Discussion: Bruno Schulz
- Thread starter matt cardin
- Start date
Raul Urraca
Acolyte
It's a reasonably good biography with a smattering of Schulz's letters at the end.
There isn't enough information about Schulz's life to fill up an entire book, I'd guess, so Ficowski added a lot of secondary material. There is good information (a few anecdotes and some trivia very interesting to schulz fans), but Ficowski devotes many pages to his own relation to Schulz's work (Not necessarily bad, the man kept Schulz's work alive, and he also got together Schulz's letters. He deserves recognition). A chapter or two are just critical evaluations by Ficowski of Schulz's stories.
If you're looking for a pure, thick biography, it might disappoint you. The letters and critical analysis, however, are very enlightening and make up for the lack of material, at least in my opinion.
ToALonelyPeace
Grimscribe
Based on what John Curran Davis said on the CW translation, I've made a big mistake in reading her translation first.
Gnosticangel
Grimscribe
This new translation is supposed to be released later this week , have already ordered.
Collected Stories is an authoritative new translation of the complete fiction of Bruno Schulz, whose work has influenced writers as various as Salman Rushdie, Cynthia Ozick, Jonathan Safran Foer, Philip Roth, Danilo Kiš, and Roberto Bolaño.
Schulz’s prose is renowned for its originality. Set largely in a fictional counterpart of his hometown of Drohobych, his stories merge the real and the surreal. The most ordinary objects—the wind, an article of clothing, a plate of fish—can suddenly appear unfathomably mysterious and capable of illuminating profound truths. As Father, one of his most intriguing characters, declaims: “Matter has been granted infinite fecundity, an inexhaustible vital force, and at the same time, a seductive power of temptation that entices us to create forms.”
This comprehensive volume brings together all of Schulz's published stories—Cinnamon Shops, his most famous collection (sometimes titled The Street of Crocodiles in English), The Sanatorium under the Hourglass, and an additional four stories that he did not include in either of his collections. Madeline G. Levine’s masterful new translation shows contemporary readers how Schulz, often compared to Proust and Kafka, reveals the workings of memory and consciousness.
https://www.amazon.com/Collected-Stories-Bruno-Schulz/dp/0810136600/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1520862039&sr=1-3&keywords=bruno+schulz
Collected Stories is an authoritative new translation of the complete fiction of Bruno Schulz, whose work has influenced writers as various as Salman Rushdie, Cynthia Ozick, Jonathan Safran Foer, Philip Roth, Danilo Kiš, and Roberto Bolaño.
Schulz’s prose is renowned for its originality. Set largely in a fictional counterpart of his hometown of Drohobych, his stories merge the real and the surreal. The most ordinary objects—the wind, an article of clothing, a plate of fish—can suddenly appear unfathomably mysterious and capable of illuminating profound truths. As Father, one of his most intriguing characters, declaims: “Matter has been granted infinite fecundity, an inexhaustible vital force, and at the same time, a seductive power of temptation that entices us to create forms.”
This comprehensive volume brings together all of Schulz's published stories—Cinnamon Shops, his most famous collection (sometimes titled The Street of Crocodiles in English), The Sanatorium under the Hourglass, and an additional four stories that he did not include in either of his collections. Madeline G. Levine’s masterful new translation shows contemporary readers how Schulz, often compared to Proust and Kafka, reveals the workings of memory and consciousness.
https://www.amazon.com/Collected-Stories-Bruno-Schulz/dp/0810136600/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1520862039&sr=1-3&keywords=bruno+schulz
ToALonelyPeace
Grimscribe
I'm waiting for the John Curran Davis translation to arrive. For this new translation by Madeline G. Levine, I'll see what other TLO members say before considering it. 
Here is one of my favourite passages from the opening story "August," as rendered by three different translators:
The suburban houses were sinking, windows and all, into the exuberant tangle of blossoms in their little gardens. Overlooked by the light of day, weeds and wild flowers of all kinds luxuriated quietly, glad of the interval for dreams beyond the margin of time on the borders of an endless day. An enormous sunflower, lifted on a powerful stem and suffering from hypertrophy, clad in the yellow mourning of the last sorrowful days of its life, bent under the weight of its monstrous girth. But the naive suburban bluebells and unpretentious dimity flowers stood helpless in their starched pink and white shifts, indifferent to the sunflower's tragedy.
-- Celina Wieniewska (1963)
The suburban cottages were sinking, windows and all, subsided in the lush and tangled florescence of their tiny gardens. Herbs, flowers, and weeds of all kinds, overlooked by the magnificent day, proliferated luxuriantly and silently, delighting in that pause in which they could dream beyond the margins of time, on the outskirts of an endless day. An enormous sunflower, hoisted aloft on its huge stem and stricken with elephantiasis, awaited in yellow mourning its sad, last days of life, stooping under the hypertrophy of its monstrous corpulence. But the suburban campanulas and unsophisticated percale print flowerlets stood around perplexed in their starched little pink and white camisoles, uncomprehending of the sunflower's great tragedy.
--John Curran Davis (2016)
The bungalows on the city's outskirts were subsiding along with their windows, sunken in the luxuriant, jumbled blooming of their small gardens. Forgotten by the great day, all the herbs, flowers, and weeds multiplied luxuriantly and silently, gladdened by the pause that they could sleep through outside the margin of time, on the borders of the endless day. An immense sunflower, held up on a powerful stem and sick with elephantiasis, awaited in yellow mourning dress the final, sad days of its life, sagging beneath the excess growth of its monstrous corpulence. But the naive suburban bluebells and the modest little muslin flowers stood there helpless in their starched pink and white little shirts, with no understanding of the sunflower's great tragedy.
-- Madeline G. Levine (2018)
I cannot speak for the accuracy of the translations (Oh, what happened to my resolution to learn Polish?), but at this early stage in my reading of the new volume, I much prefer the Davis version.
More passages to come.
I remember standing in a Borders bookstore eighteen years ago and reading with rapt attention the following passage from "The Age of Genius" (in the white Picador edition), aware that I had made the literary discovery of a lifetime:
I understood then why animals have horns: perhaps to introduce an element of strangeness into their lives, a whimsical or irrational joke. An idée fixe, transgressing the limits of their being, reaching high above their heads and emerging suddenly into light, frozen into matter palpable and hard. It then acquired a wild, incredible, and unpredictable shape, an arabesque, invisible to their eyes yet frightening, an unknown cypher under the threat of which they are forced to live. I understood why these animals are given to irrational and wild panic, to the frenzy of the stampede: pushed into madness, they are unable to extricate themselves from the tangle of these horns, between which--when they lower their heads--they peer wildly or sadly, as if trying to find a passage between the branches. These horned animals have no hope of deliverance and carry on their heads the stigma of their sin with sadness and resignation.
The cats were even further removed from the light. Their perfection was frightening. Enclosed in the precision and efficacy of their bodies, they did not know either fault or deviation. They would descend for a moment into the depths of their being, then become immobile within their soft fur, solemnly and threateningly serious, while their eyes became round like moons, sucking the visible into their fiery craters. But a moment later, thrown back to the surface, they would yawn away their vacuity, disenchanted and without illusions. In their lives full of self-sufficient grace, there was no place for any alternative. Bored by this prison of perfection, seized with spleen, they spat with their wrinkled lips, while their broad, striped faces expressed an abstract cruelty.
-- Celina Wieniewska (1977)
I came to understand why animals have horns. It was an incomprehensibility that could not be contained within their lives, a wild and obsessive caprice, their ill-judged and blind obstinacy. Some idée fixe, grown beyond the borders of their being and high above their heads--brought suddenly into light--had solidified into palpable, hard matter. There, it had assumed its wild, incalculable and incredible shape, twisted into a fantastical arabesque, invisible to their eyes and yet dreadful nonetheless, the unknown numeral under whose menace they lived. I understood why those animals were disposed to ill-judged and wild panic, to startled frenzy. Herded into their mania, they could not extricate themselves from the knot of those horns, and so, lowering their heads, they looked out sadly and wildly from between them as if trying to find a pathway through their branches. These horned animals were remote from liberation, and in sadness and resignation they bore the stigmata of their error on their heads.
But even further from the light were the cats. Their perfection was alarming; wrapped up in the precision and meticulousness of their bodies, they knew neither deviation nor error. They sank for a moment, far into themselves, to the bottom of their being; they froze in their soft fur and grew menacingly and ceremoniously serious, and their eyes grew round as moons, soaking up the view into their fiery craters. But a moment later, cast out onto the edge, to the surface, they yawned in their nihility, disappointed and without illusions.
There was no room in their lives of self-sufficient grace for any alternative. Bored in the inescapable prison of their perfection, wrapped up in their spleen, they complained with wrinkled lips, full of aimless cruelty in their squat and striped faces.
--John Curran Davis (2016) [Davis renders the title as "The Genial Epoch"]
I understood then why animals have horns. It was that--that incomprehensible thing that could not fit in their life, a wild and persistent caprice, an irrational and blind obstinacy. Some kind of idée fixe, grown beyond the borders of their being, higher than their head, and suddenly surfacing into the light, had solidified into palpable, hard matter. There it acquired a wild shape, unpredictable and implausible, twisted into a fantastic arabesque invisible to their eyes but terrifying, into an unknown cipher, under whose threat they lived. I understood why these animals were inclined to incomprehensible, wild panic, to frightened frenzy: drawn into their own madness, they were unable to extricate themselves from the tangle of those horns among which, bowing their heads, they looked out sadly and wildly, as if seeking a passageway between their branches. These horned animals were far from being liberated and on their heads they bore with sorrow and resignation the stigma of their error.
But even farther from the light were the cats. Their perfection was frightening. Locked into the precision and exactness of their bodies, they knew neither error nor deviation. For a moment they would descend into the depths, to the bottom of their essence, and then, immobile in their soft fur coats, they settled down menacingly and ceremoniously, and their eyes grew round as moons, absorbing their gaze into their fiery craters. But after a moment, thrown out onto the brink, onto the surface, they yawned with their nothingness, disenchanted and without illusions.
In their lives, full of self-contained grace, there was no room for any alternative. And feeling bored in that prison of perfection without exit, overcome by spleen, they snarled with their wrinkled lips, full of aimless cruelty in their short faces made wider by stripes.
-- Madeline G. Levine (2018)
[In one paragraph Levine writes "their life" and "their head,"and in the next she writes "their lives"--these are not typographical errors on my part.]
I understood then why animals have horns: perhaps to introduce an element of strangeness into their lives, a whimsical or irrational joke. An idée fixe, transgressing the limits of their being, reaching high above their heads and emerging suddenly into light, frozen into matter palpable and hard. It then acquired a wild, incredible, and unpredictable shape, an arabesque, invisible to their eyes yet frightening, an unknown cypher under the threat of which they are forced to live. I understood why these animals are given to irrational and wild panic, to the frenzy of the stampede: pushed into madness, they are unable to extricate themselves from the tangle of these horns, between which--when they lower their heads--they peer wildly or sadly, as if trying to find a passage between the branches. These horned animals have no hope of deliverance and carry on their heads the stigma of their sin with sadness and resignation.
The cats were even further removed from the light. Their perfection was frightening. Enclosed in the precision and efficacy of their bodies, they did not know either fault or deviation. They would descend for a moment into the depths of their being, then become immobile within their soft fur, solemnly and threateningly serious, while their eyes became round like moons, sucking the visible into their fiery craters. But a moment later, thrown back to the surface, they would yawn away their vacuity, disenchanted and without illusions. In their lives full of self-sufficient grace, there was no place for any alternative. Bored by this prison of perfection, seized with spleen, they spat with their wrinkled lips, while their broad, striped faces expressed an abstract cruelty.
-- Celina Wieniewska (1977)
I came to understand why animals have horns. It was an incomprehensibility that could not be contained within their lives, a wild and obsessive caprice, their ill-judged and blind obstinacy. Some idée fixe, grown beyond the borders of their being and high above their heads--brought suddenly into light--had solidified into palpable, hard matter. There, it had assumed its wild, incalculable and incredible shape, twisted into a fantastical arabesque, invisible to their eyes and yet dreadful nonetheless, the unknown numeral under whose menace they lived. I understood why those animals were disposed to ill-judged and wild panic, to startled frenzy. Herded into their mania, they could not extricate themselves from the knot of those horns, and so, lowering their heads, they looked out sadly and wildly from between them as if trying to find a pathway through their branches. These horned animals were remote from liberation, and in sadness and resignation they bore the stigmata of their error on their heads.
But even further from the light were the cats. Their perfection was alarming; wrapped up in the precision and meticulousness of their bodies, they knew neither deviation nor error. They sank for a moment, far into themselves, to the bottom of their being; they froze in their soft fur and grew menacingly and ceremoniously serious, and their eyes grew round as moons, soaking up the view into their fiery craters. But a moment later, cast out onto the edge, to the surface, they yawned in their nihility, disappointed and without illusions.
There was no room in their lives of self-sufficient grace for any alternative. Bored in the inescapable prison of their perfection, wrapped up in their spleen, they complained with wrinkled lips, full of aimless cruelty in their squat and striped faces.
--John Curran Davis (2016) [Davis renders the title as "The Genial Epoch"]
I understood then why animals have horns. It was that--that incomprehensible thing that could not fit in their life, a wild and persistent caprice, an irrational and blind obstinacy. Some kind of idée fixe, grown beyond the borders of their being, higher than their head, and suddenly surfacing into the light, had solidified into palpable, hard matter. There it acquired a wild shape, unpredictable and implausible, twisted into a fantastic arabesque invisible to their eyes but terrifying, into an unknown cipher, under whose threat they lived. I understood why these animals were inclined to incomprehensible, wild panic, to frightened frenzy: drawn into their own madness, they were unable to extricate themselves from the tangle of those horns among which, bowing their heads, they looked out sadly and wildly, as if seeking a passageway between their branches. These horned animals were far from being liberated and on their heads they bore with sorrow and resignation the stigma of their error.
But even farther from the light were the cats. Their perfection was frightening. Locked into the precision and exactness of their bodies, they knew neither error nor deviation. For a moment they would descend into the depths, to the bottom of their essence, and then, immobile in their soft fur coats, they settled down menacingly and ceremoniously, and their eyes grew round as moons, absorbing their gaze into their fiery craters. But after a moment, thrown out onto the brink, onto the surface, they yawned with their nothingness, disenchanted and without illusions.
In their lives, full of self-contained grace, there was no room for any alternative. And feeling bored in that prison of perfection without exit, overcome by spleen, they snarled with their wrinkled lips, full of aimless cruelty in their short faces made wider by stripes.
-- Madeline G. Levine (2018)
[In one paragraph Levine writes "their life" and "their head,"and in the next she writes "their lives"--these are not typographical errors on my part.]
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Another favourite passage of mine, this time from "Cockroaches":
I was disconcerted. I did remember the invasion of cockroaches, that black swarm which had nightly filled the darkness with a spidery running. All cracks in the floors were full of moving whispers, each crevice suddenly produced a cockroach, from every chink would shoot a crazy black zigzag of lightning. Ah, that wild lunacy of panic, traced in a shiny black line on the floor! Ah, those screams of horror which my father emitted, leaping from one chair up to another with a javelin in his hand!
Refusing all food and drink, with fever patches on his cheeks, with a grimace of revulsion permanently fixed around his mouth, my father had grown completely wild. It was clear that no human body could bear for long such a pitch of hatred. A terrible loathing had transformed his face into a tragic mask, in which the pupils, hidden behind the lower lids, lay in wait, tense as bows, in a frenzy of permanent suspicion. With a scream he would suddenly jump up from his seat, run blindly to a corner of the room and stab downwards with the javelin, then lift it, having impaled an enormous cockroach that desperately wriggled its tangle of legs. Adela would then come to the rescue and take the lance with its trophy from Father, now pale and faint with horror, and shake it off into a bucket. But even at the time, I could not tell whether these pictures were implanted in my mind by Adela's tales or whether I had witnessed them myself. My father at the time no longer possessed that power of resistance which protects healthy people from the fascination of loathing. Instead of fighting against the terrible attraction of that fascination, my father, a prey to madness, became completely subjected to it. The fatal consequences were quick to follow. Soon, the first suspicious symptoms appeared, filling us with fear and sadness. Father's behaviour changed. His madness, the euphoria of his excitement wore off. In his gestures and expressions signs of a bad conscience began to show. He took to avoiding us. He hid, for days on end, in corners, in wardrobes, under the eiderdowns. I saw him sometimes, looking pensively at his own hands, examining the consistency of skin and nails, on which black spots began to appear like the scales of a cockroach.
In daytime he was still able to resist with such strength as remained in him, and fought his obsession, but during the night it took hold of him completely. I once saw him late at night, in the light of a candle set on the floor. He lay on the floor naked, stained with black totem spots, the lines of his ribs heavily outlined, the fantastic structure of his anatomy visible through the skin; he lay on his face, in the grip of obsession of loathing which dragged him into the abyss of its complex paths. He moved with the many-limbed, complicated movements of a strange ritual in which I recognized with horror an imitation of the ceremonial crawl of a cockroach.
From that day on we gave Father up for lost. His resemblance to a cockroach became daily more pronounced--he was being transformed into one.
We got used to it. We saw him ever more rarely, as he would disappear for weeks on end on his cockroachy paths. We ceased to recognize him; he merged completely with that black, uncanny tribe. Who could say whether he continued to live in some crack in the floor, whether he ran through the rooms at night absorbed in cockroachy affairs, or whether perhaps he was one of those dead insects which Adela found every morning lying on their backs with their legs in the air and which she swept up into a dustpan to burn later with disgust?
-- Celina Wieniewska (1963)
I was perplexed. I did, in fact, remember that invasion of cockroaches, that inundation by a black swarm which had filled the nocturnal darkness with spider-like running.
Every crevice harboured tremulous bristles. Any crack might suddenly erupt with cockroaches. That black lightning flash might spring up from any chink and fly across the floor in crazy zigzags. Oh, that wild mania of panic, written in a shiny black line on the tablet of the floor! Oh, Father's terrified screams as he leapt from chair to chair, a javelin in his hand!
Neither eating nor drinking, fervid flashes tingeing his face, convulsions of disgust ingrained around his mouth, my father had turned utterly savage. It was clear that no constitution could long endure the strain of that detestation. His terrible repugnance had transformed his face into a rigid, tragical mask, where the pupils only lay in wait, hidden beneath his lower lids, taut as bowstrings in their perpetual suspicion. With a wild shriek he started up from his chair and flew blindly into a corner of the room. He raised the javelin high, at the end of which an enormous, impaled cockroach desperately wriggled its entanglement of legs. Adela came to the aid of the quivering wreck; she took the lance from him, together with its impaled trophy, in order to drown it in a bucket. But I could no longer say whether these images had been implanted in me by Adela's stories or whether I had witnessed them myself.
My father no longer possessed that resilient power which protects the healthy from the fascination of loathing. Instead of shutting himself off from the terrible, attractive power of that fascination, my father, ravaged by frenzy, became embroiled in it ever more deeply. Lamentable consequences were swift to follow. The first suspicious signs took told, which filled us all with sadness and dread. Father's demeanour altered; his mania, the euphoria of his agitation, began to die down. In his movements and his mimicry he began to betray the signs of a bad conscience, and he took to avoiding us. All day long he hid away in corners, in wardrobes or under his comforter. Many times I saw him gazing absently at his own hands, examining the consistency of their skin, and his nails, where black smears began to appear, like cockroach cuticles.
During the daytime he continued to resist with the last of his strength; he fought on; but at night his fascination racked him terribly. Once, late at night, I saw him by the light of a candle set on the floor. My father lay naked on the ground, flyblown with the black smears of a totem, contoured by the lines of his ribs, a fantastic delineation of his anatomy shining through the surface. He lay on all fours, frantic with the fascination of his aversion, which had drawn him far along its convoluted paths. My father was moving with the complicated, many-limbed motion of a strange ritual, in which I recognised with horror an imitation of a cockroach ceremony.
From that time onward we took to avoiding Father. His resemblance to a cockroach was becoming more noticeable by the day. My father was turning into a cockroach. We grew accustomed to it. We saw him more and more infrequently; he disappeared for weeks at a time, somewhere on his cockroach trails. We were no longer able to discern him; he had merged entirely with that eerie black tribe. Who could say whether he was still alive somewhere, in a chink between the floorboards, or whether he was one of those dead insects, lying belly up and bristling with legs, which Adela found each morning and carried off in disgust to the dustbin, and disposed of?
--John Curran Davis (2016)
I was confused. Indeed, I remembered that invasion of cockroaches, that flood of a black swarm that filled the nighttime darkness with spiderlike running around. Every chink was full of quivering antennae, every crack could suddenly shoot out a cockroach, from every swelling in the floor that black lightning, flying in a crazed zigzag across the floor, might be hatched. Oh, that wild madness of panic, written in a glittering, black line on the tablet of the floor. Oh, those cries of Father's terror as he leapt from chair to chair with a dart in his hand. Taking neither food nor drink, with a feverish flush on his face, with a convulsion of disgust etched around his mouth, my father had gone completely wild. It was clear that no organism could long endure that tension of hatred. The terrible revulsion had changed his face into a frozen tragic mask in which only the pupils, concealed behind the lower lid, lay in wait, tensed like bowstrings, in eternal distrust. With a wild growl he would suddenly leap up from his seat, fly blindly into a corner of the room, and already he'd be holding up the spear on which an enormous cockroach was skewered, desperately twitching the jumble of its legs. At that moment Adela would come to help him as he stood pale from terror and take away the lance along with its entangled trophy in order to drown it in a pail. Already then, however, I would not have been able to say whether it was Adela's stories that instilled these images in me or if I had witnessed them myself. My father no longer possessed the resistant strength that defends healthy people from the fascination of revulsion. Instead of fencing himself off from the terrifying attractive power of that fascination, my father, a prey to madness, became more and more entangled in it. We didn't have to wait long for the sad results. Soon, the first suspicious signs appeared, filling us with dread and sorrow. Father's behavior changed. His frenzy, the euphoria of his excitement, abated. In his movements and mimicry signs of a guilty conscience began betraying themselves. He started avoiding us. He hid in corners all day long, in wardrobes, under the quilt. I often saw him observing his own hands as if in contemplation, studying the consistency of the skin, the nails, on which black spots were beginning to appear, glittering black spots, like the scales of a cockroach.
During the day he still resisted with the remnants of his strength, he struggled, but at night the fascination struck him with powerful attacks. I would see him late at night in the light of a candle placed on the floor. My father would be lying on the ground naked, spattered with the black spots of a totem, marked with lines of ribs, with a fantastic drawing of an anatomy transparent to the outside; he was lying on all fours, possessed by the fascination of the aversion that dragged him into the depths of its tortuous paths. My father was moving with the many-limbed, complicated movement of a strange ritual in which I recognized, horrified, an imitation of a cockroach ceremony.
From then on, we gave up on Father. The similarity to a cockroach became clearer every day--my father was turning into a cockroach.
We began to grow accustomed to this. We saw him less and less frequently; he would disappear somewhere for entire weeks on his cockroach paths, and we were no longer able to distinguish him, for he had merged completely with that uncanny black tribe. Who could say if he was still living somewhere in some chink in the floor, or running around the rooms at night, entangled in cockroach affairs, or if perhaps he was among those dead insects that Adela found every morning lying belly up, bristly with legs, that she collected with loathing on her dustpan and discarded.
-- Madeline G. Levine (2018)
Perhaps it is mere nostalgia for a book that I have read hundreds of times over the past eighteen years, but I feel that Wieniewska's translation possesses a certain magic that the other two lack. Her version is generally criticised for "smoothing over" or ignoring completely some of the difficulties of Schulz's prose. On the other hand, Curran Davis seems to have tackled these difficulties directly. Perhaps Levine has achieved a balance between the two approaches, but I cannot say with any accuracy. One thing is certain, I know that until I read Bruno in Polish I have not read him. Time to resume my former studies:
I was disconcerted. I did remember the invasion of cockroaches, that black swarm which had nightly filled the darkness with a spidery running. All cracks in the floors were full of moving whispers, each crevice suddenly produced a cockroach, from every chink would shoot a crazy black zigzag of lightning. Ah, that wild lunacy of panic, traced in a shiny black line on the floor! Ah, those screams of horror which my father emitted, leaping from one chair up to another with a javelin in his hand!
Refusing all food and drink, with fever patches on his cheeks, with a grimace of revulsion permanently fixed around his mouth, my father had grown completely wild. It was clear that no human body could bear for long such a pitch of hatred. A terrible loathing had transformed his face into a tragic mask, in which the pupils, hidden behind the lower lids, lay in wait, tense as bows, in a frenzy of permanent suspicion. With a scream he would suddenly jump up from his seat, run blindly to a corner of the room and stab downwards with the javelin, then lift it, having impaled an enormous cockroach that desperately wriggled its tangle of legs. Adela would then come to the rescue and take the lance with its trophy from Father, now pale and faint with horror, and shake it off into a bucket. But even at the time, I could not tell whether these pictures were implanted in my mind by Adela's tales or whether I had witnessed them myself. My father at the time no longer possessed that power of resistance which protects healthy people from the fascination of loathing. Instead of fighting against the terrible attraction of that fascination, my father, a prey to madness, became completely subjected to it. The fatal consequences were quick to follow. Soon, the first suspicious symptoms appeared, filling us with fear and sadness. Father's behaviour changed. His madness, the euphoria of his excitement wore off. In his gestures and expressions signs of a bad conscience began to show. He took to avoiding us. He hid, for days on end, in corners, in wardrobes, under the eiderdowns. I saw him sometimes, looking pensively at his own hands, examining the consistency of skin and nails, on which black spots began to appear like the scales of a cockroach.
In daytime he was still able to resist with such strength as remained in him, and fought his obsession, but during the night it took hold of him completely. I once saw him late at night, in the light of a candle set on the floor. He lay on the floor naked, stained with black totem spots, the lines of his ribs heavily outlined, the fantastic structure of his anatomy visible through the skin; he lay on his face, in the grip of obsession of loathing which dragged him into the abyss of its complex paths. He moved with the many-limbed, complicated movements of a strange ritual in which I recognized with horror an imitation of the ceremonial crawl of a cockroach.
From that day on we gave Father up for lost. His resemblance to a cockroach became daily more pronounced--he was being transformed into one.
We got used to it. We saw him ever more rarely, as he would disappear for weeks on end on his cockroachy paths. We ceased to recognize him; he merged completely with that black, uncanny tribe. Who could say whether he continued to live in some crack in the floor, whether he ran through the rooms at night absorbed in cockroachy affairs, or whether perhaps he was one of those dead insects which Adela found every morning lying on their backs with their legs in the air and which she swept up into a dustpan to burn later with disgust?
-- Celina Wieniewska (1963)
I was perplexed. I did, in fact, remember that invasion of cockroaches, that inundation by a black swarm which had filled the nocturnal darkness with spider-like running.
Every crevice harboured tremulous bristles. Any crack might suddenly erupt with cockroaches. That black lightning flash might spring up from any chink and fly across the floor in crazy zigzags. Oh, that wild mania of panic, written in a shiny black line on the tablet of the floor! Oh, Father's terrified screams as he leapt from chair to chair, a javelin in his hand!
Neither eating nor drinking, fervid flashes tingeing his face, convulsions of disgust ingrained around his mouth, my father had turned utterly savage. It was clear that no constitution could long endure the strain of that detestation. His terrible repugnance had transformed his face into a rigid, tragical mask, where the pupils only lay in wait, hidden beneath his lower lids, taut as bowstrings in their perpetual suspicion. With a wild shriek he started up from his chair and flew blindly into a corner of the room. He raised the javelin high, at the end of which an enormous, impaled cockroach desperately wriggled its entanglement of legs. Adela came to the aid of the quivering wreck; she took the lance from him, together with its impaled trophy, in order to drown it in a bucket. But I could no longer say whether these images had been implanted in me by Adela's stories or whether I had witnessed them myself.
My father no longer possessed that resilient power which protects the healthy from the fascination of loathing. Instead of shutting himself off from the terrible, attractive power of that fascination, my father, ravaged by frenzy, became embroiled in it ever more deeply. Lamentable consequences were swift to follow. The first suspicious signs took told, which filled us all with sadness and dread. Father's demeanour altered; his mania, the euphoria of his agitation, began to die down. In his movements and his mimicry he began to betray the signs of a bad conscience, and he took to avoiding us. All day long he hid away in corners, in wardrobes or under his comforter. Many times I saw him gazing absently at his own hands, examining the consistency of their skin, and his nails, where black smears began to appear, like cockroach cuticles.
During the daytime he continued to resist with the last of his strength; he fought on; but at night his fascination racked him terribly. Once, late at night, I saw him by the light of a candle set on the floor. My father lay naked on the ground, flyblown with the black smears of a totem, contoured by the lines of his ribs, a fantastic delineation of his anatomy shining through the surface. He lay on all fours, frantic with the fascination of his aversion, which had drawn him far along its convoluted paths. My father was moving with the complicated, many-limbed motion of a strange ritual, in which I recognised with horror an imitation of a cockroach ceremony.
From that time onward we took to avoiding Father. His resemblance to a cockroach was becoming more noticeable by the day. My father was turning into a cockroach. We grew accustomed to it. We saw him more and more infrequently; he disappeared for weeks at a time, somewhere on his cockroach trails. We were no longer able to discern him; he had merged entirely with that eerie black tribe. Who could say whether he was still alive somewhere, in a chink between the floorboards, or whether he was one of those dead insects, lying belly up and bristling with legs, which Adela found each morning and carried off in disgust to the dustbin, and disposed of?
--John Curran Davis (2016)
I was confused. Indeed, I remembered that invasion of cockroaches, that flood of a black swarm that filled the nighttime darkness with spiderlike running around. Every chink was full of quivering antennae, every crack could suddenly shoot out a cockroach, from every swelling in the floor that black lightning, flying in a crazed zigzag across the floor, might be hatched. Oh, that wild madness of panic, written in a glittering, black line on the tablet of the floor. Oh, those cries of Father's terror as he leapt from chair to chair with a dart in his hand. Taking neither food nor drink, with a feverish flush on his face, with a convulsion of disgust etched around his mouth, my father had gone completely wild. It was clear that no organism could long endure that tension of hatred. The terrible revulsion had changed his face into a frozen tragic mask in which only the pupils, concealed behind the lower lid, lay in wait, tensed like bowstrings, in eternal distrust. With a wild growl he would suddenly leap up from his seat, fly blindly into a corner of the room, and already he'd be holding up the spear on which an enormous cockroach was skewered, desperately twitching the jumble of its legs. At that moment Adela would come to help him as he stood pale from terror and take away the lance along with its entangled trophy in order to drown it in a pail. Already then, however, I would not have been able to say whether it was Adela's stories that instilled these images in me or if I had witnessed them myself. My father no longer possessed the resistant strength that defends healthy people from the fascination of revulsion. Instead of fencing himself off from the terrifying attractive power of that fascination, my father, a prey to madness, became more and more entangled in it. We didn't have to wait long for the sad results. Soon, the first suspicious signs appeared, filling us with dread and sorrow. Father's behavior changed. His frenzy, the euphoria of his excitement, abated. In his movements and mimicry signs of a guilty conscience began betraying themselves. He started avoiding us. He hid in corners all day long, in wardrobes, under the quilt. I often saw him observing his own hands as if in contemplation, studying the consistency of the skin, the nails, on which black spots were beginning to appear, glittering black spots, like the scales of a cockroach.
During the day he still resisted with the remnants of his strength, he struggled, but at night the fascination struck him with powerful attacks. I would see him late at night in the light of a candle placed on the floor. My father would be lying on the ground naked, spattered with the black spots of a totem, marked with lines of ribs, with a fantastic drawing of an anatomy transparent to the outside; he was lying on all fours, possessed by the fascination of the aversion that dragged him into the depths of its tortuous paths. My father was moving with the many-limbed, complicated movement of a strange ritual in which I recognized, horrified, an imitation of a cockroach ceremony.
From then on, we gave up on Father. The similarity to a cockroach became clearer every day--my father was turning into a cockroach.
We began to grow accustomed to this. We saw him less and less frequently; he would disappear somewhere for entire weeks on his cockroach paths, and we were no longer able to distinguish him, for he had merged completely with that uncanny black tribe. Who could say if he was still living somewhere in some chink in the floor, or running around the rooms at night, entangled in cockroach affairs, or if perhaps he was among those dead insects that Adela found every morning lying belly up, bristly with legs, that she collected with loathing on her dustpan and discarded.
-- Madeline G. Levine (2018)
Perhaps it is mere nostalgia for a book that I have read hundreds of times over the past eighteen years, but I feel that Wieniewska's translation possesses a certain magic that the other two lack. Her version is generally criticised for "smoothing over" or ignoring completely some of the difficulties of Schulz's prose. On the other hand, Curran Davis seems to have tackled these difficulties directly. Perhaps Levine has achieved a balance between the two approaches, but I cannot say with any accuracy. One thing is certain, I know that until I read Bruno in Polish I have not read him. Time to resume my former studies:
ToALonelyPeace
Grimscribe
Perhaps it is mere nostalgia for a book that I have read hundreds of times over the past eighteen years, but I feel that Wieniewska's translation possesses a certain magic that the other two lack. Her version is generally criticised for "smoothing over" or ignoring completely some of the difficulties of Schulz's prose. On the other hand, Curran Davis seems to have tackled these difficulties directly. Perhaps Levine has achieved a balance between the two approaches, but I cannot say with any accuracy. One thing is certain, I know that until I read Bruno in Polish I have not read him. Time to resume my former studies:
In my opinion, Levine's translation is not quite there (sorry ma'am). The words aren't as elegant and there is no flow. While Wieniewska's translation flows better, she deletes quite a few words which reduces Schulz's complex and intricate imagery by half. Overall, I prefer the translation from Curran Davis. Thank you for posting these paragraphs.
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If we treat the three translations as original examples of English prose, Curran Davis is clearly the superior stylist. He manages to sustain a remarkably high level of verbal intensity, richness and intricacy with very few lapses in rhythm.
While reading the stories in the most recent translation I felt as though I were watching a juggler performing upon a tightrope; unfortunately many balls fell to the ground, followed on more than one occasion by the performer herself. I prefer to praise what I admire instead of criticising, so I will say no more. Levine's version is certainly worth reading, and if you love Schulz as much as I do, you will read every translation available.
GirlyGirlMask
Chymist
I am, admittedly, not as well read as most of you. I'm more of a film buff, but love the works of Ligotti, Berhnard, Aickman, and Kosinski.
This morning I ordered The Street of Crocodiles, as it sounds like it may be similar in it's dream like quality. I'm a fan of horrific absurdity, the films of David Lynch. So, I'm pretty excited and hope to join in on this conversation soon.
Any recommendations are welcomed as it pertains to Schulz or similar authors.
This morning I ordered The Street of Crocodiles, as it sounds like it may be similar in it's dream like quality. I'm a fan of horrific absurdity, the films of David Lynch. So, I'm pretty excited and hope to join in on this conversation soon.
Any recommendations are welcomed as it pertains to Schulz or similar authors.
N
Nirvana In Karma
Guest
