When the sacred ginmill closes

Tocmai am terminat de citit When The Sacred Ginmill Closes. Din pacate, in limba romana: Cind Sfinta Crisma se inchide. Nu chiar rea traducerea, cu certe calitati, cu fragmente unde traducatorul se vede clar ca stapineste nu doar litera, ci si spiritul limbii romane, a jargonului de pretenari, de baetzi mari la 40 de ani betzivani si vitelloni si drincangii. Pasaje unde am ris. Pasaje unde m-am bucurat de felul in care a fost tradusa. Dar si locuri unde imi parea rau ca n-am cartea in engleza. Simteam ritmul decadent si sharp si mellow si hard boiled al frazei, cum se pierdea in cuvinte aproximative.

Intre timp am facut rost de carte si in engleza. Si am descoperit un scriitor de junk, de pulp, de useless words de vara si vacanta: Lawrence Block. Chiar scrie bine, betzivanu dracu, hipiotu ratat, scriitoru de vorbe inutile care ne fac sa ne petrecem mai bine verile calduroase si vacantzele statute.

Titlul romanului e o referinta la un cintec al lui Dave van Ronk. Alta descoperire faina. In aroganta mea snoaba, credeam ca le stiu pe toate din America anilor '60 - '70. Uite ca nu e asa si ca omul cit traieste invata si descopera.

I therefore raise this glass of muddy rum in honour of all ye useless brains, lovers of books, wasters of reality, perpetrators of clumsy dreams and crunchers of hard-boiled novels, of pulp fiction, o B-rated black and white movies with hard hats, sharp ladies and soft guts.



Dave van Ronk - Last Call

And so we’ve had another night
of poetry and poses,
and each man knows he’ll be alone
when the sacred ginmill closes.

And so we’ll drink the final glass
each to his joy and sorrow
and hope the numbing drink will last
til opening tomorrow.

And when we stumble back again
like paralytic dancers
each knows the question he must ask
and each man knows the answer.

And so we’ll drink the final drink
that cuts the brain in sections
where answers do not signify
and there aren’t any questions.

I broke my heart the other day.
It will mend again tomorrow.
If I’d been drunk when I was born
I’d be ignorant of sorrow.

And so we’ll drink the final toast
that never can be spoken:
Here’s to the heart that is wise enough
to know when it’s better off broken.