Versão e indicação de site

Hoje postarei a versão para o inglês de um pequeno poema do carioca Francisco Octaviano. É um texto bem famoso, simples e direto. O significado é claro, a pessoa, para viver, precisa sofrer. Bem, de qualquer forma, sofremos. E sempre nos tornamos mais fortes.

Além da minha tradução, indicarei um site que me tocou muito, chamado Project Unbreakable. Mostra vítimas de abuso sexual segurando cartazes com as frases que seus estupradores disseram a elas. Esse assunto é delicado, pois o estupro ainda é um crime em que muita gente culpa a vítima, achando que, de alguma forma ela provocou. Dêem uma passada lá, se quiserem, é bem bacana. Admiro muito as pessoas que fazem ou fizeram parte do projeto. É preciso coragem e força para superar.

O site é: projectunbreakable.tumblr.com

Bom fim de semana a todxs,

Que nem só de tristeza podemos viver.

Ilusões da vida

Francisco Octaviano

Quem passou a vida em brancas nuvens
E em plácido repouso adormeceu,
Quem não sentiu o frio da desgraça,
Quem passou pela vida e não sofreu
Foi espectro de homem, não foi homem,
Só passou pela vida, não viveu.

Life illusion

Francisco Octaviano

English words by Rita Cammarota

A man who passed his life in pure joy

And slept peacefully  through the night,

A man who never felt a cold despair,

Who lived through life and didn´t cry

Was just a shadow, was not a man

Passed days by, but did not know life

"The Recital", by Luis Fernando Verissimo in English

Olá!

Hoje vou postar a minha versão em inglês de um texto muito bacana do Luis Fernando Veríssimo, um autor que eu adoro. A sua escrita é leve e irônica, de um humor que não precisa humilhar. Um humor de situação. Bem non-sense, do jeito que eu amo. Fiz esta tradução há alguns anos e deixei arquivada no computador. Até tinha me esquecido dela. Até ontem, quando reabri a versão, consertei uns errinhos, modifiquei algumas palavras para se encaixarem melhor e hoje vou postar. O conto está publicado no livro "Comédias para se ler na escola". Sem mais delongas, senhoras e senhores, "O Recital".

The Recital

Luis Fernando Verissimo

English translation by Rita Cammarota

A good way to start a short story is to imagine a strictly formal situation - say, for instance, a string quartet recital-- and then unravel it like an old pullover. So, let´s see. A string quartet recital.

The quartet enters the stage under polite clapping by the audience. There are three men and a woman. The woman is young and pretty and plays the viola. The three men are in morning coats. They take their places behind the partiturs. From left side to the right: a violin, the other violin, the viola and the cello. Let me see if I missed any detail. The cellist has a big red moustache. That information may be important later in the story. Maybe not. 

The four of them tune in their instruments. After that, silence in the air. That anxious anticipation that hangs over the start of any great concert. The last coughs are heard in the audience. The first violinist checks his peers with a discrete glimpse. They are all ready, the violinist lays the instrument under his chin and positions the bow. The recital is about to begin. At this very moment…

What about “At this very moment”? What is the most unusual thing that could happen during a string quartet recital? A herd of buffalos running through the stage behind them? No. A herd of buffalos does pass, some people in the audience jump off their seats and look for the emergency exits, while others are shocked and mesmerized, but then everything goes back on track. The quartet remained still in its place until the last buffalo was gone. They are professional musicians, and even so, that could not possibly happen. No further information is asked or provided. Finally the quartet starts to play. On with the Mozart.

No. Not yet. Something has to happen, like a seed of confusion, a little inconsistency. Something that creates uneasiness and turns, slowly, step by step, into chaos. A bat that rests on the top of the second violinist’s head during a pizzicato. No. Even better. A man with a tuba enters the stage. 

There´s rumour in the audience. What´s that all about? The man enters, with the tuba, from the backstage. He stands by the cellist´s side. The first violinist, as stiff as a diver who has just realized there´s no water in the swimming pool, looks at that tuba fascinated yet horrified. What´s that? After a few moments when the tension in the air is like a stretched violin chord, the first violinist says:

-Please…

-What? – replies the man with a tuba, defensively.- You´re gonna tell me I can´t play?

-What do you want, sir?

-I just want to play. You can begin and I´ll follow up.

Some laughter from the audience. Impatient noises. Nobody notices that the cellist looked back and when he first saw the tuba player he turned his face, as if he could hide. The first violinist proceeds:

-Please, leave the stage.

-Why? I want to play as well.

The first violinist stares nervously at the audience. Never in his whole career as a quartet leader he had to face such a challenge. Once a mosquito flew into his nose during a Vivaldi solo. But never a tuba.

-Please. This is a string quartet recital. We´re playing Mozart. There´s no piece for a tuba in it – replies the violinist.

-I´ll improvise. You start and I´ll do a oom-pah-pah.

The audience laughs again. Scandalized looks on their faces. Where did that man with a tuba come from? He is not even wearing a morning coat. According to some reports he is wearing a Chicago Bulls t-shirt. He is wearing flip flops. The viola player is feeling sick. The violinist threatens to call someone from the backstage to take the tuba player out.

-If anyone comes any closer, you´ll hear a pof!

The mere expectation of hearing a pof at that place shocks everyone.

- Alright  – says the first violinist – Let´s talk. You are obviously in the wrong place. This is a string recital. We are preparing to play Mozart. Mozart doesn´t have a oom-pah-pah sound.

-Then, Mozart doesn´t know what he´s missing – replies the tuba player, smiling at the audience, hoping to get some sympathy from them.

He doesn´t succeed. The atmosphere is hostile. The tuba player changes his tone. He´s threatening now:

- Ok, you blue-blooded snobs. I´m done. Where do you think you are? In the 18^th Century? There has been 17 popular revolutions after Mozart. I´ll expropriate these partiturs on behalf of the people. You´ll all be inquired. One by one, pah pah.

He begs:

- Please. All I want is to play a little bit. I´m humble. I never had the chance to learn how to play a string instrument. I made this tuba by myself, from an old volks mobile. Pretty please…

 He uses a seductive tone towards the violist:

- I am the sum of your secret dreams. I am a product of your lecherous imagination, say it. During the Mozart, in this cold quartet, it´s me you are thinking of. My belly and my phallic tuba. You want me to violate you in an allegro assai, admit it...

Finally, he challenges the cellist:

- I remember this red moustache. I used to wear it in 1968. Give it back to me!

The tuba player and the cellist begin a fight. The other musicians join them. Now, the audience shouts and jumps. It´s chaos! Symbolizing, maybe, the ultimate failure of the value system that took place after the European Iluminism. Or the prevalence of instinct over reason. Or it could be just the author going crazy. On the stage, as a result of the fight the violist is now wearing the red moustache. The tuba player stops biting the second violinist´s leg, opens his arms and screams: “I want my mom!”

At this moment, a herd of buffalos enters the stage.

"O verbo no infinito": poema metalingüístico de Vinicius de Moraes traduzido

Postarei hoje a versão que fiz de um poema do Vinícius de Moraes. Não sou exímia conhecedora dos seus poemas. Conheço os mais famosos, como Soneto de Fidelidade, Soneto de Separação e Operário em Construção. Li O verbo no infinito semana passada e adorei. Então, me dediquei a vertê-lo ao inglês.

Adoro poemas metalingüísticos, e este o é até no título! Assim, na minha versão, mudei um pouco o esquema de rimas, mas busquei manter a interessante metalinguagem. Muito bacana o jeito como o poetinha traça a história da vida de uma pessoa, usando verbos no infinitivo, para falar do amor. E como o último verbo é um delicioso trocadilho sobre a eternidade do sentimento. Enfim, espero que gostem. Vou ver se encontro outro poema do Vinicius para traduzir.

O verbo no infinito

Vinícius de Morais

Ser criado, gerar-se, transformar
O amor em carne e a carne em amor; nascer
Respirar, e chorar, e adormecer
E se nutrir para poder chorar

Para poder nutrir-se; e despertar
Um dia à luz e ver, ao mundo e ouvir
E começar a amar e então sorrir
E então sorrir para poder chorar.

E crescer, e saber, e ser, e haver
E perder, e sofrer, e ter horror
De ser e amar, e se sentir maldito

E esquecer de tudo ao vir um novo amor
E viver esse amor até morrer
E ir conjugar o verbo no infinito...

The infinite verb

Vinícius de Moraes

English translation by Rita Cammarota

Be created, generated,  then evolve

Love into flesh and flesh into love

Be born, breathe and cry, fall asleep

And feed oneself so one can cry

So one can feed oneself; to wake up

A day by light and see the world and hear

And start to love then smile

And then smile so one can cry

And grow, and know, to be, and to have

And lose, suffer and loathe

To be and to love, and feel cursed

And forget it all when comes a new love

And live such love to death

And inflect the infinite verb