George Steiner within the instances Literary Supplement
Anne Carson’s is one of the so much creative, astringent sensibilities in sleek letters. Her paintings encompasses classical and philological erudition, poetry, feedback and translation. Her meditation on Simonides, Paul Celan and the humanities of remembrance is masterly. lower than licence, because it have been, to Ezra Pound, Carson has “translated” the Greek tragic poets and Catullus. Her Sappho might be the main incisive we've. Intertextuality, university, declared and covert citations are instrumental and infrequently enlightening in her “decreations”. Carson’s strategies of montage enlist opera libretti, screenplays, oratorios and philosophical arguments. Pascal is in counterpoint to Artaud; Hephaistos dances a “Hunger Tango”; Gertrude Stein, a titular impact, and Abelard meet. Beckett is pervasive, as are the terrors of emptiness in Antonioni. The reader, the listener is provoked and challenged to the maximum. An Anne Carson build is a palimpsest drawing us into an opaque, turbulent vortex.
It isn't really tough to conjecture what impulses directed her to Antigone. A defiant yet ironized feminism is operative in Carson, as is the subject of singular, unquenchable love among sister and brother. In Nox, an assemblage either extra and no more than a ebook, she erected a baroque monument to her misplaced brother. She has given voice to Electra’s pain for Orestes “screaming in translation”. Now she turns to Antigone’s non-negotiable bond with the unburied Polyneices.
At durations, lightning does strike. Polyneices has been left “sweet sorrymeat for the little lusts of birds”. Fatality has made up of Antigone “Father’s daughter daughter’s brother sister’s mom mother’s son . . . . Doubled tripled degraded in each direction”. Antigone was once “the baby in her birdgrief / The fowl in her childreftgrave-cry howling and cursing”. “Zeus you win constantly win / the full oxygen of strength / Belongs to you / Sleep can't grab it / Time doesn't tire it / Your Mt Olympus glows like one white stone / round this legislations: / not anything giant enters the lives of mortals with out ruin”. Kreon’s “I have demise to do”. The refrain witnesses Antigone’s soul “blowing apart”. The Messenger’s narrative to Eurydice is completely pitched:
Wish i'll say i didn't see the stones shrieking
The lady placing
The boy a bloody lung the
Father on his knees the bolt leaving the wall
sword sinking as much as its personal mouth O my Queen
I didn't see dying marry them ultimately
Oh so shyly
But I did see it.
Kreon ends “perfectly mixed with pain”. Antigone’s infamous apologia, lengthy held to be a later insertion, is deftly certified: “A husband or a baby may be changed / yet who can develop me a brand new brother / is that this a unusual argument, Kreon proposal so yet I don’t be aware of, the phrases develop wrong”. whilst wreck descends on our precarious lives “It comes tolling over the generations / It comes rolling the black evening salt up from the sea ground / And your entire thrashed coats groan”. A pointed argument, a dialectical duel is “marrow as opposed to marrow”.
Translation may still embrace an act of due to the unique. it may have fun its personal dependence on its resource. It concentrates scruple and belief, besides the fact that recreative or anarchic its instincts. it's an informing craft which, occasionally enigmatically, unearths inside or provides to the unique what was once already there – quite the place the textual content has been translated, imitated, tailored a hundredfold. Anne Carson has frequently accomplished this exigent perfect. yet now not this time.
Here, the voice-overs by way of Hegel, Virginia Woolf and Bertolt Brecht are a facile diversion. Kreon’s “new powerboat”, Antigone’s “Bingo”, her wish “to lie upon my brother’s physique thigh to thigh” are vulgarities which subvert this so much grownup, unsparingly formal and radiant of masterpieces. encouraged by way of Hölderlin’s idiosyncratic yet incomparable rendition, Heidegger declared the recognized choral ode at the nature of guy to be the foundational assertion in Western civilization. Elizabeth Wyckoff’s model, one amongst such a lot of, is lucidly attentive. Why Carson’s “customers” rather than “man”? Why this “hilarious cantering” or the all yet overall omission of the cardinal subject, that of the unhoused wanderer (apolis), outcast from the civic fireplace – a subject matter which crystallizes the Sophoclean interpreting of the human condition?
Time and back the sophisticated complexity, the lyric poise of Sophocles’ tragic idiom are sacrificed to populist witticisms: “Okay Teirisias, aspect video game Match”. accordingly the not easy intricacy of the conflicts among private and non-private, legislation and justice, among generations, among women and men, among the archaic and the institutional that have fuelled debate and beauty over the millennia, are slighted or patronized. An intricacy, additionally, inseparable from the sign up of voices, from the polyphony – prosodic, grammatical, stylistic – within the Greek. it's those translation or mimesis needs to confront.
Anne Carson’s colophon is recognized: she “teaches old Greek for a living”. one could in simple terms envy her scholars. (Or may still one?)
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We have our dreams. "To the steppes of China we bequeath our neighing horses, and to Georgia, our spears. We'll build a house of gold from here to the Himalayas. We'll sail our flags in Samarkand. We'll tread the treasured mosses of the earth. We'll bless our blood with roses. We'll wash the day of stains and walk on stones as we would walk on silk. "This is the only way. For this we'll lie with lightning and anoint the mildewed earth until the cries of birth resound, resound, resound. "Nothing can stop us.
Your banishment and mine are one. Your banishment and mine and the banishment of heroes are one. Your banishment and mine and the banishment of heroes and the banishment of love and glory are one. What is it we love or fear but shadows of ourselves? When I recall your suffering, my phoenix, I forget my own. No mother held you when you left until you burned for breath. No father blessed your exile in his heart before you saw it born in flame with each horizon. I've left. I've left my mother. I've left my mother on a mat of straw to grieve my going.
I want to pray to gods that never heard of prayer. Beirut is invisible. Nothing blossoms on its mountains, and nothing blooms on mine. In the month of figs and apples, locusts shall devour my fields.  Barren and alone in orchards, in sun and after sun, I walk Beirut and never see it. I claim Beirut and cannot flee it. As the day passes, I pass, but I am elsewhere. 3. These days are mounds of skulls, rubbish for mongrels. Without a cross they welcome God and chant the dead unblessed to burial.