Dear readers!
Today's update will be about the last great book I read: Jacques Roubaud's Nous, les moins-que-rien, fils ans de personne (We, the Less-than Nothing (s?), Elder Sons to Nobody). Problem: this book's in French, and not yet translated in English (few are Roubaud's books that are; this one is. But it seems that my favorite ones, the ones about the Round Table and the Grail, are not.)
Ho can I convince you this book is great? I'll do an attempt at translating one chapter for you (yes, one entire chapter!) Let's see... maybe the thirtenth, final (and shorter) one will do fine?
A life of nothing
Our kitty's name was Cat. I was seven. She sat on our kitchen's table while I was having my breakfast. She stared at me yet I was unable to catch the look of her eyes. Trough the window, June sun's rays reached at her, warming her neck's fur. I told her: "What are you thinking of?"
"What are you thinking of, Cat?"
She replied, without moving her whiskers: "Nothing".
"You not thinking of nothing?"
"No. I'm thinking nothing".
"What is this, 'nothing'?"
Silence.
I continued: "Is it 'Whatever', 'nothing'?"
"No."
"So what?"
Cat shook her shoulders, leapt from the table for drinking some milk from her bowl, beneath the window. I packed my lunchbox and went out to school.
Since then, three or four times a year, more or less, I think of Cat and I try thinking nothing, or I try and think nothing and I end up thinking of Cat. So it has been, for seventy-five years now. Once I read: "Everything is worth nothing, not a thing is worth anything". It's still not that. But I feel confident. The day I will happen to think nothing, I'll know. "So you think?", asks Cat.
Short for a chapter, isn't it?
Wait (will you say, you insatiable reader), what about the original's OuLiPian constraints?
Find for yourself, readers. I'll not be the one that does all the work.
For you my dear french-reading and OuLiPo-curious readers, here's the original:
Une vie de rien
Notre chatte se nommait Chat. J'avais sept ans. Elle tait pose sur la table de la cuisine, o je prenais mon petit-djeuner. Elle me regardait mais je n'arrivais pas saisir son regard. Le soleil de juin entrait par la fentre et lui chauffait la nuque, la fourrure. Je lui dis: "A quoi tu penses?"
"A quoi tu penses, Chat?"
Elle me rpondit, sans bouger la moustache: "Rien."
"Tu penses rien?"
"Non. Je pense rien."
"C'est quoi, 'rien'?"
Silence.
Je repris: "C'est 'A quoi bon', 'rien'?"
"Non.
"Alors quoi?"
Chat haussa les paules, sauta de la table pour aller boire du lait dans sa soucoupe, sous la fentre. Je pris mon cartable et je partis pour l'cole.
Depuis, trois ou quatre fois l'an, bon an mal an, je pense Chat et je m'efforce de penser rien, ou bien j'essaie de penser rien et je pense Chat. Ainsi, depuis soixante-quinze ans. J'ai lu un jour: "Tout ne vaut rien, tout ne vaut du tout rien". Ce n'est pas cela. Mais j'ai confiance. Quand je penserai rien, je le saurai. "Tu crois?", dit Chat.
Today's update will be about the last great book I read: Jacques Roubaud's Nous, les moins-que-rien, fils ans de personne (We, the Less-than Nothing (s?), Elder Sons to Nobody). Problem: this book's in French, and not yet translated in English (few are Roubaud's books that are; this one is. But it seems that my favorite ones, the ones about the Round Table and the Grail, are not.)
Ho can I convince you this book is great? I'll do an attempt at translating one chapter for you (yes, one entire chapter!) Let's see... maybe the thirtenth, final (and shorter) one will do fine?
A life of nothing
Our kitty's name was Cat. I was seven. She sat on our kitchen's table while I was having my breakfast. She stared at me yet I was unable to catch the look of her eyes. Trough the window, June sun's rays reached at her, warming her neck's fur. I told her: "What are you thinking of?"
"What are you thinking of, Cat?"
She replied, without moving her whiskers: "Nothing".
"You not thinking of nothing?"
"No. I'm thinking nothing".
"What is this, 'nothing'?"
Silence.
I continued: "Is it 'Whatever', 'nothing'?"
"No."
"So what?"
Cat shook her shoulders, leapt from the table for drinking some milk from her bowl, beneath the window. I packed my lunchbox and went out to school.
Since then, three or four times a year, more or less, I think of Cat and I try thinking nothing, or I try and think nothing and I end up thinking of Cat. So it has been, for seventy-five years now. Once I read: "Everything is worth nothing, not a thing is worth anything". It's still not that. But I feel confident. The day I will happen to think nothing, I'll know. "So you think?", asks Cat.
Short for a chapter, isn't it?
Wait (will you say, you insatiable reader), what about the original's OuLiPian constraints?
Find for yourself, readers. I'll not be the one that does all the work.
For you my dear french-reading and OuLiPo-curious readers, here's the original:
Une vie de rien
Notre chatte se nommait Chat. J'avais sept ans. Elle tait pose sur la table de la cuisine, o je prenais mon petit-djeuner. Elle me regardait mais je n'arrivais pas saisir son regard. Le soleil de juin entrait par la fentre et lui chauffait la nuque, la fourrure. Je lui dis: "A quoi tu penses?"
"A quoi tu penses, Chat?"
Elle me rpondit, sans bouger la moustache: "Rien."
"Tu penses rien?"
"Non. Je pense rien."
"C'est quoi, 'rien'?"
Silence.
Je repris: "C'est 'A quoi bon', 'rien'?"
"Non.
"Alors quoi?"
Chat haussa les paules, sauta de la table pour aller boire du lait dans sa soucoupe, sous la fentre. Je pris mon cartable et je partis pour l'cole.
Depuis, trois ou quatre fois l'an, bon an mal an, je pense Chat et je m'efforce de penser rien, ou bien j'essaie de penser rien et je pense Chat. Ainsi, depuis soixante-quinze ans. J'ai lu un jour: "Tout ne vaut rien, tout ne vaut du tout rien". Ce n'est pas cela. Mais j'ai confiance. Quand je penserai rien, je le saurai. "Tu crois?", dit Chat.
VIEW 27 of 27 COMMENTS
tangus:
you too, man!!
dwam:
Je crois que ce bouquin rendrait folle ma chre coloc. Je vais essayer de le trouver. Il a l'air fou !