Writer without Words: Six Short Short Stories
Translated from the Serbian by Ellen Elias-Bursać
Pisac bez reči
Jednog dana, pisac otkriva da nije više u stanju ništa da napiše. Šta god pokuša, kojim god putem krene, ne uspeva da stigne do celovite rečenice. U prvi mah, pisac se ne predaje i pokušava bezbroj puta da sastavi makar jednu prihvatljivu rečenicu, ali reči se odupiru, odbijaju da ga slušaju ili se uopšte ne odazivaju na njegove usplahirane pozive, i pisac polako popušta, diže ruke, pravi se da je nezainteresovan, nadajući se da će se reči prevariti i doći da vide šta je s njim, zašto ga nema. Ali reči su lukave, reči su prošle sito i rešeto i ne pada im na kraj pameti da se liše novostečene slobode. I dok one veselo trče i dobacuju se uskličnicima, pisac pomišlja da postane mimičar. Ali ni tamo ga ne primaju, odvratni su im onemeli pisci, i tako piscu ne preostaje ništa drugo nego da se zaposli u zoološkom vrtu. I eno, tamo je, hrani pingvine.
A Writer without Words
A writer, one day, discovers he is no longer capable of writing. No matter what he tries, what path he follows, he cannot find his way to a full sentence. At first, the writer refuses to succumb and tries again and again to pull together at least one viable sentence, but the words resist, they refuse to obey, they respond not at all to his anxious calls, so the writer gradually gives in, throws up his hands, feigns disinterest, hoping the words will be duped into tiptoeing back to see what’s up with him, why he’s not around. But words are sly, words have been through the mill and the last thing they’re willing to do is relinquish their newly won freedom. While they romp about and fling exclamation points, the writer considers becoming a mime. But the mimes don’t welcome him in, they find mute poets disturbing, so the writer has no choice but to find work at a zoo. There he is, feeding the penguins.
Prevodioci su nesrećni ljudi
U istoriji je zabeleženo mnoštvo susreta vladara ili generala koji nisu mogli neposredno da komuniciraju, jer nisu vladali jezikom svojih sagovornika. Nikada, međutim, historija ne beleži da li su uz njih bili prevodioci, ostavljajući nam tako da zamišljamo neme vladare i generale koje prevrću očima, češu se ili lupkaju prstima po kolenima dok čekaju da istekne vreme predviđeno za njihov susret. Prevodioci za to vreme čuče u senci drveta i gledaju kako se spušta noć.
Translators Are Unhappy People
History has recorded a multitude of encounters between sovereigns or generals who were unable to speak directly to each other, because they couldn’t speak each others’ languages. Never, however, has history recorded that there were people there translating for them, leaving us saddled with images of mute sovereigns and generals who roll their eyes, scratch their heads or drum their fingers on their knees while waiting for the end of the time planned for the meeting. The translators meanwhile crouch in the shade of a tree and watch night fall.
Rečenica ponovo
Ponovo, posle mnogo godina, rečenica, i to ista, kao da se nikad ranije nije pojavila, kao da prvi put stiže sa velike udaljenosti i pokušava da kaže nešto u šta niko ionako ne veruje, a kako i da joj veruju kad između njenih odlazaka i povratka ne prođe dovoljno vremena ili, možda, naprotiv, kako neki kažu, prođe previše vremena, tako da se do kraja ne zna ko je u pravu, oni koji tvrde da tekst čita sebe ili oni koji misle da ga čita neko drugi, sve je moguće u toj rečenici, pa čak i da to ne bude ona ista rečenica, već neka koja je, ko zna kada, počela da igra ulogu prve rečenice, da se pretvara da dolazi i odlazi kada to ona hoće, a sve sa jednim ciljem, koji zapravo nije još nijednom rekla, odnosno ponudila na čitanje, budući da rečenice, same za sebe, nikada ne govore, da uvek ćute, spremne da zavole nečije usne, uverene da su usne ono što njima, rečenicama, nedostaje, pa tako i ovoj rečenici, koja promiče neizgovorena i, po svemu sudeći, uopšte ne namerava da stane, već će nastaviti da se kreće, pravdajući to potragom za smislom, za jezikom, za usnama, gornjom i donjom, koje odavde liče na školjku, a odande, iz blizine, ne liče ni na šta, kao ni ova rečenica.
A Sentence, Again
Again, after many years, a sentence, the very same one, as if it has never before appeared, as if this is its first time to come from a vast distance, saying something nobody believes anyway, and how can they believe it when not enough time has passed between its departures and return, or is it the other way around, as some claim, that too much time has passed, so all the way to the end no one knows who is right, those who say the text reads itself or those who think someone else is reading it, everything is possible in that sentence, even that it not be the same sentence, but one which, who knows when, began to play the role of the first sentence, to pretend that it comes and goes as it pleases, and all with a goal never voiced, or rather offered for reading, since sentences, on their own, never actually voice anything, they are always silent, poised to compel a speaker's lips, convinced that lips are what they, the sentences, lack, and so it goes with this sentence that whisks by, unspoken, and, judging by everything, does not intend to stop, but on it goes, justifying this as a search for meaning, for language, for lips, an upper lip and a lower lip, which have long resembled a seashell, and from there, from close up, look like nothing, like only this sentence.
Mala svetlost
Kada oseti da se u njemu upalila mala svetlost, pisac počinje da piše priču. Piše brzo, jer ne zna koliko će mala svetlost da gori. Nekad utrne posle nekoliko trenutaka, nekad ostaje da gori sve dok pisac ne napiše poslednju rečenicu i gasi se kada stavi tačku. Nekad, međutim, umesto male svetlosti rasplamsa se pravi požar, a pisac ne zna šta pre da uradi: da li da nastavi da piše ili da spasava ono što je do tada napisao?
A Small Light
When he feels a small light switch on inside, the writer starts writing a story. He writes quickly, because he doesn’t know how long the small light will stay lit. Sometimes it goes out after only a few moments, sometimes it keeps burning until the writer writes the last sentence and dies just as he inserts the final punctuation point. Sometimes, however, instead of remaining a small light, it catches fire and swells to a blaze, and the writer doesn’t know what to do first: keep writing or salvage what he’s written so far.
Lepota
Kada se u utorak predveče u Zemunu, u šest sati, dok je sekla pomorandže za voćnu salatu, Miomirka Janković posekla, zahvativši vrhom sečiva jagodicu na kažiprstu, onda zastenjala a potom se zagledala u grimizne kapi krvi, tada, dakle, ona nije mogla da zna da se u tom času, samo na drugom kraju sveta, u Buenos Airesu, gdje je popodne tek načinjalo isti taj dan, Vilma Mesaroš, koja je nedavno pristigla iz Mađarske, ubola iglom u prst dok je ušivala dugme na čipkanoj bluzi, onda zastenjala i potom se zagledala u grimiznu kap krvi, pomislivši da nikad nije videla nešto tako lepo, i ne znajući da je to isto pomislila Miomirka Janković dok je preturala po ladici kuhinjskog stola u potrazi za hanzaplastom, koji je Vilma Mesaroš, mlađa i brža, već stavila, premda sasvim nepotrebno, na svoj prst.
Beauty
When, while slicing oranges for a fruit salad on Tuesday evening at six o’clock in Zemun, Miomirka Janković cut herself, nicking the tip of her index finger with the point of the knife and then moaned aloud, and then stared at the crimson drop of blood, never could she have known that at that very moment on the other side of the world, in Buenos Aires, where the afternoon of that same day was only beginning, Vilma Mesaroš, who had rececntly arrived there from Hungary, pricked her finger with a needle while sewing a button onto a lace blouse, then moaned aloud, and then stared at the crimson drop of blood, thinking she’d never seen anything so beautiful, without knowing that Miomirka Janković had the same thought as she rummaged through the kitchen table drawer for a Band-Aid, while Vilma Mesaroš, younger and more adept, had already, though unnecessarily, wrapped one around her finger.
Dolazak ćutanja
Branio se prvo rečima. Posle je odbranu zasnovao na tišini: ćutao je i odbijao da se oglasi. Na kraju je pokušao da piše o tome, i napisao je celu knjigu, ali niko mu nije verovao da je sve to sam uradio. Ponovo je morao da se brani rečima, ali sad je s nestrpljenjem očekivao dolazak ćutanja, jer se radovao trenutku kad će ponovo početi da piše knjigu.
The Arrival of Silence
He first defended himself with words. Later his defense was steeped in silence: he was silent and refused to make a sound. In the end he tried to write about this, and wrote a whole book, but nobody believed he’d done it all himself. Again he had to defend himself with words, but now he waited impatiently for the silence to come, because he looked forward to the moment when he’d again begin to write a book.
David Albahari was born in Serbia where he now lives. He lived for many years in Canada. He has published thirteen books of short stories, fifteen novels, six books of essays, a book of three short plays, and two books for children, many of which have been translated into other languages. Of these, two collections of his short stories, Words Are Something Else and Learning Cyrillic, have appeared in English, as well as the novels Tsing, Bait, Snow Man, Globetrotter, Götz and Meyer, Leeches, and Checkpoint.
Ellen Elias-Bursać translates fiction and non-fiction from Bosnian, Croatian, and Serbian. Her translation of David Albahari's novel Götz and Meyer was given the 2006 American Literary Translators Association National Translation Award. She is the president of the American Literary Translators Association.