From the Last Canto of Paradiso

王敖

<div class="title">From the Last Canto of Paradiso </div><div class="author">by Dante Alighieri </div><br/><i>xxxiii, 46-48, 52-66</i><br/><br/><div class="bodycopy" style="ADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">As I drew nearer to the end of all desire, </div><div class="bodycopy" style="ADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">I brought my longing\'s ardor to a final height, </div><div class="bodycopy" style="ADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Just as I ought. My vision, becoming pure, </div><br/><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Entered more and more the beam of that high light </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">That shines on its own truth. From then, my seeing </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Became too large for speech, which fails at a sight </div><br/><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Beyond all boundaries, at memory\'s undoing— </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">As when the dreamer sees and after the dream </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">The passion endures, imprinted on his being </div><br/><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Though he can\'t recall the rest. I am the same: </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Inside my heart, although my vision is almost </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">Entirely faded, droplets of its sweetness come </div><br/><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">The way the sun dissolves the snow\'s crust— </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">The way, in the wind that stirred the light leaves, </div><div class="bodycopy" style="PADDING-LEFT: 1em; TEXT-INDENT: -1em;">The oracle that the Sibyl wrote was lost.</div><br/><div align="right">Translated from the Italian by Robert Pinsky</div><br/><b>Translator Notes:</b><br/>Translation, always, is a matter of degree. Even the most methodical legal document, expertly moved between languages, will lose some nuances and create others. The simplest nouns—<i>house</i> and <i>casa</i>; <i>bread</i> and <i>pane</i>; <i>head</i> and <i>capo</i> or <i>testa</i>; <i>vision</i> and <i>visione</i> or <i>vista</i>—have different feelings and associations. At the other extreme, the most wildly innovative writer cannot be absolutely original. The work, even if by defiance or annihilation, translates what came before it.<br/><br/>Near one end of the range are the European poets in various languages who in translation compressed Statius\'s sixteen-line poem about sleep into a sonnet. Near the other end is Samuel Beckett parodying or echoing centuries of writing in many tongues.<br/><br/>The range is not necessarily between "close" and "free" translation. Akira Kurosawa\'s <i>Throne of Blood</i> and <i>Ran</i> get closer to vital aspects of Shakespeare than most representations of <i>Macbeth</i> and <i>King Lear</i>—though in <i>Ran</i> the great director\'s Japanese ruler has three sons instead of daughters.<br/><br/>If I were translating the entire <i>Paradiso,</i> rather than trying to make a poem in English, I would not skip over the stanza where St. Bernard directs the pilgrim\'s attention upward. In another degree of difference, the inclusions and ambiguities of the English "end" and "vision" resemble those of the Italian <i>"fine"</i> and <i>"visione"</i>—but not exactly.<br/><br/>Dante in these lines meditates on his own impassioned consciousness as a kind of translation. The explicit, literal experience is lost, but the feeling survives in "sweet droplets." The passion in his heart is a translation of a lost original.<br/><br/>Virgil\'s Cumaean Sibyl wrote her prophecies in verses and symbols on light leaves, arranged and kept aside in a certain order. When anyone approached the Sibyl\'s cave to read them, the leaves were disturbed by a gentle current of air that lifted them into chaos, as soon as the door to them turned on its hinges.<br/><br/>In that image, the action of writing represents the mind itself as it tries to translate between the past and the future—the barely decipherable past, the barely imaginable future, both desperately and frustratingly sought after. Only the nearly weightless present is expendable. —R.P<br/><br/>