénita y celosa
me da miradas previas y repentinos trinos.
Vivo en doradas márgenes; ignoro el central gozo
de las cosas. Desdoblo siglos de oro en mi ser.
Y acelerando rachas -quilla o ala de oro-,
repongo el dulce tiempo que nunca he de tener.


HORARIO DE JEANNA HECK
EN EL INSTITUTO HISPÁNICO DE UCSB

05:45 h Despertarse
06:15 h Salir para el gimnasio con Pamela
06:30 h Hacer ejercicio en el ejercicio (en la bicicleta fija, con pesas,
en la piscina)
07:45 h Salir para la Uni
08:00 – 10:10 h Clase – Don Quijote
10:15-12:15 h Estudiar
12:30-13:45 h Almorzar con los estudiantes y profesores del Instituto
14:00-16:10 h Clase – Historia de España – s.XVIII-XX
16:30-17:00 h Tomar una siesta (necesito más fuerzas para sobrevivir
el resto del día)
17:00-17:25 h Estudiar
17:30-19:30 h Clase – Repaso para el examen: Lingüística
19:45-20:30 h Estudiar
20:30-20:45 h Cenar (estudio mientras como mi ensalada de mozarella y tomates)
20:45-23:15 h Estudiar
23:30 h Acostarme y dormirme (de inmediato)

lunes, agosto 06, 2007

TRADUCCIONES HOMOFÓNICAS

Jen Hofer, poeta, traductora y paramadrina homofónica trabajará
con ustedes y con nosotras en este maravilloso ejercicio poético:


Traducción homofónica

La poesía crea estructuras de entendimiento mucho más allá de los significados de las palabras. ¿Cuáles espacios se posibilitan cuando no entendemos el significado y nos abrimos a los sentidos de las palabras más allá de sus sentidos, a las maneras musicales y fonéticas de abarcar el lenguaje? Si consideramos la traducción como manera de habitar otro vocabulario, otra sintaxis, otras perspectivas lingüísticas y pensamientos poéticos, ¿cuáles estructuras podríamos construir cuando abandonemos por completo el uso normativo del lenguaje mientras damos la bienvenida a los sonidos y maniobras sintácticas del idioma ajeno? En el campo musical del idioma ajeno, nuestro propio idioma se vuelve extranjero: somos traducidos a través del oído.

Sin prestar atención al significado del original, traduce el sonido del poema al español, de manera que creas un texto que suena "igual" al original (por ejemplo: la palabra "loud" en inglés podría traducirse como "laúd" en español, o la frase "je ne sais pas" en francés podría traducirse como "llené la cepa"). Puedes permitirte cualquier elasticidad lingüística que te facilite la traducción, pero la idea es crear un texto homofónico, es decir, un texto que cuando se lee en voz alta, tiene el mismo sonido y/o música que el original.Consta que no hay que seguir las divisiones de las palabras. Por ejemplo, la frase "I don’t know" se puede traducir al español como "Ha ido o no".



Encontrarás más información (en inglés) acerca de la traducción homofónica, y algunos ejemplos, en:

http://writing.upenn.edu/bernstein/wreadiing-experiments.html http://www.languagehat.com/archives/000821.php

hay unos comentarios al respecto en español en:

http://www.celtiberia.net/verrespuesta.asp?idp=2052.

Se subirá otro texto a traducir homofónicamente cada quincena hasta el dos de noviembre Día de los Muertos (otra traducción, aunque menos homofónica).

Jen traducirá una selección de las traducciones homofónicas al inglés para ser publicadas en la revista de poesía en traducción Circumference


Envíanos tu participación a: amaranta.caballero@gmail.com




*


EJERCICIO/poema a traducir # 1


Det är något som inte är som det ska härinne.
Det är något skräckslaget
som inte kan ta sig ut härifrån.
Det är någonting som har givit vika
under mina fötter.
Det är någonting som har rämnat
över mitt huvud.
Det är någonting som sitter vid min huvudgärd
och hyperventilerar.
Det är någonting härinne
som går mig på nerverna.
Jag tror att det har uppstått ett livshotande
förståndslidande här i huset.
Jag tror att det är smittsamt.
Jag tror att jag måste akta mig
så att jag inte blir farlig.
Det måste finnas en rätsida.
Det måste finnas en nödlösning.
Det måste finnas en jourhavande låssmed.
Det måste finnas en utrymningsplan.
Det måste finnas en katastrofberedskap.



*





.

jueves, agosto 02, 2007

DESPUÉS-ANTES / BEFORE-AFTER

*
9


9.Traducida: Pamela Keindl
Desde: Sta Barbara, CA.


Before





After





:



To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful.
Agnes De Mille

El bailar es como estar fuera de sí mismo. Más grande, más bello, más poderoso.
Agnes de Mille


And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Y los que fueron vistos bailando, se les creía estar locos por los que no pudieron escuchar la música.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche



¿=?


The truest expression of a people is in its dance and in its music. Bodies never lie.
Agnes de Mille

La expresión más verdadera de un pueblo está en su baile y en su música. Los cuerpos nunca mienten.
Agnes de Mille

I see dance being used as communication between body and soul, to express what is too deep to find for words.
Ruth St. Denis

Veo el baile como una forma de comunicación entre el cuerpo y el alma, para expresar lo que es demasiado profundo para las palabras.
Ruth St. Denis