Vasile Voiculescu–Sonnet CLXXIII

I’ve hit a translation slump lately. I blame the holidays, filled with delicious food, delightful guests–family and friends–and all sorts of merriment and excitement. So, every time I tried to sit down and translate some new material, nothing came out right, and after a half hour or so I would quit in disgust.

Last night, after the carbohydrate daze had somewhat dissipated and the last guests had long been gone, I finally had a chance to sit down and concentrate a little better on a text. I wouldn’t say I’m back en pleine forme, as the results are somewhat modest, but at least I’m back in the saddle!

I chose to translate a sonnet by Vasile Voiculescu from his volume Ultimele sonete închipuite ale lui Shakespeare în traducere imaginara de Vasile Voiculescu ("Shakespeare’s Last Imagined Sonnets, in the fictional translation of V. Voiculescu"), which he wrote in the 1950s.

After I translated this, I found out that there is a bilingual edition of this volume published in Romania, which I don’t have, and I expect it’s in Romanian and English (rather than any other pair of languages). I also found a translation of this very sonnet here; the English is soooo painful I’d rather not read it again, but by all means, go there and compare.

First, I’m going to  give you the Romanian original and its literal translation:

CLXXIII de Vasile Voiculescu Te mistuie iubirea? Credeai că-i o păpuşă, Să-ţi faci un joc cu toane, ca în copilărie. Când ea-ţi cerea o fire de salamandră vie, În tainica-i văpaie să arzi făr’ de cenuşă. Ea nu stă-n trup, stăpână a cărnii şi-a plăcerii, Înflăcăratu-i spirit, urgie, le consumă; Îşi cată-n noi duh geamăn… şi, de-l îmbii cu humă, Rămâi o biată urnă cu zgurile durerii… Te ispiteşte jindul să-mbraci şi fericirea Cum pui, pentru petreceri, o rochie de brocarte? Dar trebuie-nfruntată cu spaimă, ca o moarte… Căci ea, ca să pătrundă, îţi sparge-alcătuirea, Preface în genune lăuntrul tău, anume Ca să încapă-acolo, cu ea, întreaga lume.

CLXXIII by Vasile Voiculescu Are you being consumed by love? You though it was a doll, So you can make up a game on a whim, like in your childhood. While she was asking you to be a live salamander So you can burn in her secret flame and leave no ashes. She does not stay in your body, mistress of flesh and pleasure, Her fiery spirit, a scourge, consumes them both; She seeks for her twin soul within us….and if you tempt her with dust [=flesh/body], You’ll remain a poor urn filled with the slag of pain…. Does your lust tempt you to dress up your happiness, The same way you put on a brocade dress for parties? But she must be faced with dread, as if she’s death… For she, to penetrate, breaks down your mold, It turns your inside into an abyss, precisely So that she and the whole world will fit within

The original is obviously different from the classic Shakespearean sonnets in several regards: 1) the lines are 14 rather than 10 syllables; 2) the rhyme pattern is different: (a) (b) (b) (a) — (c) (d) (d) (c) etc, rather than (a) (b) (a) (b) — (c) (d) (c) (d) etc. Otherwise, the iambs are still there, as are the two last defining lines, and the general theme (the pangs of love).

The extent of my damage should be fully apparent below. I had a hard time compressing 14 syllables into 10 and preserving the rhyme pattern. I had to cut chunks of ideas or rephrase them to make it sound like a sonnet.

I debated whether I should archaize the translation (you know, all sorts of "thou," "thy," "shalt" and "doth"). But, given that this sonnet is quasi-contemporary and does not use archaisms in Romanian, and that it doesn’t generally conform to a T to the Shakespearean form, I felt it wasn’t necessary. After all, it’s not a pastiche after Shakespeare, it’s a translation of a Romanian poem.

CLXXIII de Vasile Voiculescu Te mistuie iubirea? Credeai că-i o păpuşă, Să-ţi faci un joc cu toane, ca în copilărie. Când ea-ţi cerea o fire de salamandră vie, În tainica-i văpaie să arzi făr’ de cenuşă. Ea nu stă-n trup, stăpână a cărnii şi-a plăcerii, Înflăcăratu-i spirit, urgie, le consumă; Îşi cată-n noi duh geamăn… şi, de-l îmbii cu humă, Rămâi o biată urnă cu zgurile durerii… Te ispiteşte jindul să-mbraci şi fericirea Cum pui, pentru petreceri, o rochie de brocarte? Dar trebuie-nfruntată cu spaimă, ca o moarte… Căci ea, ca să pătrundă, îţi sparge-alcătuirea,       Preface în genune lăuntrul tău, anume       Ca să încapă-acolo, cu ea, întreaga lume.

CLXXIII by Vasile Voiculescu Is love a flame? You thought it was a doll, To play with, like a child, with fickle glee, A salamander she wants you to be, Devour’d by the same flame in which you fall. She is the cruel mistress of the flesh, And pleasure, as her spirit both consumes; Twin soul she seeks in our heart’s frail bloom… Don’t tempt her, or you’ll end up in her mesh, A slag-filled urn of pain. Does your lust claim To dress your joy as though a party dress? You dread her like she’s death and nothing less… For, to succeed, she breaks your human frame,          It turns you into an abyss, so there          She and th’entire world will worm a lair.