Airmail (33 page)

I like your translation of “Walking Swiftly” (I’m not sure “promenad” is right—the title refers back to the swiftness with which the konstnaren walks to his ateljé in the last sentence).

The word 2x4’s you probably know—it is the standard word for the piece of wood roughly two inches thick by four inches high which are used for the inner skeleton of walls, and all such things. It’s there to contrast with stone and granite—and the numbers (2x4’s) makes it all still more nervous.

The “kejsaren” should suggest a Chinese emperor.

You can take out the colon after “anda” in the second sentence if you want to—I’ve done it in the English.

The hens should sound as if they are continuing a patrol (of watchfulness) which they have been doing as a gift for a million years or so. There is a tense change there: Round him the wasps kept guard, the hens continue their patrol (it comes into the
present
now), the oysters open and close all questions. (It is entirely in the present with the oysters.)

“Viljan” is burning in the sense that it is
ignited
—it is no longer cold, but has heat that it draws from its own burning...Savonarola’s will was a burning will.

You are right. It is about being middle aged!...if the necessary introversion has been held on to!...

We all send our love to you and Monica and the children. I notice we have with us one of the cups Monica gave us on our last trip...and the other day, poking about my record player, I found a package with 3 records in it! One was of the Västerås Choir!! It must be a gift from you or Monica! Thank you! How strange it was to hear them sing Hallelujah! They have the Swedish pronunciation of the “oo,” which transfers the whole song from Palestine instantly to Värmland—

Ingegerd Friberg did send me
Ett tärningskast
and it has my Montale piece in it—which I’ve been looking for a copy of in English to send you!

Thank you and Monica so much for those records!

Love,

   Robert

Middle aged American meditating in the north woods, trying to forget 2x4’s.

P.S. I will send you tomorrow a translation of the new cold wind poem!

Västerås Sept 19 -76

Dear Robert,

this is election day in Sweden, I have voted and I am waiting for the computers to start counting the votes. But 20% have voted by mail so the final outcome will not be clear until the day after tomorrow. I did not vote for Palme this time.

Thank you for working with “Övergångsstället.” I have the translation in Runmarö but I remember it, I think. It has a wonderful élan, typical of you. But I think there are slight liberties (misunderstandings?) here and there. That “gatan”...“följt mig så länge” does not mean that the street has been “dawdling.” I simply mean that 1: I have walked along the street for a long time before crossing it. 2: it is a street I’ve known since my childhood (actually it is “Skånegatan” in Stockholm South, where I lived as a child), so the street has been with me during my life. It is a day in March, in thaw time, the sun present after many weeks of grey weather. But still cold. Strong light. The traffic in the street is experienced as something almost organic, as a state of mind, full of energy but without purpose. It is a force without memory and without purpose (som ingenting minns och ingenting vill)—it has nothing to do with
my
memories and what
I
want. But the unborn forest under the ground has purpose and is waiting patiently. Then, when I cross, I find that, after all, there is a glimpse of perception in the street too, it is not just blind forces rushing by, it can see me, but only vaguely, because the street is so dim-sighted (like the eyes of certain animals living in caves etc.), it can only glimpse me in the moment when I am on fire with sunshine, and the sun itself is perceived by the street as a grey “nystan,” and here is a problem because “nystan” means a ball of yarn in Swedish, the English “ball” is so general. I am thinking of a ball of wool here. Is there an English word for that? Good luck!

What happened to your Sonnevi translations? Did you succeed? Translations, translations...I am touchy about that now. It is because of my opera translation, Janáček’s
Kátja Kabanová.
The Royal Opera accepted my first translation with pleasure but some singers complained and I had to change a lot of things. Then, 10 days ago, the stage director arrived at last, Herr Joachim Herz aus DDR (East Berlin, or Leipzig, I don’t remember...) and he started to change my translation without knowing Swedish! once again without telling me. By chance I was aware of it and rushed to the meeting. I was allowed to take part in my own translation for the remaining part—the last act—and I found it possible to work together with the authoritarian Prussian. It was necessary not to fall flat but to be very enthusiastic all the time, then I could convince him. But when I protested about the previous changes he had made he went furious, shouted “NOT ONE SINGLE SYLLABLE CAN BE CHANGED” and ran out. I was in a dilemma: should I withdraw and make a scandal or be patient? I succeeded in sneaking in some alterations in the score of the leading soprano and as almost 100% of my text for the last act was accepted (because I was there and could be enthusiastic in front of him) I decided to stay. I have never been on such a switchback railway as this opera work before—touring the U.S.A. is like living in a sleepy country boarding house compared to that.

I send you a prose piece too. “Mats” is Mats Dahlberg—who has written to you and also got some old
Fifties
from you—and “Laila” is his fiancée. They live in Molkom, Värmland, almost as pleasant as Norway, but a landscape partly destroyed by the big wood companies who clean-cut vast areas and use a lot of poison.

I would love to have a letter from you, Uncle!

Love

   Tomas

24 Sept., ’76

Dear Tomas,

Thank you for your letter! In the chaos of the summer, I’ve lost the Swedish for “Övergangsstället.” Would you send it to me once more? In return, I’m typing a tiny little
depressing
poem to overcome the good cheer caused by too many Eastern gurus and peanut Christians in this land. (The
debate
starts tonight.)

The Farallones are the Farallones islands near San Francisco, whose seals were clubbed to death in the 19th century. The second image is of a runaway team of horse pulling a wagon.

Here’s another:

Love from weak legs,

   Robert

P.S. I love your Mats prose poem so far! I’m reading it while listening to the Goldberg Variations!

Igor Kipnis!!!

Västerås 3-11-76

Dear Robert,

strange, I voted first for Helmut Schmidt in Germany, then for Fälldin in Sweden and yesterday for Jimmy Carter and I won all three times.

A young German poet and editor of
Akzente,
the only real literary magazine in West Germany, visited Västerås yesterday. His name is Michael Krüger. He wants to translate
Baltics
into German (yes,
Baltics
!) and we talked about the sad fact that
you
are not available in German. He wants to do something about it and I will remind him about that when we meet next time, in January. He is an honest man. I would like to bring a copy of
Morning Glory
when I visit him there in January, can you send me one? The Germans should read something beside Charles Olson.

My opera adventures never end. The premiere of
Kátja Kabanová
took place two weeks ago. Some days before a journalist in
Dagens Nyheter
had written that the opera had run into difficulties because my translation of
Kátja
turned out to be impossible to use. But a brave team of singers and Mr Joszef Cech had succeeded in the last moment to save the opera by changing my text entirely! Now that was a complete lie—I had from the beginning worked together with Cech and the singers and the problems at the end were caused by the DDR director who wanted changes in details because he did not know Swedish and knew my translation only from a word-by-word translation into his German made by a frightened girl who was good at German. I was furious for two days and wrote to the Information Boss of the opera, asking for an official reaction. He was all excuses but said it was useless to protest to DN. The journalist was a well known well meaning inventor of fables. His name was Marcus Boldeman. At the premiere Monica (in an African dress) and I were approached by a middle-aged lady and the following dialogue was heard.

How good to be back in simple surroundings again. No one could hear the text, by the way, the orchestra was too loud and the singers were acting too violently on the stage so they had no energy left for articulation.

It would be wonderful to hear from you again. What happens to my little godson?

Love

   Tomas

P.S. Here is a new copy of the street crossing poem.

[8-11-76]

Dear Robert, have a quick look at this! Wonderful poem. “Band” at the end is very general in Swedish. “Ordenband” would mean the ribbon attached to an order sign. Would be fine here.

Do you really mean that Europe is sober? Never been to France? And all that beer they consume in Munich.

Cheerio!

   Tomas

Västerås 11-11-76

Dear Robert,

it is a long time since you wrote to me. What will the Post Office Department think about you?

Here is a small poem of mine. About Schubert, especially his string quintet in C major and his 4-hand fantasia (opus 103) in f-minor.

I had a meeting yesterday with Roffe Aggestam and Börje Lindström. We decided to translate at least 8 more prose poems of yours. Deadline January 15. The little book will be printed and published in late spring. Translators: Tranströmer, Lindström and Söderberg (Lasse). I want to see a bunch of late prose poems from your hand, can you send me some meant to be published in the camphor gopher book? And very important: you should write a foreword, we would love to translate it (before Jan 15!) and print it. (Your mistranslated foreword to
Krig och tystnad
influenced some freaks over here, as you know.) If you don’t write a foreword we will give the offer to Elizabeth Bishop.

Love

   Tomas

Gunnar Harding wants badly to know IF you are translating poems from Sonnevi’s latest book or not. If not, don’t hesitate to tell Harding. You will be discreetly carried away and he will let the poems meet the next gladiator.

18 Nov., ’76

Dear Tomas,

I like your translation of “Frost”! The only faint error I notice is “landstiger”—it isn’t a going on land, an embarking, but a disembarking—an image of a boat leaving land in the dead of winter, the sailors’ hands freezing as they cast off the ropes holding them to land—

Europe is sober, in that it’s always correcting the United States! Now, now, no Vietnam adventures, that’s wrong, no you’re using the wrong spoon, your accent is wrong, your cars are too big...Europe is our superego!