Иному в незнакомый мир
Заманчив переход,
По-детски безрассудно он
На холм взойти дерзнёт –
Ему откроется чудес
Невиданный исток,
Награда ль это, если путь
К вершине одинок?
Emily Dickinson
+ 1603 +
The going from a world we know
To one a wonder still
Is like the child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill,
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone?
c.1884
Эмили Дикинсон. J 1603 Иному в незнакомый мир...
© Copyright: Наталия Корди, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110070607599
Свидетельство о публикации №110070607599
Рецензии
Наталия, я с удовольствием читаю Ваши переводы из Дикинсон, мне кажется, Вам они удаются, чего не скажешь о других, которые безуспешно бьются в попытках проникнуть в ее фантастический мир. Как это трудно, знаю сам, кое-что перевел, но пока не публиковал. Что касается этого стихотворения (1603), то , скорее всего, в концовке Дикинсон имела в виду не одинокость пути, а одиночество (возможно, души) в неведомом мире, что не компенсирует радость и восторг перехода.
Юрий Ерусалимский 19.11.2011 21:24 • Заявить о нарушении
Юрий Ерусалимский 19.11.2011 21:24 • Заявить о нарушении
Благодарю, Юрий! Я стараюсь перевести так, чтобы осталась недосказанность Дикинсон. Если не получается оставляю и потом снова возвращаюсь к переводу.
Это стихотворение Дикинсон отправила в письме 907, в котором речь идёт о смерти Гилберта. Привожу его полностью:
Dear Cousins,
I hope you heard Mr. Sanborn's lecture. (1) My Republican was borrowed before I waked, to read till my own dawn, which is rather tardy, for I have been quite sick, and could claim the immortal reprimand, "Mr. Lamb, you come down very late in the morning." (2) Eight Saturday noons ago, I was making a loaf of cake with Maggie, when I saw a great darkness coming and knew no more until late at night. I woke to find Austin and Vinnie and a strange physician (3) bending over me, and supposed I was dying, or had died, all was so kind and hallowed. I had fainted and lain unconscious for the first time in my life. Then I grew very sick and gave the others much alarm, but am now staying. The doctor calls it "revenge of the nerves"; but who but Death had wronged them? Fanny's dear note has lain unanswered for this long season, though its "Good-night, my dear," warmed me to the core. I have all to say, but little strength to say it; so we must talk by degrees. I do want to know about Loo, what pleases her most, book or tune or friend.
I am glad the housekeeping is kinder; it is a prickly art. Maggie is with us still, warm and wild and mighty, and we have a gracious boy at the barn. (4) We remember you always, and one or the other often comes down with a "we dreamed of Fanny and Loo last night"; then that day we think we shall hear from you, for dreams are couriers.
The little boy we laid away never fluctuates, (5) and his dim society is companion still. But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory's fog is rising.
The going from a world we know
To one a wonder still
Is like the child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill,
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone? (6)
Vinnie's love and Maggie's, and mine is presupposed.
Emily.
Наталия Корди 20.11.2011 21:27 Заявить о нарушении
Это стихотворение Дикинсон отправила в письме 907, в котором речь идёт о смерти Гилберта. Привожу его полностью:
Dear Cousins,
I hope you heard Mr. Sanborn's lecture. (1) My Republican was borrowed before I waked, to read till my own dawn, which is rather tardy, for I have been quite sick, and could claim the immortal reprimand, "Mr. Lamb, you come down very late in the morning." (2) Eight Saturday noons ago, I was making a loaf of cake with Maggie, when I saw a great darkness coming and knew no more until late at night. I woke to find Austin and Vinnie and a strange physician (3) bending over me, and supposed I was dying, or had died, all was so kind and hallowed. I had fainted and lain unconscious for the first time in my life. Then I grew very sick and gave the others much alarm, but am now staying. The doctor calls it "revenge of the nerves"; but who but Death had wronged them? Fanny's dear note has lain unanswered for this long season, though its "Good-night, my dear," warmed me to the core. I have all to say, but little strength to say it; so we must talk by degrees. I do want to know about Loo, what pleases her most, book or tune or friend.
I am glad the housekeeping is kinder; it is a prickly art. Maggie is with us still, warm and wild and mighty, and we have a gracious boy at the barn. (4) We remember you always, and one or the other often comes down with a "we dreamed of Fanny and Loo last night"; then that day we think we shall hear from you, for dreams are couriers.
The little boy we laid away never fluctuates, (5) and his dim society is companion still. But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory's fog is rising.
The going from a world we know
To one a wonder still
Is like the child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill,
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone? (6)
Vinnie's love and Maggie's, and mine is presupposed.
Emily.
Наталия Корди 20.11.2011 21:27 Заявить о нарушении
Спасибо за письмо, которое Вы мне переслали. "dreams are couriers",
"Memory's fog is rising" - она поэт во всем, и в письмах тоже. Концовка стиха все-таки туманна, толкования, наверное, могут быть разные.
Юрий Ерусалимский 21.11.2011 17:02 Заявить о нарушении
"Memory's fog is rising" - она поэт во всем, и в письмах тоже. Концовка стиха все-таки туманна, толкования, наверное, могут быть разные.
Юрий Ерусалимский 21.11.2011 17:02 Заявить о нарушении
На это произведение написаны 3 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.