I only want to say that Celan's poetry is like a monument to sense compared
to writers like Prynne. Part of the problem with English translations,
though, is the weight of historical connotation the German words (hardly)
bear; analogous word-twistings in English for his tormented playfulness in
German almost always ~ in my limited experience of English translation ~
lack that particular turn of the screw Celan "feels along the line", though
the thread may look similar. Celan struggled with the problems of
translation himself of course: his versions of Shakespeare sonnets, for
example, are model cases of re-creation.
A postscript on Beck & Malina: _The Diaries of Judith Malina 1947-1957_,
(Grove Press) which I picked up at a book market here some years ago, is one
of the most compelling & illuminating documents of our recent past; it seems
she knew everybody, went to prison for her principles (her description of
the judge sending her to Bellevue strikes up resonances with both Nazi
Germany & Stalinist Russia), had a whale of a time (parties and intoxicant
substances a gogo) & lays her whole self (including others' assessments) on
the line in her diaries, seemingly withholding nothing except salacious
details for the prurient as has become mandatory. (Don't get me wrong: I lap
up such trivia greedily, but they rarely tell us anything important, do
they?) Her sense of religious belonging, by the way, is movingly & simply
expressed, it's not felt as Ersatzbefriedigung.
Do you think you could back-mail me your review, Harriet? I'm never going to
see the American Book Review unless it appears online.
Martin
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