In my experience, Americans expats see themselves as cultural ambassadors, at least to a certain extent. As distraught as I was after the election, the however-am-I-going-to-explain-this-to-the-Germans-for-four-years feeling was certainly one small part of the pit in my chest. And in those first few weeks and months when Barack Obama was still my president–in addition to spending hours googling images of cats being cute and scouring newspapers and magazines for reassurance that the world wasn’t ending–I turned to art and literature as an escape.<\/p>\n
One afternoon’s session of wikipedia link surfing eventually led me to Scott Horton’s translation of Brecht’s\u00a0An die Nachgeborenen<\/em>\u00a0in Harper’s Bazaar<\/a>. It’s an excellent poem and Horton’s piece is an excellent translation on many levels. All the same, my thoughts immediately wandered to John Felstiner’s translations of Paul Celan, which I’d studied in college… might I have been onto something?<\/p>\n Felstiner<\/a>, when it comes to translating, was, to put it plainly, a total beast. And translating poetry is, in the words of my former professor, the\u00a0K\u00f6nigsdiziplin (supreme discipline)\u00a0<\/em>when it comes to translatins<\/i>. For those unfamiliar with his work I would very roughly (and inadequately) describe his approach to translating Celan as follows: because a translation will always come up short as something will inevitably be „lost in translation“, translate as little as possible. Retain the original whenever and wherever possible, from the word order to the words themselves in some instances (see his masterful translation of Todesfuge<\/a>), etc.<\/p>\n This approach, you’ll note, is the polar opposite of transcreation. Producing a transcreation involves frequent and significant departures from the original text (a good transcreation repackages information in order to produce something that is readable, natural and appealing–the last thing you would want is a word-for-word translation).<\/p>\n In any case, I just couldn’t get Brecht’s An die Nachgeborenen <\/em>off my mind. And to keep my doomsday visions at bay, I set out to produce my own translation inspired by Felstiner’s approach. Horton’s more creative method left plenty of room to produce something closer to the original, which you will find (and hopefully enjoy) below.<\/p>\n If you’re unfamiliar with this particular piece by Brecht, I suggest reading Horton’s succinct and insightful comments at the end of the piece published in Harper’s <\/a>for context.<\/p>\n And with no further ado (first the German, then the English):<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I<\/p>\n Wirklich, ich lebe in finsteren Zeiten!<\/p>\n Das arglose Wort ist t\u00f6richt. Eine glatte Stirn Was sind das f\u00fcr Zeiten, wo Es ist wahr: ich verdiene noch meinen Unterhalt Man sagt mir: i\u00df und trink du! Sei froh, da\u00df du hast! Ich w\u00e4re gerne auch weise II<\/p>\n In die St\u00e4dte kam ich zu der Zeit der Unordnung Mein Essen a\u00df ich zwischen den Schlachten Die Stra\u00dfen f\u00fchrten in den Sumpf zu meiner Zeit Die Kr\u00e4fte waren gering. Das Ziel III<\/p>\n Ihr, die ihr auftauchen werdet aus der Flut Gingen wir doch, \u00f6fter als die Schuhe die L\u00e4nder wechselnd Dabei wissen wir ja: Ihr aber, wenn es soweit sein wird <\/p>\n —–<\/p>\n I<\/p>\n Truly, I live in dark times!<\/p>\n The harmless word is foolish. An unfurrowed brow<\/p>\n Points to apathy. He who laughs<\/p>\n Has not yet heard<\/p>\n The terrible news.<\/p>\n What times are these, in which<\/p>\n A talk about trees is all but a crime<\/p>\n For it implies we say nothing about so many others.<\/p>\n He who goes quietly across the road,<\/p>\n Is surely no longer reachable for his friends<\/p>\n Who are in need?<\/p>\n It is true: I merely earn my keep<\/p>\n But, believe me: that is just a coincidence. Nothing<\/p>\n That I do gives me the right to eat my fill.<\/p>\n By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold,<\/p>\n I am lost.)<\/p>\n They tell me: eat and drink! Be glad to be among the haves!<\/p>\n But how can I eat and drink when<\/p>\n I take what I eat from the starving and<\/p>\n Those who have died of thirst go without my glass of water?<\/p>\n And yet I eat and drink.<\/p>\n I would gladly also be wise.<\/p>\n In the old books is written what wisdom is:<\/p>\n To keep oneself out of the strife of the world<\/p>\n To live out the short time one has<\/p>\n Without fear<\/p>\n To dispense with violence<\/p>\n To repay evil with good \u2013<\/p>\n The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires,<\/p>\n But to forget them.<\/p>\n Yet these things I cannot do:<\/p>\n Truly, I live in dark times!<\/p>\n II<\/p>\n Into the cities I came in a time of anarchy<\/p>\n As hunger reigned.<\/p>\n Among men I came in a time of turmoil<\/p>\n And I rose up with them.<\/p>\n And so passed<\/p>\n The time given to me on earth.<\/p>\n My food I ate amid the slaughter.<\/p>\n To sleep I laid down among the murderers.<\/p>\n I was wont to love with abandon<\/p>\n And I regarded nature with impatience.<\/p>\n And so passed<\/p>\n The time given to me on earth.<\/p>\n The streets led into the swamp in my time.<\/p>\n The tongue betrayed me to the slaughterers.<\/p>\n I was capable of little. But the rulers<\/p>\n Sat more confidently without me, that I hoped.<\/p>\n And so passed<\/p>\n The time given to me on earth.<\/p>\n The powers were limited.<\/p>\n The destination<\/p>\n Lay far off in the distance<\/p>\n It was distinctly visible, though for me<\/p>\n scarcely to be reached.<\/p>\n And so passed<\/p>\n The time given to me on earth.<\/p>\n III<\/p>\n You, who shall emerge from the flood<\/p>\n In which we have gone under,<\/p>\n Remember<\/p>\n When you speak of our weaknesses,<\/p>\n Also the dark time<\/p>\n That you have escaped.<\/p>\n Go forth we did, changing more often than our shoes our country<\/p>\n Through the wars of the classes, despairing<\/p>\n When there was only injustice and no revolt.<\/p>\n And yet we know:<\/p>\n Also the hatred of the reprehensible<\/p>\n Distorts the features.<\/p>\n Also the anger at injustice<\/p>\n Makes the voice grow hoarse. Oh we<\/p>\n Who wished to sow the seeds of brotherhood<\/p>\n Could not ourselves be brotherly.<\/p>\n But you, when at last the time comes<\/p>\n That man is a helper to his fellow man,<\/p>\n Remember us<\/p>\n With leniency.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In my experience, Americans expats see themselves as cultural ambassadors, at least to a certain extent. As distraught as I was after the election, the however-am-I-going-to-explain-this-to-the-Germans-for-four-years feeling was certainly one small part of the pit in my chest. And in those first few weeks and months when Barack Obama was still my president–in addition to … Continue reading Bertolt Brecht’s An die Nachgeborenen: a translation<\/span><\/a><\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\n\n{excerpt}\n\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[273],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2850","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog","no-featured-image"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t
\nDeutet auf Unempfindlichkeit hin. Der Lachende
\nHat die furchtbare Nachricht
\nNur noch nicht empfangen.<\/p>\n
\nEin Gespr\u00e4ch \u00fcber B\u00e4ume fast ein Verbrechen ist
\nWeil es ein Schweigen \u00fcber so viele Untaten einschlie\u00dft!
\nDer dort ruhig \u00fcber die Stra\u00dfe geht
\nIst wohl nicht mehr erreichbar f\u00fcr seine Freunde
\nDie in Not sind?<\/p>\n
\nAber glaubt mir: das ist nur ein Zufall. Nichts
\nVon dem, was ich tue, berechtigt mich dazu, mich satt zu essen.
\nZuf\u00e4llig bin ich verschont. (Wenn mein Gl\u00fcck aussetzt
\nBin ich verloren.)<\/p>\n
\nAber wie kann ich essen und trinken, wenn
\nIch es dem Hungernden entrei\u00dfe, was ich esse, und
\nMein Glas Wasser einem Verdurstenden fehlt?
\nUnd doch esse und trinke ich.<\/p>\n
\nIn den alten B\u00fcchern steht, was weise ist:
\nSich aus dem Streit der Welt halten und die kurze Zeit
\nOhne Furcht verbringen
\nAuch ohne Gewalt auskommen
\nB\u00f6ses mit Gutem vergelten
\nSeine W\u00fcnsche nicht erf\u00fcllen, sondern vergessen
\nGilt f\u00fcr weise.
\nAlles das kann ich nicht:
\nWirklich, ich lebe in finsteren Zeiten!<\/p>\n
\nAls da Hunger herrschte.
\nUnter die Menschen kam ich zu der Zeit des Aufruhrs
\nUnd ich emp\u00f6rte mich mit ihnen.
\nSo verging meine Zeit
\nDie auf Erden mir gegeben war.<\/p>\n
\nSchlafen legt ich mich unter die M\u00f6rder
\nDer Liebe pflegte ich achtlos
\nUnd die Natur sah ich ohne Geduld.
\nSo verging meine Zeit
\nDie auf Erden mir gegeben war.<\/p>\n
\nDie Sprache verriet mich dem Schl\u00e4chter
\nIch vermochte nur wenig. Aber die Herrschenden
\nSa\u00dfen ohne mich sicherer, das hoffte ich.
\nSo verging meine Zeit
\nDie auf Erden mir gegeben war.<\/p>\n
\nLag in gro\u00dfer Ferne
\nEs war deutlich sichtbar, wenn auch f\u00fcr mich
\nKaum zu erreichen.
\nSo verging meine Zeit
\nDie auf Erden mir gegeben war.<\/p>\n
\nIn der wir untergegangen sind
\nGedenkt
\nWenn ihr von unseren Schw\u00e4chen sprecht
\nAuch der finsteren Zeit
\nDer ihr entronnen seid.<\/p>\n
\nDurch die Kriege der Klassen, verzweifelt
\nWenn da nur Unrecht war und keine Emp\u00f6rung.<\/p>\n
\nAuch der Ha\u00df gegen die Niedrigkeit
\nVerzerrt die Z\u00fcge.
\nAuch der Zorn \u00fcber das Unrecht
\nMacht die Stimme heiser. Ach, wir
\nDie wir den Boden bereiten wollten f\u00fcr Freundlichkeit
\nKonnten selber nicht freundlich sein.<\/p>\n
\nDa\u00df der Mensch dem Menschen ein Helfer ist
\nGedenkt unsrer
\nMit Nachsicht.<\/p>\n