Franz Kafka

Friday, October 30, 2020

Vor dem Gesetz (Before the Law), by Franz Kafka, translated in English, with Original Text in German

 

From "The Tales of Franz Kafka: English Translation With Original Text In German," available as e-book on Amazon KindleiPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Amazon and Lulu.

 


Before the Law

 


    Before the law stands a doorkeeper. A countryman comes to this doorkeeper and asks for permission to be granted access to the law. But the doorkeeper answers that, for now, it is not possible. Having reflected upon it, the man asks if that would be possible later on.  “Maybe,” says the doorkeeper, “but not now.” Since the doorway to the law, as always, is open, and the doorkeeper shifts a bit, the man stoops as to catch a glimpse through the open door. The doorkeeper notices it and guffaws, then says: “If it is so attractive, then try and go in, in spite of my denial. Watch out though: I am powerful. And I am only the last of all doorkeepers. Doorkeepers stand at the entry of each room, and each is more powerful than the previous one. Already the sight of the third doorkeeper is unbearable to myself.” The countryman had not anticipated such difficulties: the law, in his own view, shall be accessible to anyone. Yet, now, observing more closely the doorkeeper bundled in his fur, his great beak of a nose, the long and thin beard kept in the fashion of the Tartars, the man decides that it's in his own interest to wait until permission is given. The doorkeeper offers him a stool and makes him wait by the door. For days and years remains he seated right there. Many a time he tries to be let in, wearing the doorkeeper down with his prayers. The doorkeeper often puts him under interrogations, asking him about his country and many other things, but these are questions asked from a distance, the way great people do, and ultimately he always ends up telling that the entry is denied. The man, very well equipped when he began his journey, draws from all of his possessions, regardless how precious they can be, in attempt to corrupt the doorkeeper, who accepts all bribes, warning: “I only accept so that you shall not think you might have overlooked anything.” During all these years, the man observes almost incessantly the doorkeeper; he forgets that there are many others, and this very first one appears to him as the only obstacle to the law. He laments over his misfortune: in the first years, he does so aloud and disregardfully, then, as he grows old, by simply mumbling to himself. He grows dumb and, having studied the doorkeeper for long years, as he spots a flea on his fur's collar, he entreats even the flea to intercede so that the doorkeeper may change his mind. In the end, the man's eyesight becomes weak, and he wonders whether indeed everything has grown darker around him, or it's simply that his eyes are betraying him. Yet, now, in the darkness, he perceives an inextinguishable gleam through the chink the law's door. He has little left to live. In his mind, before his death, all the notions gathered in such a long time draw to a single question that was never asked to the doorkeeper; so he waves at him, for the stiffness that overwhelms his body does not allow him to get up. The doorkeeper has to greatly stoop down to him, since the difference in their heights has gradually changed to a disadvantage to the man. “What else do you want to know?” asks the doorkeeper, “you really are insatiable.”
    “All men strive to come to the law,” says the man, “then how comes that, in many years, other than me, no one has ever asked to enter?” The doorkeeper realizes how the man is at his very end, and in order to reach his already diminished sense of hearing, he shouts: “No one else could be allowed through this door, to you alone its access was reserved.  And now I go and close it shut.”




Vor dem Gesetz

 

 

Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter. Zu diesem Türhüter kommt ein Mann vom Lande und bittet um Eintritt in das Gesetz. Aber der Türhüter sagt, daß er ihm jetzt den Eintritt nicht gewähren könne. Der Mann überlegt und fragt dann, ob er also später werde eintreten dürfen. »Es ist möglich«, sagt der Türhüter, »jetzt aber nicht.« Da das Tor zum Gesetz offensteht wie immer und der Türhüter beiseite tritt, bückt sich der Mann, um durch das Tor in das Innere zu sehn. Als der Türhüter das merkt, lacht er und sagt: »Wenn es dich so lockt, versuche es doch, trotz meines Verbotes hineinzugehn. Merke aber: Ich bin mächtig. Und ich bin nur der unterste Türhüter. Von Saal zu Saal stehn aber Türhüter, einer mächtiger als der andere. Schon den Anblick des dritten kann nicht einmal ich mehr ertragen.« Solche Schwierigkeiten hat der Mann vom Lande nicht erwartet; das Gesetz soll doch jedem und immer zugänglich sein, denkt er, aber als er jetzt den Türhüter in seinem Pelzmantel genauer ansieht, seine große Spitznase, den langen, dünnen, schwarzen tatarischen Bart, entschließt er sich, doch lieber zu warten, bis er die Erlaubnis zum Eintritt bekommt. Der Türhüter gibt ihm einen Schemel und läßt ihn seitwärts von der Tür sich niedersetzen. Dort sitzt er Tage und Jahre. Er macht viele Versuche, eingelassen zu werden, und ermüdet den Türhüter durch seine Bitten. Der Türhüter stellt öfters kleine Verhöre mit ihm an, fragt ihn über seine Heimat aus und nach vielem andern, es sind aber teilnahmslose Fragen, wie sie große Herren stellen, und zum Schlusse sagt er ihm immer wieder, daß er ihn noch nicht einlassen könne. Der Mann, der sich für seine Reise mit vielem ausgerüstet hat, verwendet alles, und sei es noch so wertvoll, um den Türhüter zu bestechen. Dieser nimmt zwar alles an, aber sagt dabei: »Ich nehme es nur an, damit du nicht glaubst, etwas versäumt zu haben.« Während der vielen Jahre beobachtet der Mann den Türhüter fast ununterbrochen. Er vergißt die andern Türhüter, und dieser erste scheint ihm das einzige Hindernis für den Eintritt in das Gesetz. Er verflucht den unglücklichen Zufall, in den ersten Jahren rücksichtslos und laut, später, als er alt wird, brummt er nur noch vor sich hin. Er wird kindisch, und, da er in dem jahrelangen Studium des Türhüters auch die Flöhe in seinem Pelzkragen erkannt hat, bittet er auch die Flöhe, ihm zu helfen und den Türhüter umzustimmen. Schließlich wird sein Augenlicht schwach, und er weiß nicht, ob es um ihn wirklich dunkler wird, oder ob ihn nur seine Augen täuschen. Wohl aber erkennt er jetzt im Dunkel einen Glanz, der unverlöschlich aus der Türe des Gesetzes bricht. Nun lebt er nicht mehr lange. Vor seinem Tode sammeln sich in seinem Kopfe alle Erfahrungen der ganzen Zeit zu einer Frage, die er bisher an den Türhüter noch nicht gestellt hat. Er winkt ihm zu, da er seinen erstarrenden Körper nicht mehr aufrichten kann. Der Türhüter muß sich tief zu ihm hinunterneigen, denn der Größenunterschied hat sich sehr zuungunsten des Mannes verändert. »Was willst du denn jetzt noch wissen?« fragt der Türhüter, »du bist unersättlich. « »Alle streben doch nach dem Gesetz«, sagt der Mann, »wieso kommt es, daß in den vielen Jahren niemand außer mir Einlaß verlangt hat?« Der Türhüter erkennt, daß der Mann schon an seinem Ende ist, und, um sein vergehendes Gehör noch zu erreichen, brüllt er ihn an: »Hier konnte niemand sonst Einlaß erhalten, denn dieser Eingang war nur für dich bestimmt. Ich gehe jetzt und schließe ihn.«

 

From "The Tales of Franz Kafka: English Translation With Original Text In German," available as e-book on Amazon KindleiPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.  

Sunday, October 11, 2020

Ottobre (October) from the collection "Poesie," 1942, by Vincenzo Cardarelli, translated in English

 

From "Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Koboand as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.

October (Ottobre)

 

Once, it was in Summer,

it was at that fire, at those ardors,

that my imagination awakened.

I incline now towards Autumn

of a color that raptures;

I love the tired season

which has already harvested the grapes.

No other thing resembles me more,

nothing consoles me more,

than this air that odors

of must and wine,

of this old sun of October

shining in the plundered vineyards.

 

Unexpected Autumn sun,

shining as in a beyond world,

with tender perdition

and vagabond happiness,

you find us exhausted,

braced for the worst and with sorrowful souls.

This is precisely why we cherish you,

vague, surviving sun:

you know not how to bid us farewell

coming back every morning

like a renewed miracle,

the prettier the more you fade

and are about to expire.

And with these stunning days

you compose your own season

which is thoroughly a sweet agony.

 

From the collection "Poesie," 1942, by Vincenzo Cardarelli. 


From "Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Koboand as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.

Thursday, October 1, 2020

Baby Wailing (Vagito) by Giovanni Pascoli, “Myricae” (1891-1900)

 


The following translation of "Vagito" (Baby Wailing) by Giovanni Pascoli is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!) and  on Kobo.

 

Baby Wailing

Mommy...white, on a bed that is white,
you sleep. Who was that on your face composed that satisfied sorrow and that tired smile?

You sleep: around the languid pillows
all is turning white. Around you all things make small hushing signs.

And all turns into a dawn and all is silent. Is this the purpose, is this the beginning of a rite? Through a silence of white laces
speaks the mystery in a baby wailing sound.

From the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900) 

 

Vagito

Mammina... bianca sopra il letto bianco tu dormi. Chi sul volto ti compose
quel dolor pago e quel sorriso stanco?

Tu dormi: intorno al languido origliere tutto biancheggia. Intorno a te le cose fanno piccoli cenni di tacere.

E tutto albeggia e tutto tace. Il fine
è questo, è questo il cominciar d’un rito? Di tra un silenzio candido di trine
parla il mistero in suono di vagito.

From the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900)