Every once in a while, a book or author comes along that blows everything or everyone else out of the water. Françoise Sagan is one of those authors.

I’ve just finished Bonjour Tristesse and A Certain Smile by this author, and I’m completely stunned by how staggeringly good these two books are. From the very first paragraph I was in awe of the writing; it was the best opening of any book I have ever written. I’m not exaggerating, I honestly feel the writing is just sublime.

Bonjour Tristesse is the story of a summer on the French Riviera for Cécile, a seventeen year old, who is living a carefree life with her widowed father and his latest girlfriend. When her father decides to remarry, it turns Cécile’s world upside down. The main theme of the book is morality and whether it is possible to be without moral sense or if it is something inherent within all of us.

A Certain Smile follows the love affair between law student Dominique and an older married man, Luc, the uncle of her boyfriend. It is an honest look at the emotional journey of a young woman embarking on an affair, and considers the truth of what love is.

The translations by Irene Ash are superb, and while I’ve already mentioned that Bonjour Tristesse has the best opening of a book I’ve ever read, the final paragraph of A Certain Smile, while deceptively simple, is profound yet real, and brought a complete sense of closure to the narrative. All of this seems all the more incredible when you realise that Sagan wrote Bonjour Tristesse, her first novel, when she was just eighteen, with A Certain Smile following just two years later.

These books have made such an impact on me, I won’t be picking up another book for a couple of days, as I want to ponder and savour them before starting something new.

These fifteen little truths I hold dear to my heart. Some are harsh, some are wise, some are clever, but, all have helped me at one point or another in my professional writing career. They have made me what I am today, and when things seemed darkest they provided light to see by, and now, after all this time, I actually write for a living! To me, that’s just prime!

1- Great writers are always evil influences; second-rate writers are not wicked enough to become great.  –George Bernard Shaw

2- What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he’s staring out the window. –Burton Rascoe

3- Writing is one of the few professions left where you take all the responsibility for what you do. It’s really dangerous and ultimately destroys you as a writer if you start thinking about responses to your work or what your audience needs. –Erica Jong

4- For me, writing is the only thing that passes the three tests of métier: (1) when I’m doing it, I don’t feel that I should be doing something else instead; (2) it produces a sense of accomplishment and, once in a while, pride; and (3) it’s frightening. -Gloria Steinem

5- This is what I find most encouraging about the writing trades: They allow mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity, to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane. –Kurt Vonnegut

6- All writing is communication; creative writing is communication through revelation – it is the self escaping into the open. No writer long remains incognito. –E.B White

7- Writers don’t have lifestyles. They sit in little rooms and write. –Norman Miller

8- I write because I hate. A lot. Hard. –William Gass

9- Writers write to influence their readers, their preachers, their auditors, but always, at the bottom, to be more themselves. –Aldous Huxley

10- I shall live badly if I do not write, I shall write badly if I do not live. –Françoise Sagan

11- A writer is someone who writes, that’s all. You can’t stop it; you can’t make yourself do anything but that. –Gore Vidal

12- A good writer always works at the impossible. –John Steinbeck

13- Those who write clearly have readers; those who write obscurely have commentators. –Albert Camus

14- A great deal of people now reading and writing would be better employed raising rabbits. –Edith Sitwell

15- Every successful creative person creates with an audience of one in mind. –Kurt Vonnegut

Att hymla med min beundran för Marie-Lousie Ekman är ju idiotiskt (se väv jag gjort. Marie-Louise X2 från “Hello Baby”, Ingmar Bergman, kulturskribent & Lilla My följer). Har du inte lyssnat på vad hon sagt, sett vad hon skapat eller undrat över vem hon är borde du göra det nu. Som chef på Dramaten visade Marie-Louise nu upp sitt första spelår;

Hon pratar om en jämställdhet inom teater, här ska kvinnliga regissörer och dramatiker fram! Något som inte alltid varit självklart, varken på Dramaten eller vid andra teatrar. Där, när man pratar jämlikhet, ofta refererar till den mellan klassiker och nyskrivet.

Den 31a september kan man se “Scener ur ett äktenskap” direkt på biograferna! Läs mer här.

Françoise Sagans “Slott i Sverige” sätts upp regisserad av Jenny Andreas­son som tidigare arbetat med bl a Spetsprojektet.
Det blir premiär på Lars Noréns “Om kärlek”, Tjeckovs “Körsbärsträdgåren” sätts upp av första-gångs-tjeckovaren Mats Ek. Det fylls på med “Jane Eyre” och “Pygmalion”. Klassikerna samtidigt som här finns nytt te x “Hantverkarna” regisseras av fabulösa Gösta Ekman.”Jerusalem” skrivs just nu av Eva Bergman som också kommer att regissera.

Jag ser särskilt fram emot “Hantverkarna”, har ännu inte haft lyxen att se något Gösta Ekman regisserat så det ska bli spännande. Mars 2010! Får inte heller missa tragikomiska dramat “Indiansommar” med Marie Göranzon och Ingela Olsson.

I went to Vegas for the first time in 2006. I hated it. If I had my way, I would have never gone back, but, of course, circumstances arose and it was pretty much required. I learned, on my second time there, that Vegas is survivable even if you don’t love it.

For the record, the real problem is me. I needed to change my expectations. I wanted, this time, to make Vegas highbrow. And though I packed Sagan’s Bonjour Tristesse and Morrison’s The Bluest Eye and would have welcomed a discussion on health care or human rights in Zimbabwe with anyone, everyone else was too busy having a good time. A screaming drunk good time. I did manage, however, to enjoy a few things about Vegas.

First, the restaurants: Vegas has a dense concentration of restaurants from some of the best restauranteurs in the world. Robuchon? Boulud? Colicchio? All here. My suggestion? Keep eating and do not stop. During my trip, I went to Shibuya in the MGM Grand, Aureole in Mandalay Bay, and Daniel Boulud Brasserie in the Wynn. All were delicious. Our very attentive sake sommelier at Shibuya quickly became our friend after recommending a bottle, and threatened to give some of the best service I have ever had in a restaurant. When the computerized wine list at Aureole featuring over 3,000 bottles almost confused us, we enjoyed watching the “suspended wine getter” fetch bottles from their glass cellar. I treated a friend who had taken care of me all weekend (getting us on guest lists, picking me up from the airport, taking me to In-N-Out Burger and introducing me to their “vegetarian” options) to Boulud Brasserie, where she had the DB burger (typically served at DB Bistro Moderne), the famous sirloin burger stuffed with foie gras and black truffles. I may not have liked Vegas, but I LOVED the restaurants there.

Also, the shopping: Vegas is a shopping mecca, of course. Because if you win at the casinos, you’re going to need to spend that money somewhere.  I found the Palazzo and Fashion Square Mall to be relatively quiet, relaxing shopping centers. Barney’s New York was nearly empty. With only three potential customers, the sales personnel outnumbered us. I’m sure everyone else was busy picking which of the multiple Louis Vuitton “flagships” should be the center of their window shopping…

…Or they were at the pool: If someone told me there were one hundred pools on The Strip alone, I’d believe them. The MGM Grand itself has six swimming pools, one of which is Wet Republic, where they host pool parties complete with a DJ, drinks, and a velvet rope at the entrance. Pools are the new clubs, in Vegas. You’ll need to be on a guest list or have a reduced admission card to avoid paying $20 or more at the “door.” But this does not a relaxing afternoon make. The other pools around catch the run off of people who don’t want to pay a cover to swim, so the surrounding pools were just as rowdy and filled with people ready to party. An experience that has its place, but it wasn’t what I was looking for.

Lucky me, I was given VIP pool passes to the Wynn. At the time, I had no idea what that meant so I found my way to the Tower Suites, the portion of the hotel that was independently evaluated and granted the first five-star rating in Vegas, to pick up my pass from the concierge and subsequently passed easily by the doorman to find:

It was so beautiful, I had to hold back my excitement when I got to the pool. I reconciled my feelings by saying to myself “Obviously, this was modeled off of Hotel du Cap in Antibes. That’s why I like it so much.” So, I spent the rest of my day reading Bonjour Tristesse in an oversized hat, smiling…until a drunk hotel guest came around threatening to throw a lifeguard chair into the pool. By then, I decided it was time to enjoy dinner by Boulud.

xo

J. Justine

Shibuya, MGM Grand, 3799 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Aureole, Mandalay Bay, 3950 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89119

Daniel Boulud Brasserie, Wynn Las Vegas, 3131 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

In-N-Out Burger, 2900 W. Sahara Avenue, Las Vegas 89102

DB Bistro Moderne, 55 West 44th Street, New York City 10036

The Shoppes at the Palazzo, 3325 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Fashion Square Mall, 3200 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Barney’s New York, The Shoppes at the Palazzo, 3325 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Louis Vuitton, 3200 and 3500 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

MGM Grand, 3799 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Wet Republic, MGM Grand, 3799 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Wynn Las Vegas, 3131 South Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas 89109

Hotel du Cap, Blvd JF Kennedy, Cap-d’Antibes 06160

Les faux-fuyants, Françoise Sagan

C’est un livre (d’une auteure que j’admire autant par sa vie que par son écriture) que j’ai pris pour lire au bord de la piscine, l’été. Il se lit très facilement car l’hitoire est très prenante et comique. Quatre parisiens se retrouventdans une ferme rustique après qu’une mitrailleuse ait abattu leur chauffeur et cassé leur voiture. Ils découvrent un monde, un autre univers qu’ils n’imaginaient même pas, sauf en moquerie ou en gros clichés avec leurs amis bourgeois. Et ils ne leur arrivent que des choses surprenantes – surtout par rapport à la vie qu’ils menaient en ville.

On retrouve souvent cette imag de la haute-société chez Sagan. Mais une image assez péjorative bien qu’elle en ait fait partie elle-même. Les personnages sont attachants dans leur personnalité. La rencontre improvisée entre deux catégories de personnes complètement différentes est captivante. Ce qui est bien, je trouve, c’est que finalement elle ne fait l’éloge d’aucun “monde” en particulier. Elle se moque des faux-airs des parisiens de la haute et se plaît également à créer des personnages ignards et effrayants du côté de la campagne… Son but ? Peut-être est-il de nous raconter une histoire drôle, déjà pas si mal, et ensuite de nous apprendre que, justement, on en apprend toujours sur nous-mêmes.

On est jamais loin de se surprendre !

C’est un livre que je conseille par exemple à ceux qui n’ont pas beaucoup lu Sagan, comme moi trois livres, mais qui aiment déjà son être.

An erie day, uneventful, steaming hot, most of it on my own. 
Startled in the street by a friend,
then resting in the eyes of an other
unable to write for the life of me
learning about Dorothy Parker while reading a book by Francoise Sagan
Trying to keep myself from eating
surrounded by french fries and caramel and chocolate cookies
listening to the song Spinning Down The Drain by Sean Nicholas Savage
when I got a message from him recommending this  
lovely new artist
Jasper Bayrdala 
hard to describe today, since my writing abilities are failing me,
I will let you discover this wonderfully amusing musician on your own for now

” – Et vous, je vous accuse de n’avoir pas fait votre devoir d’etre humain. Au nom de ce mort, je vous accuse d’avoir laissé passer l’amour, d’avoir négligé le devoir d’etre heureuse, d’avoir vécu de faux-fuyants, d’xpédients et de résignation. Vous devriez etre condamnée a mort, vous serez comdamné à la solitude. 
Il s’arrêta, but son verre de vin d’un trait. Paule n’avait pas bronché.
- Affreuse condamnation, dit – elle en souriant.
- La pire, dit-il. Je ne vois rien de pire, ni de plus inévitable. Rien ne me fait plus peur. Comme à tout le monde, d’ailleurs. Mais personne ne l’avoue. Moi, j’ai envie de le hurler par moments : j’ai peur, j’ai peur, aimez-moi. “

” Aimez-Vous Brahms “,  Francoise Sagan. 

In this era of “Extreme Home-Makeovers” and “Trading Spaces”, it seems a crime to say so.  Let me be clear: I love a good make-over, be it person (à la “What not to Wear”), room, or home.  But when it comes to my own space, well, I just can’t be bothered.  As long as the clutter’s under control and the dust bunnies (which are really ginormous fur balls) aren’t assimilating the apartment, I’m content.  Some art on the walls would be nice, I agree, but art costs money, and if I have it to spend, I’d rather spend it on books.

Which is funny, because I did own a house for a while, a wee 730 square footer, back when I was single & fancy-free.  The first two weeks after closing, I spent my vacation painting its four rooms, unpacking, screwing together new pine bookshelves (after my LARGE particle board bookshelf [fatigued from 14 moves in 11 years] imploded, predictably seconds after I placed the last book on its shelf), and white-washing them.

But once vacation was over, in the next 5 years of home-ownership I did not tackle one decorating task more. Granted, my energies were taken up by the winter without running water, the long-running water heater issues, the propagating mice…. However, left to my own devices (and Lance will back me up on this, to his ever-loving dismay), even pictures of my family remain stacked on a shelf somewhere.  I love pictures of my family, would very much like them to be hung on my walls.  By someone else.  Because I’m over here, otherwise and much more happily occupied.

* The post title quote is from the novel, That Mad Ache, by Francoise Sagan, in a new translation by Douglas Hofstadter.  The first novel I’ve picked up in a while, it’s set in 1960’s Parisian high society, a great summer read — beautifully written and fun.  Plus, when you flip it over, on the other side is an essay by Mr. Hofstadter on the process of translating this novel, including the title.  Jane Hirshfield, in Nine Gates, also wrote on the art of translation, and William Gass too, in Reading Rilke, and it never fails to fascinate.

I posted my own review of this little gem of a book a little while back, and The Globe and Mail ran their review on their Books site earlier this week. The best line:

[Hofstadter's] translation of La Chamade is brilliant, highly readable, thoroughly engrossing and very nearly everything Françoise Sagan could have hoped for in an English version of her novel.

Read the entire review here.

Published by Basic Books

“La gente que escribe libros, rara vez son intelectuales. Los intelectuales son gente que hablan sobre los libros que han escrito otros.”
Françoise Sagan.

http://www.frasesypensamientos.com.ar/autor/francoise-sagan.html
http://latormentaenunvaso.blogspot.com/2009/06/desde-el-recuerdo-francoise-sagan.html

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran%C3%A7oise_Sagan

CARTA DE AMOR A JEAN PAUL SARTRE:

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Forum/8886/sagan.html

Querido señor:

Le digo “querido señor” pensando en la interpretación infantil de esta palabra en el diccionario: “cualquier hombre”. No voy a decirle “querido Jean-Paul Sartre”, es demasiado periodístico, ni “querido Maestro” que es lo que usted detesta, ni “querido colega”, que es abrumador. Hace muchos años que quería escribirle esta carta, casi treinta años en realidad, desde que comencé a leer su obra, y sobre todo desde hace diez o doce años, cuando a fuerza de ridiculizarla, la admiración se ha vuelto lo bastante rara como para que uno casi se felicite del ridículo. Quizá yo misma haya envejecido lo bastante o rejuvenecido lo bastante como para burlarme hoy de ese ridículo del cual usted, siempre magnífico, jamás se preocupó.

Lo que me interesa es que reciba esta carta el 21 de junio, día fausto para Francia que vio nacer, con algunos lustros de intervalo a usted, a mí y más recientemente a Platini, tres excelentes personas llevadas en andas o pateadas salvajemente – en su caso y en el mío gracias a Dios sólo en sentido figurado – por excesos de honores o indignidades que ellas no se explican. Pero los veranos son cortos, agitados y se marchitan. He terminado por renunciar a esta oda de aniversario y sin embargo tenía que decirle lo que voy a decirle y que justifica este título sentimental.

En 1950 empecé a leer de todo y, a partir de entonces sólo Dios o la literatura saben cómo he amado o admirado a una cantidad de escritores, especialmente los contemporáneos, de Francia y otros países. Más tarde conocí a algunos, seguí también la carrera de otros y aunque aún quedan muchos a quienes admiro como escritores, usted es el único que continúo admirando como hombre. Todo lo que prometió cuando tenía quince años, edad inteligente y severa, edad sin ambiciones precisas y por lo tanto sin concesiones, todas esas promesas usted las mantuvo. Escribió los libros más inteligentes y más honestos de su generación, hasta llegó a escribir el libro más rebosante de talento de la literatura francesa: Las palabras. Al mismo tiempo siempre se ha lanzado de cabeza en ayuda de los débiles y humillados, ha creído en la gente, en las causas, en generalidades, se ha equivocado a veces, eso, como todo el mundo, pero (y en esto contrariamente a todo el mundo) siempre lo ha reconocido. Ha rechazado obstinadamente todos los laureles morales y todas las retribuciones materiales de su gloria; ha rechazado el pretendidamente honorable premio Nobel cuando sin embargo carecía de lo necesario, tres veces le pusieron bombas en ocasión de la guerra de Argelia, arrojándolo a la calle sin pestañear siquiera; ha impuesto a los directores de teatro mujeres que le gustaban para papeles que necesariamente no se adecuaban a ellas, demostrando así pomposamente que, para usted, el amor al contrario podía ser “el brillante duelo de la gloria”. En resumen, usted ha amado, escrito, compartido, dado todo lo que tenía para dar y que era lo importante, al mismo tiempo que ha rechazado todo lo que se le ofrecía y que era la importancia. Ha sido hombre al mismo tiempo que escritor, nunca pretendió que el talento del segundo justificaba las debilidades del primero, ni que la felicidad de crear autorizaba por sí sola a despreciar o a ignorar a sus allegados, ni a los demás , todos los demás. Ni siquiera sostuvo que equivocarse con talento y buena fe legitimaba el error. En realidad no se ha refugiado tras esa famosa fragilidad del escritor, esa arma de doble filo que es su talento, jamás actuó de Narciso, que sin embargo es uno de los tres papeles reservados a los escritores de nuestra época junto con el de petimetre y gran criado. Por el contrario, esa arma supuestamente de doble filo, lejos de atravesarlo con delicias y clamor como a muchos, usted quiso que en su mano fuera liviana, eficaz, ágil; usted la utilizó y la puso a disposición de las víctimas , de las verdaderas, las que no saben escribir, ni explicarse, ni luchar, ni siquiera quejarse.

Y sin clamar después por justicia porque no quería juzgar, sin hablar de honor porque no quería recibir honores, sin invocar tampoco la generosidad porque ignoraba que usted era la generosidad misma, ha sido el único hombre justo, honrado y generoso de nuestra época, trabajando sin descanso, dando todo a los demás, viviendo sin lujos, pero también sin austeridad, sin tabúes y sin farras, salvo la de la escritura, haciendo el amor y dándolo, seduciendo, pero abiertamente dispuesto a ser seducido, dejando atrás a sus amigos, excediéndolos en velocidad e inteligencia y brillo, pero volviéndose sin cesar hacia ellos para ocultárselo. A menudo prefirió ser utilizado, ser engañado, a ser indiferente; y también a menudo fue decepcionado sin esperanzas. ¡Qué vida ejemplar para un hombre que nunca quiso ser un ejemplo!

Y ahora está privado de la vista, sin poder leer según dicen, y debe sentirse seguramente lo más desdichado que imaginar pueda. Quizás entonces le alegre saber que en todos lados donde estuve durante estos veinte años, en el Japón, en Estados Unidos, en Noruega, en la provincia o en París, he visto a hombres y mujeres de todas las edades hablar de usted con esa admiración, esa confianza y hasta con esa misma gratitud que la que confieso aquí.

Este siglo se ha revelado loco, inhumano y podrido. Usted ha sido inteligente, tierno e incorruptible y sigue siéndolo.

Sí… llevo un verano Nouvelle Vague, qué le vamos a hacer…

Pero ella, ese pequeño monstruo encantador, me ha llamado la atención…

Tematrion hos Lyran handlar idag om Frankrike.
1. Alexandre Dumas (d.ä.) måste ha varit den allra första franska författare jag läste. De tre musketörerna, åh, vad jag älskade dem! Kamratskapet mellan Arthos, Porthos, Aramis och D’Artagnan. Och Greven av Monte Christo. Dumas hade en svår uppväxt som fattigt barn av blandras. Han skrev i följetongsform, och när han började lyckas hade han en författarverkstad, så det är kanske inte bara honom själv man ska tacka. En stor man rent fysiskt, och en storvulen personlighet. Sonen, Alexandre Dumas d y, lär ha sagt: “Min far är ett stort barn, som jag fick när jag var mycket liten.”
2. Françoise Sagan Jag vet inte vad jag egentligen föll för hos henne, jag läste henne som ung. En bok om väldigt rika och olyckliga människor på en lyxkryssare, bland annat. Och Bonjour tristesse/ Ett moln på min himmel. Nu pockar behovet på att läsa om. Snart.
3. Anaïs Nin. Mest känd för sin Dagbok i flera band, men jag kom först i kontakt med hennes skrivande i antologierna Venusdeltat och Venusbarn. Nin berättar i företalet att Henry Miller fick 100 dollar av en anonym man, en samlare, för att skriva erotika. Senare fick Nin (och flera andra svältande stackars författare som levde på havregrynsgröt) ta över. Nin hittade på, plockade ur medicinska tidskrifter, försökte ta in sitt eget berättande. “Koncentrera mer på sex. Strunta i poesin.” löd uppmaningarna från den anonyme samlaren. Men de är rätt poetiska ändå. Budoirer och strumpeband, franskt och perverst.
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Läs även andra bloggares åsikter om Alexandre Dumas d ä, Anaïs Nin, Françoise Sagan, Lyrans tematrio, Frankrike

Françoise Sagan, pseudônimo de Françoise Quoirez (21 de junho de 1935, Cajarc, Lot – 24 de setembro de 2004, Honfleur) foi uma escritora francesa.

“Gosto de homens que vivem como homens – fortes e infantis.” Françoise Sagan.

I’ve been putting off responding to a number of things I’ve spotted around the internet, and now that our latest issue is officially launched (see our previous post), perhaps the moment has arrived.

In Three Percent several weeks ago now, Monica Carter reviewed Douglas Hofstadter’s retranslation of Françoise Sagan’s La chamade, which in typical Hofstadterian fashion he rendered with the anagrammatic title That Mad Ache. Carter and Michael Orthofer at the Complete Review are both somewhat dismissive of the novel itself — Orthofer, who is more aggressively critical of Sagan’s sophomore effort, describes it as “hardly worthwhile” — but both also dedicate a fair bit of space to a discussion of Hofstadter’s lengthy essay on translation, Translator, Trader, included in the volume.

Hofstadter is one of the most exuberant translators out there, and while his irrepressible love of wordplay and colloquialisms can get in the way of his translations, I appreciate his enthusiasm and his willingness to muck around in a text in ways many translators would consider inappropriate and even disrespectful of the original. And however mediocre Sagan’s novel, the publisher’s decision to include such an extensive discussion of the translation in the same volume is a wonderful change from the silence in which the translator usually labors. Translators know the books they translate as well as anyone in the world, and I am certain that most of them could provide all sorts of fascinating insights into their texts, but it is the rare translator these days who is even given the space for a brief note.

Translator, Trader, then, could be declared a success for its mere existence. That said, Carter and Orthofer both have their misgivings about the essay, many of them centering around the way Hofstadter seems to generate puns as a default setting, leaving him oblivious to the tone of the work he’s translating. Carter notes that Hofstadter considers himself a “hot” translator (as opposed to a “cold” one on the scale he’s devised), “meaning that he likes to take quite a few liberties with the original text to make it more interesting,” and says that this often pulls him away from the “authorial vision” of the original. She quotes Hofstadter discussing his own translation:

In Chapter 13, Lucile is replying with indignation to a question Antoine has asked her. She thinks the answer is self-evident, and where Sagan has her say, “Bien entendu” (meaning literally “of course”), Westhoff has her say, “Of course.” That’s fair enough. My first inclination, however, was to go much further than this—namely, “Well, what do you think—is the Pope Catholic?”

Hofstadter was talked out of this option by his friends, but notes wistfully that by switching it out for “Well, what do you think?,” the temperature of his translation “fell from 100° to 75°.” Stodgy, faithful room temperature.

While Hofstadter is a bit too enchanted by his own puns for my taste — I’ll never forget the moment in his translation of Eugene Onegin when someone(s) “cast their nyets” — I am nonetheless bored by Carter’s insistence that he hew close to the original. I have no way of judging his version of Pushkin against the original, for example, but for me his translation ultimately failed because the incessant japery was tiresome, not because it was “unfaithful.” And I am content to let the translation stand or not on those terms, rather than demanding that Hofstadter honor, as Mike described it in a post a couple of months back, a standard approach to translation, and that he value and emphasize the same things as everybody else.

That sort of demand (for “faithfulness,” inevitably) largely springs, I think, from translators’ feeling that they should be producting a “definitive” translation, as if that were possible or even desirable. Hofstadter seems to be admirably free of that neurosis. While I certainly don’t blame translators for feeling that one of their roles is as ambassador for a work of literature, even for an entire language and culture, and that they should therefore strive to represent it accurately, I nevertheless wonder how much it also hamstrings translation and limits its creativity.

Orthofer finds Hofstadter’s essay more interesting, but doesn’t agree with him any more than Carter does. In fact, he goes further, calling himself “an ultra-literalist — with notable caveats — . . . who believes in the primacy of the (source) text.” (Ultra-literalist? He can’t really mean that, or he’d be headed into the realm of experimentation again.) He finds Hofstadter’s approach “outrageous” and, like Carter, is bemused by Hofstadter’s conviction that he’s going about things the best way possible.

Without having read the essay myself, ultimately I suspect I come down on the side of Hofstadter’s critics. I can’t see why prizing “hotness” above all things (especially one’s personal, subjective definition of it — Hofstadter may find his text “interesting,” and yet I have found his linguistic shenanigans repetitive and even boring) would be less crippling than prizing newness or shock value or . . . faithfulness — or any other single value to the exclusion of anything else. And Hofstadter has certainly shown himself to be somewhat tone-deaf when it comes to characters’ personalities or the mood of a narrative.

Still, even apart from being thrilled that a publisher moved forward with including in a work of translated literature a substantial piece of writing on the subject of translation, and regardless of what I think of his translations, I think  Hofstadter’s approach to the craft opens up space and makes possible a broader discussion of what translation might look like and what values it might embrace.

-ar

Geneviève Moll es una escritora y biógrafa que durante años hizo periodismo y televisión en Francia. Fue la primera persona que me entrevistó después de la publicación de La nada cotidiana en Actes-Sud (1995) para la televisión. Con el tiempo la he seguido a través de la lectura, y ha devenido una gran amiga. Autora de las biografías de François Mitterrand: le roman de sa vie, 1995, Éd. Sand, Yvonne De Gaulle, 1999, Éd. Ramsay, Une chambre au vatican (roman), 2003, Éd. Ramsay, Madame Sagan, 2007, Éd. Ramsay, et Gouverner selon de Gaulle, Pierre LeFranc, Conversations avec Geneviève Moll, Fayard, 2008.

Leer las biografías de Geneviève Moll, su escritura, resulta toda una aventura, muy cercana de Stefan Zweig, pero con un estilo muy propio, el de la periodista que cuando lo es a fondo deviene novelista, y el de la novelista que nos entrega la realidad a través de la visión humana y cotidiana de la vida. He aquí dos de sus libros que recomiendo arduamente:

Esta, a mi juicio, es la mejor biografía de Françoise Sagan que se ha escrito, exacta, y literaria a la vez.

Se ha dicho siempre, entre bambalinas, que Pierre LeFranc es un hijo escondido de Charles de Gaulle. En cualquier caso es uno de los últimos grandes compañeros de ruta del General, Un rebelde que participó en toda la epopeya gaullista desde la Resistencia hasta las últimas horas del poder. Fue su colaborador directo en el Elysée, tuvo el privilegio de observar al General de cerca, de analizar su manera de dirigir, de seguir desde lo más cercano posible el trayecto de un pensamiento vasto, exigente, que cambió el destino de Francia. De esta conversación se desgaja la figura del hombre de estado fuera de lo común, descubrimos un personaje afable, urbano, tímido a veces y otras radiante de buen humor. Sobre todo lo vemos dirigir La France con una altura de puntos de vista, y un sentido de la innovación política y social que se convirtió en modelo para futuras generaciones.

Jag har haft två riktiga kvalitetsdagar med underbara Elin & Gustav. Nu ligger vi nyvakna och kollar på Baader- Meinhof aka röda armé fraktionen och igår såg vi Bonjour Sagan om Francoise Sagan (Bonjour Tristesse). Ett resultat av gårdagen var att jag bestämt mig för att skriva en bok. Kanske blir det av i sommar…