From Publishers Weekly
Though fluent in a number of languages, Celan (1920-1970), who had come to Paris from Romanian Bukovina, pointedly wrote in German after WWII. His decomposition and recasting of that language, through a style that can seem dizzying in its complex poly-referentiality, was compounded by his erudition, by his own history as a Holocaust survivor whose parents were murdered in the camps, and finally by his suicide. For many, he one of the major poets of the 20th century. Though Celan's work presents obvious difficulties for any translator, his English-language readers have long been well-served by Michael Hamburger's starkly graceful selected translations (Poems of Paul Celan, Persea), which remain the best available, and more recently, by Pierre Joris's acute renderings of Celan's later work. Of the new collections here, the volume from Celan biographer and critic Felstiner is easily the most comprehensive, containing ample cullings from all of Celan's books, including many poems not included in Hamburger's selection, along with previously untranslated early and late work and four prose pieces. Felstiner handles these translations competently, rendering Celan in a somewhat more colloquial style than Hamburger or Joris. But his shifting diction (including "Thou") and his tendency to capitalize nouns and to let German words stand untranslated in the English text can make for a distracting admixture, as it does in Celan's much-anthologized early work, "Deathfugue": "Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night/ we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland." On the whole, Felstiner's efforts often pale beside those of Hamburger and Joris, but the page count of this dual-language collection will make it the default choice of those who will buy only one Celan volume. Popov and McHugh's collection also ranges over Celan's oeuvre, but far less comprehensively or successfully. Unlike Felstiner and Joris, Popov (The Russian People Speak: Democracy at the Crossroads) and poet McHugh (Father of the Predicaments, etc.) don't present the German texts en face, a practice they regard, in their preface, as a potential distraction from the reader's experience of their renderings. It would indeed be a distraction, making painfully clear just how far they depart from the originals to arrive at their idiosyncratic versions, which alter Celan's precise line and stanza lengths significantly, and forsake Celan's vertiginous difficulties for a more simplisticAsometimes macabre or wittyAstyle that's littered with heavy-handed gestures. One poem, for example, contains an ex nihilo insertion gleefully riffing on a German pun, others tip the scales of Celan's carefully weighted pronouns into one viewpoint or another. Even when hewing closer to the source text, Popov and McHugh incessantly heighten the poems' language, degrading their thorniness with more traditional sentiments. Fortunately, many of the poems translated by Popov and McHugh can be found in Joris's new volume, or in his 1995 rendering of Celan's Breathturn, both of which present entire books in razor-sharp, finely nuanced translations. Threadsuns represents the continuation of a marked turn in Celan's poeticsAaway from lusher effusions to intensely compressed, increasingly stark investigations of language, history and the poet's own capacities. Because much of this later work is serial in nature, Joris's decision to render the books in their entirety is profoundly important, and helps to make them necessary complements to Hamburger's selections. While it may not consistently attain the dazzling heights and depths of Celan's finest work in Breathturn and 1963's The No-One's Rose, Threadsuns contains an abundance of brilliant poems and provides ample evidence for the magnitude of Celan's stature in the last century, and in the one to come. (Nov.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Review
"... like a volume of Heidegger into which someone has slipped a handful of achingly beautiful love letters..." -- Voice Literary Supplement, December 2000
...breathtaking... One senses the originality of Celan's language, resourceful and adventurous... Language comes alive... stunningly varied and unexpected. -- NY Times Book Review, December 31, 2000
Translation is a loving art. While all writers confront the fact that they’ll never be entirely satisfied with the end result, translators are burdened with the sense of having failed someone other than themselves. Nicolai Popov and Heather McHugh must be dissatisfied with some aspects of their translations of Paul Celan (a near certainty supported by the fact that they jettisoned a third of their work), but for them a sense of pride in Glottal Stop would be fully justified.
Before going further I must confess that I don’t read or speak German, and so am incapable of judging the linguistic accuracy of the translations in Glottal Stop, which won the first international Griffin Prize. Having attempted my own informal versions of French and Russian poets, I know that successful poetic translation seldom comes down to verbatim "accuracy," and as a reader I’m vindicated by the translators’ introduction: Because first and foremost we value the experience of the poetry, we decided not to print the German texts en face. Both of us were reluctant to encourage, in the process of fostering an international readership’s acquaintance with Paul Celan, too early a recourse to the kind of line-by-line comparison that fatally distracts attention from what matters first: the experience of a poem’s coursing, cumulative power. The serious scholar will have no trouble looking up the poetic originals; the serious reader will have no objection to focusing on a poem’s presence and integrity. Neither the one nor the other will ever forget that, no matter how plausible a poem may sound in its target language, it remains a poem in translation, an encounter marked by surprise, ambiguity, affection, and violence.
"Violence," perhaps the most difficult aspect of translation, must occur, as elements of the original are suppressed, altered or excised. Popov/McHugh imply that Celan might almost need translation within German, so daring and original is his usage. (In one example of the compromises made to ensure the communication of his "alien" sensibility into English they refer to the need for selective translation of his many compound words—"thought-beetle," "blood-bloom," "eyeslit-crypt" —if English-speaking readers are not to be reminded of Gerard Manley Hopkins.)
The poems in glottal stop are mostly from Celan’s later work, many translated for the first time. Interestingly, other translations of Celan’s later work share elements with this one. Both Michael Hamburger and John Felstiner (whose biography, Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew, makes excellent companion reading) have produced versions whose broken rhythms and fragmented language suggest that Celan kept reducing, concentrating and disrupting his own relationship to language itself. His poems, as he aged and developed (and as his internal suffering accrued), apparently became starker and sparer on the page. Increasingly he seems determined to express the inexpressible, or at least its inexpressibility, perhaps one reason he’s so often described as "difficult".
Unique to the translations in Glottal Stop is their playfulness. McHugh’s own poetry seems to indicate a natural affinity with this poet of overturned language. Her poems are rife with puns and reversals, sleight of hand that naturally takes on darker tones in Celan, and she has obviously thrilled to the challenge of his word-play. It’s no coincidence that Celan should hoard double and multiple meanings. No language, after all, could be more loaded for him than his, the one he insisted on, and in the name of which his family was destroyed. With humility Popov/McHugh acknowledge that the tragic significance of his insistence cannot be replicated in English. As John Felstiner writes, the Reich organized its genocide of European Jewry by means of language; slogans, slurs, pseudo-scientific dogma, propaganda, euphemism, and the jargon that brought about every devastating ‘action,’ from the earliest racial "laws" through "special treatment in the camps to the last "resettlement" of Jewish orphans.
No writing could be less propagandistic, more stubbornly and purely communicative than Celan’s poetry: "Free of dross, free of dross." It brought him into direct conflict with Theodor Adorno, whose famous comment "After Auschwitz, to write a poem is barbaric," was taken at the time to refer to Celan’s best-known poem, “Death Fugue” (Todesfuge). Irrespective of this, Felstiner says, "Adorno…probably did not [yet] know Celan’s poem." The two began a lifelong argument they were never able to resolve (despite a semi-retraction on Adorno’s part in the 1960s). Adorno objected to poetry’s potential to impose meaning "through the aesthetic principle of stylization…" on what was meaningless, with the result that "it becomes transfigured [and] something of the horror is removed". And yet, as Felstiner shows, and Glottal Stop amply illustrates, where Celan is concerned nothing could be further from the truth. In the brokenness and jaggedness of his poems he rejects transfiguration strenuously—some lines consist of one half or scrap of a word, split so that the rest falls onto the next line ("her im/-mortal self-sick/song") —and insists on his right to say exactly what he means.
Popov and McHugh provide dense, essential notes without which no reader can understand every nuance. So is Celan a poet whose biography is vital to his art? Despite the fact that the poems in Glottal Stop have undeniable force before annotation, some of their force is inextricable from our knowledge of history, both general and specific to Celan. It is this history—including the murder of his parents, his forced labour, followed by displacement and personal anguish that ended eventually in suicide—which necessitates his "characteristic Celanian stutter, spelling—and stumbling at the incommensurability between pain and articulable language” (Popov/McHugh). The Celan of these poems is devoid of self-pity, of any desire to aestheticize pain. His steadfastness, his determined re-articulations are both thrilling and moving. We hear "The splintering echo, darkened/heading for/the brainstream". The final poem, quoted in full here, might be advice to himself:
...breathtaking... One senses the originality of Celan's language, resourceful and adventurous... Language comes alive... stunningly varied and unexpected. -- NY Times Book Review, December 31, 2000
Translation is a loving art. While all writers confront the fact that they’ll never be entirely satisfied with the end result, translators are burdened with the sense of having failed someone other than themselves. Nicolai Popov and Heather McHugh must be dissatisfied with some aspects of their translations of Paul Celan (a near certainty supported by the fact that they jettisoned a third of their work), but for them a sense of pride in Glottal Stop would be fully justified.
Before going further I must confess that I don’t read or speak German, and so am incapable of judging the linguistic accuracy of the translations in Glottal Stop, which won the first international Griffin Prize. Having attempted my own informal versions of French and Russian poets, I know that successful poetic translation seldom comes down to verbatim "accuracy," and as a reader I’m vindicated by the translators’ introduction: Because first and foremost we value the experience of the poetry, we decided not to print the German texts en face. Both of us were reluctant to encourage, in the process of fostering an international readership’s acquaintance with Paul Celan, too early a recourse to the kind of line-by-line comparison that fatally distracts attention from what matters first: the experience of a poem’s coursing, cumulative power. The serious scholar will have no trouble looking up the poetic originals; the serious reader will have no objection to focusing on a poem’s presence and integrity. Neither the one nor the other will ever forget that, no matter how plausible a poem may sound in its target language, it remains a poem in translation, an encounter marked by surprise, ambiguity, affection, and violence.
"Violence," perhaps the most difficult aspect of translation, must occur, as elements of the original are suppressed, altered or excised. Popov/McHugh imply that Celan might almost need translation within German, so daring and original is his usage. (In one example of the compromises made to ensure the communication of his "alien" sensibility into English they refer to the need for selective translation of his many compound words—"thought-beetle," "blood-bloom," "eyeslit-crypt" —if English-speaking readers are not to be reminded of Gerard Manley Hopkins.)
The poems in glottal stop are mostly from Celan’s later work, many translated for the first time. Interestingly, other translations of Celan’s later work share elements with this one. Both Michael Hamburger and John Felstiner (whose biography, Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew, makes excellent companion reading) have produced versions whose broken rhythms and fragmented language suggest that Celan kept reducing, concentrating and disrupting his own relationship to language itself. His poems, as he aged and developed (and as his internal suffering accrued), apparently became starker and sparer on the page. Increasingly he seems determined to express the inexpressible, or at least its inexpressibility, perhaps one reason he’s so often described as "difficult".
Unique to the translations in Glottal Stop is their playfulness. McHugh’s own poetry seems to indicate a natural affinity with this poet of overturned language. Her poems are rife with puns and reversals, sleight of hand that naturally takes on darker tones in Celan, and she has obviously thrilled to the challenge of his word-play. It’s no coincidence that Celan should hoard double and multiple meanings. No language, after all, could be more loaded for him than his, the one he insisted on, and in the name of which his family was destroyed. With humility Popov/McHugh acknowledge that the tragic significance of his insistence cannot be replicated in English. As John Felstiner writes, the Reich organized its genocide of European Jewry by means of language; slogans, slurs, pseudo-scientific dogma, propaganda, euphemism, and the jargon that brought about every devastating ‘action,’ from the earliest racial "laws" through "special treatment in the camps to the last "resettlement" of Jewish orphans.
No writing could be less propagandistic, more stubbornly and purely communicative than Celan’s poetry: "Free of dross, free of dross." It brought him into direct conflict with Theodor Adorno, whose famous comment "After Auschwitz, to write a poem is barbaric," was taken at the time to refer to Celan’s best-known poem, “Death Fugue” (Todesfuge). Irrespective of this, Felstiner says, "Adorno…probably did not [yet] know Celan’s poem." The two began a lifelong argument they were never able to resolve (despite a semi-retraction on Adorno’s part in the 1960s). Adorno objected to poetry’s potential to impose meaning "through the aesthetic principle of stylization…" on what was meaningless, with the result that "it becomes transfigured [and] something of the horror is removed". And yet, as Felstiner shows, and Glottal Stop amply illustrates, where Celan is concerned nothing could be further from the truth. In the brokenness and jaggedness of his poems he rejects transfiguration strenuously—some lines consist of one half or scrap of a word, split so that the rest falls onto the next line ("her im/-mortal self-sick/song") —and insists on his right to say exactly what he means.
Popov and McHugh provide dense, essential notes without which no reader can understand every nuance. So is Celan a poet whose biography is vital to his art? Despite the fact that the poems in Glottal Stop have undeniable force before annotation, some of their force is inextricable from our knowledge of history, both general and specific to Celan. It is this history—including the murder of his parents, his forced labour, followed by displacement and personal anguish that ended eventually in suicide—which necessitates his "characteristic Celanian stutter, spelling—and stumbling at the incommensurability between pain and articulable language” (Popov/McHugh). The Celan of these poems is devoid of self-pity, of any desire to aestheticize pain. His steadfastness, his determined re-articulations are both thrilling and moving. We hear "The splintering echo, darkened/heading for/the brainstream". The final poem, quoted in full here, might be advice to himself:
Don’t sign your name
between worlds,
surmount
the manifold of meanings,
trust the tearstain,
learn to live.
No single poem can illustrate the full range of this book. Certain poems are cool and technological, others warm and full of religious feeling, and still others are both at once. Nothing is random: puns, one-word or half-word lines, startling line-breaks—all seem completely original and strangely familiar. The spate of Celan translation in recent years may be partly due to a quality that somehow speaks to modernity—as if he were looking and talking ahead, and now seems to belong to us. This possibility is touched on by Popov/McHugh in their notes and enhanced by their choice of certain words and images ("ignition key," "pressurized helmet,""sleep ward 1001".)
A reader needs to be tuned to Celan’s frequency—there are moments when the poems seem impenetrable, with or without notes. At another sitting it will be as if a hatch opens, and something profound but not mysterious appears. In his biography, Felstiner says of the later poems: "If not quite wordless his verse was growing more reticent and strange." It seems to me a singular achievement that Popov/McHugh’s translations evoke wordlessness yet turn strangeness into natural and direct speech. As Celan might have sounded to himself when, to quote one of McHugh’s own poems on another subject: "poetry//is what he thought, but did not say." Here, he says it. Diana Fitzgerald Bryden (Books in Canada) -- Books in Canada
Book Description
Rich new translations of one of the most important poets of our time.
Wet from the world
the scrapped taboos --
and all the bordercrossings between them,
pursuing
meaning, fleeing
meaning.
Paul Celan is widely recognized as the greatest and most studied postwar European poet. His poetry dominates the field in the aftermath of the Holocaust, at once demanding and highly rewarding. This new selection of translations of Celan's poems focuses on previously untranslated work and opens up facets of his oeuvre never before available to readers of English. Far from a literal rendering, these translations, called "perfect in language, music, and spirit" by Yehuda Amichai, work from the implied premise of what has perceptively been called Intention auf die Sprache, delivering the spirit of Celan's work -- his dense multilingual resonances, his brutal broken music, syntactic ruptures, and dizzying wordplay.
From the Publisher
5 1/2 x 8 1/2 trim. LC 00-009307
From the Inside Flap
"A wonderful, extremely significant book. This new translation has the bold music and expressionistic syntax that Celan's unique voice demands. The compounds and stretches and sound-tangles bring a startling poetic life to English." -- Robert Pinksy
About the Author
Nikolai Popov teaches English and Comparative Literature at the University of Washington in Seattle. A James Joyce scholar and translator, he co-translated with Heather McHugh a collection of the poems of Blaga Dimitrova (Wesleyan, 1989).
Heather McHugh is Milliman Distinguished Writer-in-Residence at the University of Washington. In addition to six acclaimed books of poetry and the collection of essays Broken English: Poetry and Partiality (Wesleyan, 1994), she has translated poems by Jean Follain and Euripides's Cyclops.
