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13 Jun 2012 at 1:12 pm #1555
Wondering if any of you fine folks know of a handydandy, slim resource that provides translations of the Latin in Ulysses–maybe the French and German, too–and nothing more. Something along the lines of the Spanish translations someone out there (on here?) did for Blood Meridian. Something for a quick reference, as opposed to a thorough study like Gifford’s book of annotations.
Much obliged, either way.
13 Jun 2012 at 9:48 pm #1558
- This topic was modified 3 years, 1 month ago by willey.
Sorry, can’t help on the translation, but Happy Bloomsday everyone! We’re celebrating it here in Seoul with an all-day festival of music, poetry and, of course, selected readings from Ulysses. Oh, and allow me to sneakily wish Ireland good luck against Spain tonight! And I aint talking about Euro bail-outs.
14 Jun 2012 at 1:05 am #1559
Yep, I know that I’m early with the Bloomsday thing, but because of our festival and because of the fact that I’m Euro Championships sleep-deprived and because my days, much like the man in The Road, are uncalendered, I genuinely thought that today was the 16th. Mea Culpa; but tis a moveable feast.
14 Jun 2012 at 6:48 am #1560
cantona, I think you’re based in the UK: have you seen the Radio 4 production of Ulysses on Saturday, in seven parts?
I aim to listen to some of them, maybe all if they’re available on i-Player.
EDIT: having read your previous post, I now see you’re in Seoul. Which is a bit sarf of Landaan.
14 Jun 2012 at 10:38 am #1562
- This reply was modified 3 years, 1 month ago by robmcinroy.
Rob, Yeah, a little bit Sarf but still on the same wavelength. Thanks for the BBC Ulysses link-I’ll try and listen in. Our little festival in Seoul has just finished and, as mentioned above, turned into an eclectic celebration of Irish Lit. I read the following poem – no reason to share it with you fellow Cormackians other than a Bloom-like desire to pass on its healing majesty:
A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford
Let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels
Seferis — ‘Mythistorema’
For J.G. Farrell
Even now there are places where a thought might grow —
Peruvian mines, worked out and abandoned
To a slow clock of condensation,
An echo trapped forever, and a flutter
Of wildflowers in the lift-shaft,
Indian compounds where the wind dances
And a door bangs with diminished confidence,
Lime crevices behind rippling rainbarrels,
Dog corners for bone burials;
And a disused shed in Co. Wexford,
Deep in the grounds of a burnt-out hotel,
Among the bathtubs and the washbasins
A thousand mushrooms crowd to a keyhole.
This is the one star in their firmament
Or frames a star within a star.
What should they do there but desire?
So many days beyond the rhododendrons
With the world waltzing in its bowl of cloud,
They have learnt patience and silence
Listening to the rooks querulous in the high wood.
They have been waiting for us in a foetor
Of vegetable sweat since civil war days,
Since the gravel-crunching, interminable departure
of the expropriated mycologist.
He never came back, and light since then
Is a keyhole rusting gently after rain.
Spiders have spun, flies dusted to mildew
And once a day, perhaps, they have heard something —
A trickle of masonry, a shout from the blue
Or a lorry changing gear at the end of the lane.
There have been deaths, the pale flesh flaking
Into the earth that nourished it;
And nightmares, born of these and the grim
Dominion of stale air and rank moisture.
Those nearest the door growing strong —
‘Elbow room! Elbow room!’
The rest, dim in a twilight of crumbling
Utensils and broken flower-pots, groaning
For their deliverance, have been so long
Expectant that there is left only the posture.
A half century, without visitors, in the dark —
Poor preparation for the cracking lock
And creak of hinges. Magi, moonmen,
Powdery prisoners of the old regime,
Web-throated, stalked like triffids, racked by drought
And insomnia, only the ghost of a scream
At the flashbulb firing squad we wake them with
Shows there is life yet in their feverish forms.
Grown beyond nature now, soft food for worms,
They lift frail heads in gravity and good faith.
They are begging us, you see, in their wordless way,
To do something, to speak on their behalf
Or at least not to close the door again.
Lost people of Treblinka and Pompeii!
‘Save us, save us,’ they seem to say,
‘Let the god not abandon us
Who have come so far in darkness and in pain.
We too had our lives to live.
You with your light meter and relaxed itinerary,
Let not our naive labours have been in vain!
14 Jun 2012 at 10:42 am #156315 Jun 2012 at 3:35 am #1570
Beautiful. (the Mahon poem, not Ireland’s humiliatingly amateur performance last night)
DowdyQuote15 Jun 2012 at 7:11 am #1571
I’m pretty sure Gifford has you covered with all of the above.
EDIT…I’m a bit sleep deprived as well and just realized you specified OTHER than Gifford. But is there really something like that other than the Gifford book? It goes for about ten dollars used now on amazon marketplace and likely Abe has older editions at a lower price.
Maybe this from Columbia on the web…
I have never found a text on par with Gifford’s nor a slimmer one. No doubt other Joyce scholars here can help.
16 Jun 2012 at 9:18 am #158318 Jun 2012 at 7:40 am #1590
Smaevans – twasn’t me looking for the annotations, twas Willey above, but thanks anyway! I have my mammoth Penguin annotated students’ edition of Ulysses on my shelf, still bearing the two bookmarks I used to obsessively read every single note as I read the text a few years back.
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