Edgar Alan Poe, Sonnet—To Science (and French rendering by Stéphane Mallarmé)

(image source: ebooks, adelaide)
no copyright infringement intended

a swan song of romanticism in front of the inexpiable march of science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
   Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
   Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
   Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
   Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
   And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
   Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

(source: poetry foundation)

Science, tu es la vraie fille du vieux temps,

qui changes toutes choses pour ton œil scrutateur.

Pourquoi fais-tu ta proie ainsi du cœur du poète.

Vautour dont les ailes sont de ternes réalités ?

Comment t’aimerait-il ? ou te jugerait-il sage,

toi qui ne le laisserait point, dans la promenade de son vol,

chercher un trésor dans les cieux pleins de joyaux,

encore qu’il y soit monté d’une aile indomptée.

N’as-tu pas arraché Diane à son char ?

et chassé du bois l’Hamadryade

qui cherche un refuge dans quelque plus heureux astre ?

N’as-tu pas banni de son flot la Naïade, du vert gazon, l’Elfe

et moi des rêves d’été sous le tamarin.

(traduction en prose par Stéphane Mallarmé, Léon Vanier, libraire-éditeur)
(source: wikipedia)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

Edgar Allan Poe: To F...

(source: Café Literário)
no copyright infringement intended

Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path-
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)-
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea-
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storms- but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.

(source: Poetry Lovers Page)

(video by The Library Books 1)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

Catalan Universe: Edgar Allan Poe, un Somni dins d'un Somni

(http://bibliocolors.blogspot.com/2013_05_26_archive.html)
no copyright infringement intended

en una nit o en un dia,
en una visió o fora d'ella,
És per això menys anada?
Tot el que veiem o semblem
no és més que un somni en un somni.

Jo em mantinc en el rugit
d'una ribera turmentada per les ones,
i destret a la mà
grans de sorra d'or.
Que pocs i com s'escorren
entre els meus dits a l'abisme,
mentre ploro, mentre ploro!
Oh Déu !, no puc jo estrecharlos
amb més cenyit puny?
Oh, Déu !, no puc salvar
ni un, de la despietada onada?
Tot el que veiem o semblem
no és més que un somni dins d'un somni?

(Edgar Allan Poe)

(Catalan Universe)

(Una Vida Entre Libros)

Edgar Allan Poe: A Dream Within A Dream

A Dream Within A Dream
(http://blingee.com/blingee/view/130763388-A-Dream-Within-a-Dream)
no copyright infringement intended

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

(http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/237388)

(video by Poetry and Prose)

Laisse-moi t'embrasser sur le front
Et maintenant que je te quitte,
Laisse-moi t'avouer ceci:
Tu n'as pas tort, toi qui estimes
Que mes jours ont été un rêve;
Mais si l'espoir s'est envolé
En une nuit, ou en un jour,
Dans une vision, ou dans aucune,
N'a-t-il pas moins disparu?
Tout ce que nous voyons ou paraissons
N'est qu'un rêve dans un rêve.

Me voilà au milieu du bruit
Des vagues s'échouant sur la rive,
Et je tiens dans la main
Des grains de sable d'or;
Si peu! Mais ils me glissent
Des doigts jusqu'à l'âbime,
Tandis que je pleure, tandis que je pleure!
O Dieu! Ne puis-je les saisir
D'une étreinte plus sûre!
O Dieu! Ne puis-je les sauver
De la vague impitoyable?
Tout ce que nous voyons ou paraissons
N'est-il qu'un rêve dans un rêve?

(traduit par Stéphane Chabrières)

(https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/p/poe/edgar_allan/p74p/poem68.html)
no copyright infringement intended

Toma este beso en tu frente!
Y, en el momento de abandonarte,
déjame confesarte lo siguiente:
no te equivocas cuando consideras
que mis días han sido un sueño;
y si la esperanza se ha desvanecido
en una noche o en un día,
en una visión o fuera de ella,
¿es por ello menos ida?
Todo lo que vemos o parecemos
no es más que un sueño en un sueño.

Yo permanezco en el rugido
de una ribera atormentada por las olas,
y aprieto en la mano
granos de arena de oro.
¡Qué pocos y cómo se escurren
entre mis dedos al abismo,
mientras lloro, mientras lloro!
¡Oh Dios!, ¿no puedo yo estrecharlos
con más ceñido puño?
¡Oh, Dios!, ¿no puedo salvar
ni uno, de la despiadada ola?
¿Todo lo que vemos o parecemos
no es más que un sueño dentro de un sueño?

(http://www.dim.uchile.cl/~anmoreir/escritos/poe.html#adream)

music: Les mémoires blessées by Dark Sanctuary
(video by Alex Albornoz)

Tome este beijo sobre tua fronte!

E, desvencilhando-me de ti agora,

Permita-me confessar -

Não erras, ao supor

Que meus dias têm sido um sonho;

Ainda se a esperança esvaiu-se

Numa noite, ou num dia,

Numa visão, ou em nenhuma,

Tudo aquilo que vemos ou nos parece

Nada mais é do que um sonho dentro de um sonho.

Permaneço em meio ao bramido

Da costa atormentada pelas ondas,

E seguro em minha mão

Grãos dourados de areia-

Quão poucos! e contudo como arrepiam

Por entre meus dedos às profundezas,

Enquanto choro-enquanto choro!

Oh Deus! não posso eu segurá-los

De punho mais firme?

Oh Deus! não posso salvar

Um único da onda impiedosa?

Tudo aquilo que vemos ou nos parece

Nada mais é do que um sonho dentro de um sonho.

(http://psicologiarg.blogspot.com/2008/08/um-sonho-dentro-de-um-sonho-edgar-allan.html)

(video by jose brum)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

(La Española - or Hispaniola)

Florent Schmitt: Le Palais Hanté (after Poe)

(http://poeforward.blogspot.com/2012/04/haunted-palace-published-1839.html)
no copyright infringement intended

The works of Poe were highly important in the literary life of turn-of-the-century France. Baudelaire translated his tales. Mallarmé put a collection of his poems into French; and it is not unreasonable to claim that Poe's are among the few works to gain, rather than lose, in translation.
His appeal was twofold. First, his haunting tales foreshadowed the inward-looking, psychologically probing movement emerging in Expressionist art and literature. Second, they are riddled with symbols, whether unconscious or not.. Not for nothing, did Princess Marie Bonaparte, a pupil of Freud, devote a massive book to interpreting Poe's work in terms of Freudian symbolism.
The symphonic prelude by Florent Schmitt (1870-1958) on Poe's poem The Haunted Palace was composed between 1900 and 1904. It is firmly in the post-Lisztian tradition of orchestral symphonic poems, with its mixture of tonally rootless sections and clearer melodies. The listener may muse on the various possible musical corollaries Schmitt creates to the several musical allusions in Poe's poem.

(Richard Langham Smith)

Florent Schmitt, Étude pour Le palais hanté, Op.49, 1904
Lent - Assez animé - Presque lent - Animé
The Monte-Carlor Philharmonic Orchestra. Georges Prêtre, conductor
(video by christomacin)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

(Florent Schmitt)

Poe and Longfellow: The Feud of Two Poems

H.W.Longfellow to R.W.Griswold
autographed letter, Sept, 28, 1850
(image from Longfellow’s Serenity and Poe’s Prediction)
no copyright infringement intended

The letter in the image above is one of the documents related to an unfortunate feud between two great poets: Edgar Allan Poe and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Each one great in his own way, both very different each other in all respects. The feud regarded two poems: The Haunted Palace, of Poe, and The Beleaguered City of Longfellow, each of the two poets  being accused of plagiarizing the other one.

The conflict had much deeper causes. Both poets were New Englanders, but Poe was the rebellious guy incessantly attacking the Bostonian cultural establishment, as he was determined to forge for himself an identity of his own, while Longfellow was totally the embodiment of that establishment, even more, its Pontifex Maximus. The lack of any mutual empathy came naturally.

To set things straight, the two poets did not not behave the same in this dispute. Poe accused Longfellow, who never responded. It was Rufus Wilmot Griswold (a noted anthologist, editor, and literary critic) who accused Poe of plagiarizing Longfellow.

After all, who plagiarized whom? Scholars still debate it, and the matter will never be settled for sure, as it is about using the same idea, better said, treating the same motif from different perspectives. The frailty of human spirit, mercilessly beleaguered by inner demons - and to strengthen the idea, the allegory of a palace or a city haunted by the forces of the dark. Longfellow  brings here a splendid Christian optimism - we are not alone in this ghastly struggle: after night darkness the morning light comes, and the morning sound of church bell tells us about the living community of church on heaven and earth, the band of brothers. For Poe the perspective is tragic: it's done, we are after the fall, condemned to carry our demons for ever. Poe would later embed his poem within the Fall of the House of Usher.

Which one I liked most? To understand the American soul, you need to understand both. And, as you know, there is a time for everything, there is a time for hope, also a time for despair. Here are both, Poe's and Longfellow's.

image from ...feuilleton...
a journal by artist and designer John Coulthart
cataloguing interests, obsessions and passing enthusiasms
no copyright infringement intended

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace-reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This-all this-was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!-for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh-but smile no more.

(http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/eapoe/bl-eapoe-haunted.htm)

The Haunted Palace read by Sir Christopher Lee
(video by Nick Paulsen)

-------------------------------------------------------------

illustration from Longfellow’s Poetical Works - With 83 Illustrations
by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., and Other Artists
Author’s Copyright Edition - George Routledge and Sons - 1883
(http://www.gtfmm.com/html/beleageured_city.html)
no copyright infringement intended

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep churchbell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

(http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/hwlongfellow/bl-hwl-vo-bele.htm)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

(Longfellow)

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
Quarter-plate daguerreotype taken by William Abbott Pratt in Richmond, VA, September 1849
source: Sotheby's
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Edgar_Allan_Poe_by_Pratt,_1849.jpg)
no copyright infringement notice

William Pratt opened the Virginia Sky Light Daguerrean Gallery in Richmond in 1846, seven years after the daguerreotype was introduced into the United States. As Pratt related the history of this portrait to the St. Louis writer Thomas Dimmock, Poe had never fulfilled a promise he had once made to pose for Pratt until writer and photographer encountered one another on the street in front of the latter's shop in mid-September 1849. Poe, arguing that he was not suitably dressed, was coaxed upstairs and photographed.

(Columbia University Library)

Pratt made two daguerreotypes, traditionally known as the Thompson and the Traylor.

(Edgar Allan Poe, portraits, daguerreotypes, Michael J. Deas, Early Derivatives, William Abbott Pratt)

The two daguerreotypes Pratt made of Poe in this sitting are the last to have been made of the writer before his death in Baltimore in October 1849.

(wiki)

• Following the Raven in Baltimore
• Poe and Longfellow: The Feud of Two Poems
• Florent Schmitt: Le Palais Hanté (after Poe)
• Intalniri neasteptate cu Romani - Ion Barbu
• Intalniri neasteptate cu romani: Petre Solomon
• A Dream Within A Dream
• Catalan Universe: Edgar Allan Poe, un Somni dins d'un Somni
• To F...
• Sonnet - To Science

(A Life in Books)

(Boston)

(Baltimore)

Sonet de Bacovia

(http://misterpaint93.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html)

E-o noapte uda, grea, te-neci afara.
Prin ceata – obosite, rosii, fara zare –
Ard, afumate, triste felinare
Ca intr-o crasma umeda, murdara.

Prin mahalali mai neagra noaptea pare,
Sivoaie-n case triste inundara,
S-auzi tusind – o tusa-n sec, amara –
Prin ziduri vechi ce stau in daramare.

Ca Edgar Poe ma reintorc spre casa
Ori ca Verlaine topit de bautura –
Si-n noaptea asta de nimic nu-mi pasa.

Apoi, cu pasi de-o nostima masura,
Prin intuneric bajbaiesc prin casa,
Si cad, recad, si nu mai tac din gura.

(postat de Nicole in http://agonia.ro/index.php/poetry/79721/index.html)

Sonnet form: abba baab cdc dcd

(George Bacovia)

Following the Raven in Baltimore

(musical background: Reverie, by Debussy)

The spirit of E.A. Poe is flowing in Baltimore; you feel his presence on the streets, along the walls, carried by the wind in front of old churches, then stepping by for a little while in the small bookshop on Charles Street. A Poe exhibition is on view at Enoch Pratt Library these days: old photos of the writer, manuscripts, letters, princeps editions, memorabilia. And a splendid translation into French, made by Baudelaire.

So it started my day in Baltimore, under the sign of Poe, and of the Raven, at Pratt Library, and so it ended, at Theatre Project, late in the afternoon (but I'll come later to it).

Meanwhile I walked on the streets all day long: there was a huge festival, with lots of people, and tents, and food, and all kind of artistry, and fun.





It was very hot and the sun was pitiless. But that was not the main problem with me: my photo-camera was playing nasty, as the batteries were working only now and then. I managed to record a video at Pratt Library, and then these two photos, and that was almost all.

Was it that they were not properly charged? Was it that the sun was without mercy for my head? Or was it the spell of the Raven? Maybe so, and I realized that when I took the stairs up to the entrance of Theatre Project, to watch an experimental performance: a puppet show where the Raven was telling the life of Poe! Splendid theater, splendid show, splendid performers, full of youth, and enthusiasm, and talent.

As I was not able to use my camera there, I'll give you here just the link to the leader of the theatrical show: Will Haza. He made a great impression on me. It was as I was living again in my young years, when I was so crazy about all forms of experimental theater. I had been in Prague and I knew about heir puppeteers there. Believe me, here at Theatre Project it was like being again in Prague of my youth!

(Baltimore)

(Claude Debussy)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

Intalniri neasteptate cu Romani - Ion Barbu

Castigate pulsuri, camp de sabii. Tencuirii-sclave garantii,
Lege egaland lunula navii Tamplelor de apa ce retii ;
Aule, exalte stari concave Din rapita clima — Edgar Poe.
Orgi ! Si locuind aceste grabe ! Cer induit, strain ca un halou

(Ion Barbu - O Insurupare in Maelstrom)

Am fost zilele acestea la Baltimore (imaginea din fotografie pare ciudata - fotograful a realizat-o prin joc de lentile) si am ajuns la mormantul lui Edgar Alan Poe. Micul cimitir apartine unei vechi biserici presbiteriene devenita azi sala de concerte.

(http://www.timeoutofmind.com/images/home_page_images/edgar_allan_poe_grave_1_110705.jpg)
no copyright infringement intended

Voi incerca sa revin pe 17 ianuarie, aniversarea nasterii lui Poe. Cineva m-a intrebat care este explicatia interesului meu pentru el. Ei, dintr-una din cartile lui am invatat multa engleza.

Si apoi sunt versurile lui Ion Barbu, care reiau Coborarea in Maelstrom. Le tineam minte de demult, insa vad acum ca le stiam gresit. Tineam minte asa:

Fulgerate pulsuri, camp de sabii. Tencuielii-roabe garantii,
Lege egaland lunula navii Tamplelor de apa ce retii ;
Aule, exalte stari concave Din extrema clima — Edgar Poe.
Orgi ! Si locuind aceste grabe ! Cer induit, strain ca un halou

Iar acum vreo doua saptamani am ascultat si A Descent to Maelstrom, a lui Philip Glass. Replici schimbate in timp, Poe, Barbu, Glass...

Eram deci in Baltimore, iar gandul imi sarea de la Poe la Barbu la Glass. Am vizitat dupa aceea Fells Point, un cartier marinaresc fabulos, cum nu am mai vazut in alte orase americane pe unde am fost, iar spre seara, prietenii la care fusesem invitat mi-au aratat un album cu poze facute de ei in Romania. Am revazut Caru' cu bere, apoi Biserica Stavropoleos, apoi Biserica Kretzulescu, apoi alte poze, din Suceava, din Mihaileni, din Piatra Neamt, Cheile Bicazului, Hotelul Coroana din Brasov...



(Intalniri neasteptate cu Romani)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

Întâlniri neașteptate cu români: Petre Solomon

Anticariatul de pe Charles Street avea acelasi rafinament straniu pe care il avea tot centrul istoric al Baltimorelui. Imaginea lui Edgar Allan Poe ma urmarea cu privirea de pe unul dintre pereti. Anticariatul (Clayton Fine Books) avea un barulet cu cafele, prajituri si sandvisuri, intrai apoi printre rafturile cu carti si reviste aflate in aceeasi varietate si aceeasi neoranduiala fascinanta pe care o gaseai in orice anticariat american, dar clientii erau cei mai interesanti - cei mai multi erau tineri, pareau studenti - clientii batrani pareau si ei niste eterni studenti, unii din ei usor neglijenti sau poate chiar jerpeliti o idee, altii imbracati o idee bizar. Anticarul era un om cam de varsta mea, care parea o copie usor imbatranita a personajului de pe perete. Eram in universul lui Edgar Allan Poe.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.`
'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.

Si deodata imi veneau in minte versurile asa cum le cunoscusem prima oara, in talmacirea romaneasca,

Intr-un miez de noapte crincen, pe cind - ostenit si linced -
Meditam peste vechi tomuri - o, uitat e tilcul lor! -
Mi-a parut, ca-n vis, ca bate cineva la usa:
„Poate E vreun oaspe ce se-abate pe la mine-ntimplator,
Da, un oaspe care bate-n usa mea, incetisor."
Mi-am soptit, increzator.

Veneam a nu stiu cata oara in Baltimore, in cautarea universului lui Edgar Allan Poe, pe care ma obisnuisem sa il gasesc in anticariatul de pe Charles Street - si ca de fiecare data gandul la Poe se asocia cu gandul la talmacitorul lui in romana.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

Gindul, vai, ma mai petrece spre acel Dechemvre rece
Cind taciunii pareau stafii alungite pe covor.
Zorii-i asteptam cu sete: nici un tom vreun leac nu-mi dete
Ca sa uit de moartea fetei, careia-i spuneau Lenore
Insisi ingerii - frumoasa, luminoasa mea Lenore,
Dusa-n vecii vecilor!

Se spune de obicei traduttore - traditore, dar Petre Solomon a talmacit in romaneste fara sa tradeze spiritul celor tradusi - a intrat in universul fiecaruia, si i-a retrait pe fiecare dintre ei - si a fost pe rand Mark Twain si Graham Greene, Iuhan Smuul si Walter Scott, Ray Bradbury si Jack London, Herman Melville, Shelley, Rimbaud, Milton, si atatia altii. A fost Ivanhoe al lui Sir Walter Scott, crezandu-se indragostit de domnita Rowena, fara sa stie cat de tare o iubea pe Rebecca, a fost capitanul Ahab, obsedat de Moby Dick, a calatorit impreuna cu Iuhan Smuul pe gheturile Antarcticei, a fost obsedat de Paradisul care l-a obsedat si pe John Milton, si a fost rascolit de amintirea Lenorei, rascolindu-ne si pe noi.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating`
'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,

Purpuriile perdele, cu fosninde catifele,
Ma faceau, ca niciodata, in adinc sa ma-nfior,
Incit repetam intr-una, pentru-a potoli furtuna
Inimii, zvicnind nebuna: „E vreun oaspe doritor
Sa-l primesc la mine-n casa, - vreun prieten trecator.
De ce-as fi banuitor?"

L-am cunoscut prima oara pe Petre Solomon din traducerea pe care a facut-o unei carti pe care am recitit-o de atatea ori in anii copilariei, Comoara din Insula, a lui Robert Louis Stevenson. Peste ani, cand aveam sa ma apuc sa invat englezeste, am cumparat o editie in engleza. Si am ramas fermecat de comparatia dintre textul original si talmacirea facuta de Petre Solomon.

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow – a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over his shoulders of his soiled blue coat...

Chiar asa imi placea sa ma gandesc la cel care scrisese cartea, cu cuvintele din talmacirea in romaneste:

Imi amintesc de parca ar fi fost ieri, cum a venit miscandu-se greoi spre poarta hanului, urmat de un baietel care ii cara cufarul marinaresc intr-o roaba. Era un om inalt si voinic, oaches, epoletul murdarit de gudron ii atarna de pe mantaua lui soioasa...

Oare cine era in realitate batranul lup de mare adastat la hanul Amiral Benbow, sa fi fost autorul, Robert Louis Stevenson, sau cel care imi daduse putinta sa citesc cartea in romaneste? Sau poate ca Petre Solomon era dimpotriva, aidoma doctorului Livesey, unul din ceilalti eroi ai cartii?

Am avut ocazia sa il vad peste cativa ani. Eram la Ateneu impreuna cu parintii mei, in pauza cineva ni l-a aratat, el e Petre Solomon. Am tresarit, eram de acum destul de mare si stiam numele celui care tradusese Treasure Island. Puteam sa imi inchipui ca intr-o zi voi rataci prin Baltimore, cautand spiritul lui Edgar Allan Poe si amintindu-mi mereu de cel care-l talmacise in romaneste?

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you'
- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Cind mi-am mai venit in fire, spus-am fara sovaire:
„Domnule, sau poate Doamna, sa ma ierti, eu te implor:
Somnul imi dadea tircoale, cind bataia dumitale
Se-auzi, atit de moale si atit de-nselator,
C-am crezut ca mi se pare..." Si-am deschis, netemator,
Beznei ce pindea-n pridvor.

Am revenit peste cateva saptamani in Baltimore. Am intrat din nou in anticariatul de pe Charles Street. Am gasit o editie in limba engleza a lui Paul Celan. Am staruit asupra ei, pana la urma nu am cumparat-o, am ales alta carte si mi-am zis ca voi cumpara versurile lui Celan data viitoare. Insa data viitoare aveam sa aflu ca volumul fusese vandut.

Aveam sa il reintalnesc pe Paul Celan, si odata cu acesta pe Petre Solomon, in paginile unei carti care mi-a fost daruita la Bucuresti: cartea Feliciei Antip, Aventuri ale constiintei de sine. Unul din capitole este dedicat lui Paul Celan si lui Petre Solomon. Stiam de prietenia dintre ei, auzisem de filmul documentar facut de Alexandru Solomon (fiul lui Petre), Duo pentru Paoloncel si Petronom­ - nu am avut ocazia sa il vad - insa capitolul din cartea Feliciei Antip este cu totul altceva - ca si Ryszard Kapuscinski (despre ale carui carti va trebui sa vorbesc cat de curand, inainte de orice despre The Soccer War) - amandoi sunt jurnalisti de mare calitate - amandoi uita cateodata ca sunt jurnalisti si atunci devin scriitori extraordinari. Capitolul consacrat lui Paul Celan si Petre Solomon este un asemenea caz - Felicia i-a recreat pe Celan si Solomon, care au devenit personajele ei si povestea lor este extraordinara. Nu este singurul capitol al cartii in care Felicia uita ca este jurnalista - unii cititori ai ei au fost nedumeriti de amanunte care li s-au parut inexacte ale unor biografii prezentate in carte - numai ca ei uita ca Aventuri ale constiintei de sine este de fapt universul Feliciei, populat de biografii ale eroilor ei, Celan, si Petre Solomon, si Philip Roth, si Henry Roth, devin eroii ei - cartea Feliciei este un univers populat cu autori care scriu la randul lor carti in care nu odata eroii sunt autori la randul lor - Aventuri ale constiintei de sine nu este o colectie de biografii, chiar de biografii pe marginea carora Felicia mediteaza - este altceva - este un univers de visuri recurente.

In cartea Feliciei l-am raintalnit pe Petre Solomon inca odata, cu versiunea romaneasca a Tangoului Mortii a lui Paul Celan - din cartea Feliciei am aflat ca Tangoul Mortii a aparut pentru prima oara in romaneste, inainte ca originalul german sa fie publicat.

Laptele negru din zori il bem cind e seara
il bem la amiaz il bem si la noapte
il bem si il bem
sapam o groapa 'n vazduh si nu va fi strimta
Un om sta in casa se joaca cu serpii si scrie
el scrie 'n amurg in Germania, Aurul parului tau
Margareta
scrie si iese in prag scapara stelele 'n cer el isi
fluiera ciini
evrei-i si-i fluiera el porunca le da ca sa sape o
groapa 'n tarina porunca ne da sa cintam
pentru dans

Laptele negru din zori te bem cind e noapte
la amiaza te bem te sorbim dimineata si seara
te bem si te bem
Un om sta in casa se joaca cu serpii si scrie
el scrie 'n amurg in Germania Aurul parului tau
Margareta
Cenusa parului tau Sulamith o groapa sapam in
vazduh si nu va fi strimta
El striga sapati mai adinc iar ceilalti cintati
arma o 'nsfaca, o flutura, albastrii i-s ochii
sapati mai adinc iar ceilalti cintati pentru dans mai
departe

Laptele negru din zori te bem cind e noapte
te bem la amiaza si seara te bem
te bem si te bem
un om sta in casa, aurul parului tau Margareta
cenusa parului tau Sulamith el se joaca cu serpii

El striga cintati mai blajin despre moarte caci
moartea-i un mester german
el striga plimbati un arcus mai cetos pe viori veti
creste ca fumul atunci
veti zace 'ntr'o groapa in nori si nu va fi strimta

Laptele negru din zori te bem cind e noapte
te bem la amiaz e moartea un mester german
te bem dimineata si seara te bem si te bem
e moartea un mester german albastrii i-s ochii
cu plumbul te improasca din plin si adinc te loveste
un om sta in casa aurul parului tau Margareta
cinii spre noi si-i asmute ne daruie-o groapa 'n
vazduh
se joaca cu serpii visind e moartea un mester german

aurul parului tau Margareta
cenusa parului tau Sulamith.


Aveam apoi sa dau si de versiunea originala, Todesfuge - Edelina Stoian a gasit adresa pe web si ne-a pus-o la dispozitie noua, prietenilor ei de pe lista virtuala de vorbe si palavre de prin toate colturile Pamantului:

wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lueften da liegt man nicht eng
ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit dem Schlangen der
schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes
Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er
pfeift siene Rueden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor laesst schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz

Schwarze Milch der Fruehe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der
schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes
Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den
Lueften da liegt man nicht eng

Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singt und
spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingt seine Augen sind
blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum
Tanz auf

Schwarze Milch der Fruehe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen

Er ruft spielt suesser den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus
Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in
die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng

Schwarze Milch der Fruehe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus
Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rueden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und traeumet der Tod ist ein Meister
aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margaretedein aschenes Haar Sulamith


(Intalniri neasteptate cu Romani)

(Edgar Allan Poe)

(Petre Solomon)