The therapeutic powers of poetry can be unparalleled. To cross languages, such powerful verse requires translation of no less merit.
Translators who achieve this feat should be lauded on their own accord. For example, those suffering from extreme anxiety or from painful inability to live in the moment might well experience a life-changing epiphany in these magnificent lines by Stuart Atkins translating Care's claims in Goethe's Faust:
Care: Once I make a man my own,
nothing in this world can help him;
everlasting darkness falls,
nothing in this world can help him;
everlasting darkness falls,
suns no longer rise or set--
though no outward sense has failed,
all is darkness in his heart,
and however great his treasures,
there's no joy in their possession.
Good and bad luck both depress him,
he is starving though there's plenty;
source of joy or spot of trouble,
it's postponed until the morrow--
caring only for the future,
though no outward sense has failed,
all is darkness in his heart,
and however great his treasures,
there's no joy in their possession.
Good and bad luck both depress him,
he is starving though there's plenty;
source of joy or spot of trouble,
it's postponed until the morrow--
caring only for the future,
he gets nothing done at all . . . .
Whether he should go or come
is something he cannot decide;
in the middle of a street
his stride will break, he'll grope his way;
more and more he is bogged down,
everything seems more distorted;
to himself, to all, a burden,
when he breathes he feels he's choking,
neither stifled nor yet living,
tom between despair and hoping.
All is one unceasing round
of things not done, of odious duties . . . .
more and more he is bogged down,
everything seems more distorted;
to himself, to all, a burden,
when he breathes he feels he's choking,
neither stifled nor yet living,
tom between despair and hoping.
All is one unceasing round
of things not done, of odious duties . . . .
Akins deserves his owns spotlight alongside that of Goethe. To underscore the genius of Atkins here, compare this "classic" translation by Bayard Taylor:
Whom I once possess, shall never
Find the world worth his endeavor:
Endless gloom around him folding,
Rise nor set of sun beholding,
Perfect in external senses,
Inwardly his darkness dense is;
And he knows not how to measure
True possession of his treasure.
Luck and Ill become caprices;
Still he starves in all increases;
Be it happiness or sorrow,
He postpones it till the morrow;
To the Future only cleaveth:
Nothing, therefore, he achieveth. . . .
Find the world worth his endeavor:
Endless gloom around him folding,
Rise nor set of sun beholding,
Perfect in external senses,
Inwardly his darkness dense is;
And he knows not how to measure
True possession of his treasure.
Luck and Ill become caprices;
Still he starves in all increases;
Be it happiness or sorrow,
He postpones it till the morrow;
To the Future only cleaveth:
Nothing, therefore, he achieveth. . . .
Compared to Atkins' work, how many lives might these lines change?
Translators carry a heavy burden. I am grateful to those who carry it well. I am dismayed by the rubble of those who fail.
Translators also illustrate a further passion of mine: exploring the power of framing. If one doubts such power, one need only compare the frames of Atkins and Taylor here.
