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explained here is an introduction to the texts that follow. The first is an autobiographical page written by Bachmann at age 26, in which they appear in nuce the issues I just play, including the size historical, present in the last sentence. The poems translated versions of different cycles of his work in taking a few keys to his poetic topographies. The selection of pieces from "Songs in Flight" allows access to the way poetry Bachmann opens dialogue with tradition: the first poems reconverted to a single melody ice-fire opposition, distinctive poetry of Petrarch, the VII is a new approach to the epiphanic under the body, the latter returns to modulate the relationship between time, death and singing. Translate
always choose, especially in the case of Bachmann, who plays with different levels of language, with phrases resemantizing proverbial to which, with the various senses which contains a word or expression. By choosing, the translator often leaves illuminate one of the faces of the word, which is in shadow or obscured part of the original. But something remains, including some of the light lost by reflection or brightness passenger who nonetheless carries the text in the new language.
Ingeborg Bachman: Biographical Notes (1952) I spent my youth
in Carinthia in the south near the border in a valley that has two names, one German and one Slovenian. The house, which for years lived my ancestors - Austrian and Slovenian - today has a foreign sounding name. So close to the border is a frontier: the frontier of language. And I felt at home on either side, with stories of good and evil spirits of two and three countries, because behind the mountain, an hour away, is now Italy.
I think the narrowness of the valley and the conscience of the border printed in me nostalgia. When the war ended, I went and got full of impatience and expectation to Vienna, I imagined unattainable. Vienna became another country on a border between East and West, between a glorious past and a dark future. And although I later came to Paris and London, Germany and Italy, this means little, because in my memory the way from the valley to Vienna is always the longest.
Sometimes I wonder how I came to literature, having been raised in the countryside. I do not say exactly, just know that I started writing at an age at which children read the stories of Grimm, which I liked estarme along the embankment of the road letting my thoughts wander through cities and foreign countries unknown to the sea , which binds somewhere in the earth with the celestial sphere. Always dreamed of sea, sand and boats, but after the war came, and pushed in front of this fantastic world of dreams the real, which decisions are not dreaming. Later
happened much that one hardly dares to be desired: academic study, travel, collaboration in magazines and newspapers, and later the permanent job in radio. Current seasons of a life, interchangeable and can be attributed to a person or another, but life itself does not take his base in mediable or mediated.
remains the question of influences and models, by the literary climate that you feel you belong. For some years I read a lot, from among the new ones I liked were perhaps Gide, Valéry, Eluard and Yeats, and might have learned something from them. But deep down I still dominant in the rich world mythical representations of my country, part of Austria that just came true, a world where many languages \u200b\u200bare spoken and where are many borders. Writing poetry
I think the hardest thing, because it requires simultaneously solving the problems of the formal, theme and vocabulary, because it must obey the rhythm of the time but nevertheless put in the abundance of things old and new order to follow our heart, where is written the past, present and future.
versions
From: The time delayed (gestundete Die Zeit) (1953) The high burden
summer load and stowed, the boat's
sun early in the port, when your back
seagull cries.
summer load and stowed.
The early sun boat in the harbor, and lips
figurehead of the smile of lemur
not sail.
The early sun boat in the harbor.
When your back screaming gulls,
from the west sorted sinking;
you drown in the light with your eyes open when your back
seagull cries.
(Die große Fracht / / Die große verladen Fracht des Sommers ist, / das im Hafen liegt bereit Sonnenschiff, / wenn hinter dir und die Möwe stürzt Schreiter. / Die große verladen Fracht des Sommers ist. / / Das Sonnenschiff im Hafen liegt bereit, / und auf die Lippen der Galionsfiguren / tritt das unverhüllt Lemuren. Lächeln der Das im Hafen liegt bereit Sonnenschiff. / / Wenn hinter dir und die Möwe stürzt Schreiter / kommt aus dem Westen der Befehl zu sinker; / Augsburg öffnen doch wirst du im Licht ertrinken, / wenn hinter dir und die Möwe stürzt Schreiter.)
From: Poems 1957-1961 (Gedichte 1957-1961) Current
lived so long and so close to death that nobody
so I can share,
today I boot my part of the land;
sea will calm green
stuck my stake in the heart by me.
tin birds are rising up and smell of cinnamon!
Con mi tiempo estoy a solas asesino.
Nos tornamos crisálida en embriaguez y azules.
(flow / / So far in life and so close to death, / that I can with anyone about right, / I'll tear me from the ground my part, / / \u200b\u200bthe quiet ocean I shock the green wedge / right to the heart and Schwemm it myself. / / Zinnvögel rising and cinnamon odor! / With my time I'm murderer allein. / In noise and blue one we doll ourselves.)
explained here is an introduction to the texts that follow. The first is an autobiographical page written by Bachmann at age 26, in which they appear in nuce the issues I just play, including the size historical, present in the last sentence. The poems translated versions of different cycles of his work in taking a few keys to his poetic topographies. The selection of pieces from "Songs in Flight" allows access to the way poetry Bachmann opens dialogue with tradition: the first poems reconverted to a single melody ice-fire opposition, distinctive poetry of Petrarch, the VII is a new approach to the epiphanic under the body, the latter returns to modulate the relationship between time, death and singing. Translate
always choose, especially in the case of Bachmann, who plays with different levels of language, with phrases resemantizing proverbial to which, with the various senses which contains a word or expression. By choosing, the translator often leaves illuminate one of the faces of the word, which is in shadow or obscured part of the original. But something remains, including some of the light lost by reflection or brightness passenger who nonetheless carries the text in the new language.
Ingeborg Bachman: Biographical Notes (1952) I spent my youth
in Carinthia in the south near the border in a valley that has two names, one German and one Slovenian. The house, which for years lived my ancestors - Austrian and Slovenian - today has a foreign sounding name. So close to the border is a frontier: the frontier of language. And I felt at home on either side, with stories of good and evil spirits of two and three countries, because behind the mountain, an hour away, is now Italy.
I think the narrowness of the valley and the conscience of the border printed in me nostalgia. When the war ended, I went and got full of impatience and expectation to Vienna, I imagined unattainable. Vienna became another country on a border between East and West, between a glorious past and a dark future. And although I later came to Paris and London, Germany and Italy, this means little, because in my memory the way from the valley to Vienna is always the longest.
Sometimes I wonder how I came to literature, having been raised in the countryside. I do not say exactly, just know that I started writing at an age at which children read the stories of Grimm, which I liked estarme along the embankment of the road letting my thoughts wander through cities and foreign countries unknown to the sea , which binds somewhere in the earth with the celestial sphere. Always dreamed of sea, sand and boats, but after the war came, and pushed in front of this fantastic world of dreams the real, which decisions are not dreaming. Later
happened much that one hardly dares to be desired: academic study, travel, collaboration in magazines and newspapers, and later the permanent job in radio. Current seasons of a life, interchangeable and can be attributed to a person or another, but life itself does not take his base in mediable or mediated.
remains the question of influences and models, by the literary climate that you feel you belong. For some years I read a lot, from among the new ones I liked were perhaps Gide, Valéry, Eluard and Yeats, and might have learned something from them. But deep down I still dominant in the rich world mythical representations of my country, part of Austria that just came true, a world where many languages \u200b\u200bare spoken and where are many borders. Writing poetry
I think the hardest thing, because it requires simultaneously solving the problems of the formal, theme and vocabulary, because it must obey the rhythm of the time but nevertheless put in the abundance of things old and new order to follow our heart, where is written the past, present and future.
versions
From: The time delayed (gestundete Die Zeit) (1953) The high burden
summer load and stowed, the boat's
sun early in the port, when your back
seagull cries.
summer load and stowed.
The early sun boat in the harbor, and lips
figurehead of the smile of lemur
not sail.
The early sun boat in the harbor.
When your back screaming gulls,
from the west sorted sinking;
you drown in the light with your eyes open when your back
seagull cries.
(Die große Fracht / / Die große verladen Fracht des Sommers ist, / das im Hafen liegt bereit Sonnenschiff, / wenn hinter dir und die Möwe stürzt Schreiter. / Die große verladen Fracht des Sommers ist. / / Das Sonnenschiff im Hafen liegt bereit, / und auf die Lippen der Galionsfiguren / tritt das unverhüllt Lemuren. Lächeln der Das im Hafen liegt bereit Sonnenschiff. / / Wenn hinter dir und die Möwe stürzt Schreiter / kommt aus dem Westen der Befehl zu sinker; / Augsburg öffnen doch wirst du im Licht ertrinken, / wenn hinter dir und die Möwe stürzt Schreiter.)
From: Poems 1957-1961 (Gedichte 1957-1961) Current
lived so long and so close to death that nobody
so I can share,
today I boot my part of the land;
sea will calm green
stuck my stake in the heart by me.
tin birds are rising up and smell of cinnamon!
Con mi tiempo estoy a solas asesino.
Nos tornamos crisálida en embriaguez y azules.
(flow / / So far in life and so close to death, / that I can with anyone about right, / I'll tear me from the ground my part, / / \u200b\u200bthe quiet ocean I shock the green wedge / right to the heart and Schwemm it myself. / / Zinnvögel rising and cinnamon odor! / With my time I'm murderer allein. / In noise and blue one we doll ourselves.)
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