See, when I thought of this post, I thought I'd be finding humor in a terrible translation of The Stranger. What I found was a surprisingly, disappointingly normal first couple of pages. A few pronouns are off, but I found no big errors, except for "Bière," which can translate to "coffin" or "beer." So they kept vigil over Maman's beer. Thanks, Meursault. I suppose the straightforward language of Camus lends itself better to Google's simplistic translations.
My pitiful little translation can be found here.
* * *
For a little more funny and less literary kick, here's the first paragraph put through a Bad Translator...
"Today, my mother died. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the refugee hospital: "My mother died.We are buried tomorrow.Try feeling.It does not mean anything.It may be yesterday."
November 27, 2017
Does Anyone Look at Posts That Aren't on Mr. Mitchell's Blog? Anyway, here's the translation of the first few pages of Camus' /The Stranger/, trans. Google Translate.
Wow, I'm flattered.You clicked the links on a blog post?? You deserve this. Sentence (fragments) that are exactly the same as in Ward's Translation are bolded. Humorously clunky parts are underlined.
Today, my mother is dead. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the asylum: "Mother deceased. Burial tomorrow. Sentiments distinguished. " It does not mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The old people's asylum is at Marengo, eighty kilometers from Algiers. I will take the bus at two o'clock and I will arrive in the afternoon. So, I will be able to watch and I will return tomorrow night. I asked my boss for two days off and he could not refuse them with such excuse. But he did not look happy. I even told him, "It's not my fault. " He did not answer. I thought then that I should not have told him that. In short, I did not have to apologize. It was rather his turn to offer his condolences. But he will probably do so the day after tomorrow when he sees me in mourning. For the moment, it's a bit like mom was not dead. After the funeral, on the contrary, it will be a classified case and all will have a more official look.
I took the bus at two o'clock. It was very hot. I ate at the restaurant, at Céleste's, as usual. They all had a lot of trouble for me and Céleste told me, "We only have one mother. When I left, they accompanied me to the door. I was a little dizzy because I had to go up to Emmanuel to borrow a black tie and an armband. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I ran so as not to miss the start. This haste, this race is because of all this, no doubt, added to the bumps, the smell of gasoline, the reverberation of the road and the sky, that I dozed off. I slept most of the way. And when I woke up, I was crushed against a soldier who smiled at me and asked me if I came from far away. I said "yes" so I did not have to talk anymore.
The asylum is two kilometers from the village. I made the walk. I wanted to see Mom right away. But the concierge told me that I had to meet the director. As he was busy, I waited a bit. All the while, the concierge spoke and then I saw the manager: he received me in his office. He was a little old man, with the Legion of Honor. He looked at me with his clear eyes. Then he shook my hand that he kept so long that I did not know how to remove it. He looked at a file and said, "Mrs. Meursault came here three years ago. You were his only support. I thought he was reproaching me for something and I started explaining to him. But he interrupted me: "You do not have to justify yourself, my dear child. I read your mother's file. You could not support himself. He needed a guard. Your salaries are modest. And all things considered, she was happier here. I said, "Yes, Mr. Director. He added, "You know, she had friends, people her age. She could share with them interests that are from another time. You are young and she must be bored with you."
It was true. When she was home, Mom was always following me with her eyes silently. In the first days she was in the asylum, she often cried. But it was because of the habit. After a few months, she would have cried if she had been removed from the asylum. Always because of habit. It's a bit of a fact that in the last year I've hardly been there. And also because it took me on a Sunday - not to mention the effort to get to the bus, get tickets and drive two hours.
The director talked to me again. But I hardly listened to him anymore. Then he said to me, "I guess you want to see your mother. I got up without saying anything and he preceded me to the door. On the stairs, he explained: "We took her to our little morgue. To not mischief others. Each time a resident dies, the others are nervous for two or three days. And it makes the service difficult. We crossed a courtyard where there were many old men, chatting in small groups. They were silent when we passed. And behind us, the conversations resumed. It looked like a muffled chatter of parakeets. At the door of a small building, the director left me: "I leave you, Mr. Meursault. I am at your disposal in my office. In principle, the burial is fixed at ten o'clock in the morning. We thought that you will be able to look after the disappeared. One last word: your mother has, it seems, often expressed to her companions the desire to be buried religiously. I took on myself, to do the necessary. But I wanted to inform you. " I thanked him. Mom, without being an atheist, had never thought of living religion.
I entered. It was a very bright room, whitewashed and covered with a glass roof. It was furnished with X-shaped chairs and easels. Two of them in the center supported a beer covered with a lid. Only gleaming screws, scarcely sunk, could be seen coming off the planks of walnut. Near the beer, there was an Arab nurse in white coats, a brightly colored scarf on her head.
At that moment, the concierge came in behind my back. He must have run. He stammered a little: "We've covered it, but I have to unscrew the beer so you can see it. He was approaching the beer when I stopped him. He said to me, "You do not want to? I replied, "No. He stopped and I was embarrassed because I felt that I should not have said that. After a while, he looked at me and he asked me, "Why? But without hesitation, as if he were inquiring. I said, "I do not know. Then, twisting his white mustache, he said without looking at me: "I understand. He had beautiful eyes, light blue, and a slightly red complexion. He gave me a chair and he himself sat a little behind me. The guard it's a nurse got up and headed for the exit. At that moment, the concierge told me, "It's a chancre she has. As I did not understand, I looked at the nurse and saw that she was wearing a blindfold around her head. At the height of the nose, the headband was flat. Only the whiteness of the blindfold was visible in his face.
When she left, the concierge spoke, "I'll leave you alone. I do not know what I did, but he stayed behind me. This presence in my back bothered me. The room was full of beautiful late afternoon [sun]light. Two hornets were buzzing against the glass roof. And I felt sleep winning me. I said to the concierge, without turning to him: "Have you been there a long time? Immediately he replied, "Five years" - as if he had waited for my request forever.
Then he chatted a lot. He would have been astonished to say that he would end up as a caretaker at the Marengo asylum. He was sixty-four years old and he was Parisian. At that moment I interrupted him: "Ah, you are not from here? Then I remembered that before I went to the director's office he had told me about Mom. He had told me that he had to be buried very quickly, because in the plain it was hot, especially in this country. It was then that he had taught me that he had lived in Paris and that he could hardly forget it. In Paris, one stays with the dead three or four days sometimes. Here we do not have time, we did not realize that already we have to run behind the hearse. His wife had said to him then: "Shut up, these are not things to tell to Monsieur. The old man had blushed and apologized. I intervened to say, "No, no. But no. I thought what he was saying was right and interesting.
Today, my mother is dead. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the asylum: "Mother deceased. Burial tomorrow. Sentiments distinguished. " It does not mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The old people's asylum is at Marengo, eighty kilometers from Algiers. I will take the bus at two o'clock and I will arrive in the afternoon. So, I will be able to watch and I will return tomorrow night. I asked my boss for two days off and he could not refuse them with such excuse. But he did not look happy. I even told him, "It's not my fault. " He did not answer. I thought then that I should not have told him that. In short, I did not have to apologize. It was rather his turn to offer his condolences. But he will probably do so the day after tomorrow when he sees me in mourning. For the moment, it's a bit like mom was not dead. After the funeral, on the contrary, it will be a classified case and all will have a more official look.
I took the bus at two o'clock. It was very hot. I ate at the restaurant, at Céleste's, as usual. They all had a lot of trouble for me and Céleste told me, "We only have one mother. When I left, they accompanied me to the door. I was a little dizzy because I had to go up to Emmanuel to borrow a black tie and an armband. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I ran so as not to miss the start. This haste, this race is because of all this, no doubt, added to the bumps, the smell of gasoline, the reverberation of the road and the sky, that I dozed off. I slept most of the way. And when I woke up, I was crushed against a soldier who smiled at me and asked me if I came from far away. I said "yes" so I did not have to talk anymore.
The asylum is two kilometers from the village. I made the walk. I wanted to see Mom right away. But the concierge told me that I had to meet the director. As he was busy, I waited a bit. All the while, the concierge spoke and then I saw the manager: he received me in his office. He was a little old man, with the Legion of Honor. He looked at me with his clear eyes. Then he shook my hand that he kept so long that I did not know how to remove it. He looked at a file and said, "Mrs. Meursault came here three years ago. You were his only support. I thought he was reproaching me for something and I started explaining to him. But he interrupted me: "You do not have to justify yourself, my dear child. I read your mother's file. You could not support himself. He needed a guard. Your salaries are modest. And all things considered, she was happier here. I said, "Yes, Mr. Director. He added, "You know, she had friends, people her age. She could share with them interests that are from another time. You are young and she must be bored with you."
It was true. When she was home, Mom was always following me with her eyes silently. In the first days she was in the asylum, she often cried. But it was because of the habit. After a few months, she would have cried if she had been removed from the asylum. Always because of habit. It's a bit of a fact that in the last year I've hardly been there. And also because it took me on a Sunday - not to mention the effort to get to the bus, get tickets and drive two hours.
The director talked to me again. But I hardly listened to him anymore. Then he said to me, "I guess you want to see your mother. I got up without saying anything and he preceded me to the door. On the stairs, he explained: "We took her to our little morgue. To not mischief others. Each time a resident dies, the others are nervous for two or three days. And it makes the service difficult. We crossed a courtyard where there were many old men, chatting in small groups. They were silent when we passed. And behind us, the conversations resumed. It looked like a muffled chatter of parakeets. At the door of a small building, the director left me: "I leave you, Mr. Meursault. I am at your disposal in my office. In principle, the burial is fixed at ten o'clock in the morning. We thought that you will be able to look after the disappeared. One last word: your mother has, it seems, often expressed to her companions the desire to be buried religiously. I took on myself, to do the necessary. But I wanted to inform you. " I thanked him. Mom, without being an atheist, had never thought of living religion.
I entered. It was a very bright room, whitewashed and covered with a glass roof. It was furnished with X-shaped chairs and easels. Two of them in the center supported a beer covered with a lid. Only gleaming screws, scarcely sunk, could be seen coming off the planks of walnut. Near the beer, there was an Arab nurse in white coats, a brightly colored scarf on her head.
At that moment, the concierge came in behind my back. He must have run. He stammered a little: "We've covered it, but I have to unscrew the beer so you can see it. He was approaching the beer when I stopped him. He said to me, "You do not want to? I replied, "No. He stopped and I was embarrassed because I felt that I should not have said that. After a while, he looked at me and he asked me, "Why? But without hesitation, as if he were inquiring. I said, "I do not know. Then, twisting his white mustache, he said without looking at me: "I understand. He had beautiful eyes, light blue, and a slightly red complexion. He gave me a chair and he himself sat a little behind me. The guard it's a nurse got up and headed for the exit. At that moment, the concierge told me, "It's a chancre she has. As I did not understand, I looked at the nurse and saw that she was wearing a blindfold around her head. At the height of the nose, the headband was flat. Only the whiteness of the blindfold was visible in his face.
When she left, the concierge spoke, "I'll leave you alone. I do not know what I did, but he stayed behind me. This presence in my back bothered me. The room was full of beautiful late afternoon [sun]light. Two hornets were buzzing against the glass roof. And I felt sleep winning me. I said to the concierge, without turning to him: "Have you been there a long time? Immediately he replied, "Five years" - as if he had waited for my request forever.
Then he chatted a lot. He would have been astonished to say that he would end up as a caretaker at the Marengo asylum. He was sixty-four years old and he was Parisian. At that moment I interrupted him: "Ah, you are not from here? Then I remembered that before I went to the director's office he had told me about Mom. He had told me that he had to be buried very quickly, because in the plain it was hot, especially in this country. It was then that he had taught me that he had lived in Paris and that he could hardly forget it. In Paris, one stays with the dead three or four days sometimes. Here we do not have time, we did not realize that already we have to run behind the hearse. His wife had said to him then: "Shut up, these are not things to tell to Monsieur. The old man had blushed and apologized. I intervened to say, "No, no. But no. I thought what he was saying was right and interesting.
November 17, 2017
The Sargassum in the Sea: A Small Map of the Book
This is a common blog idea and a small post but I enjoy finding the concrete reasons behind things.
We talked about this briefly in class. The Sargasso Sea is a section of the Atlantic ocean between Europe and the West Indies well known for its long, treacherous not really strings of sargassum seaweed, from the Portuguese sargaço. The general consensus in class was that the Sea represented the vast, symbolic uncrossable gulf between Antoinette's world and Rochester's, which is why nothing good came of either of them crossing it.
The theme and its implications are not what I'm here to talk about. Some books (see: Lord of The Rings, Watership Down, Mrs. Dalloway, even) have maps, and this one doesn't. I found it hard to picture where everything was. Let's explore the West Indies.
Zooming out: This is the North Atlantic Gyre. The currents of the world swirl sort-of-clockwise around the Americas and Europe, ending up spinning around in what is called the Sargasso Sea. Also mentioned in class, a lot of stuff tends to wash up there, be it trash or kelp or (hopefully more symbolically) people. In fact, there's a gross thing there called the North Atlantic Garbage Patch (which also would have been a good name for the novel). It is, you guessed it: just a bunch of plastic waste out on the ocean, and it's "hundreds of kilometres across in size." Nasty.
Here are the West Indies.
See where we're going? Annette and Christophine are from Martinique (about in the middle of all those tiny islands). Rochester says that after he and Antoinette get married, they go on an "interminable journey from Jamaica," specifically mentioning going from Spanish Town (which is in Jamaica) to the Windward Islands (66).
So, Spanish Town is the capital of the parish of Saint Catherine, in the historic county of Middlesex, Jamaica. just saved you some googling. In Part One, Antoinette talks about "the Jamaican ladies" near them and "the road from Spanish Town to Coulibri Estate," so Part One most likely takes place on Jamaica, moderately far from Spanish Town. The convent Antoinette stays at is "Mount Calvary Convent, Spanish Town, Jamaica, 1839." This place does not exist now, if it ever did; the best I can find is a facebook page.
We talked about this briefly in class. The Sargasso Sea is a section of the Atlantic ocean between Europe and the West Indies well known for its long, treacherous not really strings of sargassum seaweed, from the Portuguese sargaço. The general consensus in class was that the Sea represented the vast, symbolic uncrossable gulf between Antoinette's world and Rochester's, which is why nothing good came of either of them crossing it.
The theme and its implications are not what I'm here to talk about. Some books (see: Lord of The Rings, Watership Down, Mrs. Dalloway, even) have maps, and this one doesn't. I found it hard to picture where everything was. Let's explore the West Indies.
Zooming out: This is the North Atlantic Gyre. The currents of the world swirl sort-of-clockwise around the Americas and Europe, ending up spinning around in what is called the Sargasso Sea. Also mentioned in class, a lot of stuff tends to wash up there, be it trash or kelp or (hopefully more symbolically) people. In fact, there's a gross thing there called the North Atlantic Garbage Patch (which also would have been a good name for the novel). It is, you guessed it: just a bunch of plastic waste out on the ocean, and it's "hundreds of kilometres across in size." Nasty.
Here are the West Indies.
See where we're going? Annette and Christophine are from Martinique (about in the middle of all those tiny islands). Rochester says that after he and Antoinette get married, they go on an "interminable journey from Jamaica," specifically mentioning going from Spanish Town (which is in Jamaica) to the Windward Islands (66).
So, Spanish Town is the capital of the parish of Saint Catherine, in the historic county of Middlesex, Jamaica. just saved you some googling. In Part One, Antoinette talks about "the Jamaican ladies" near them and "the road from Spanish Town to Coulibri Estate," so Part One most likely takes place on Jamaica, moderately far from Spanish Town. The convent Antoinette stays at is "Mount Calvary Convent, Spanish Town, Jamaica, 1839." This place does not exist now, if it ever did; the best I can find is a facebook page.
Additionally, Rochester first arrives in the West Indies via Spanish Town, a bustling port city.
Martinique is an island claimed and ruled by France, even today. This is where Annette and Christophine are from.
Granbois (meaning 'big tree'), where Antoinette and Rochester stay in part 2, is near Massacre, Dominica. (Dominica is the island right above Martinique.)
And of course, I managed to find Shmoop's explanation AFTER I finished all this research.
Martinique is an island claimed and ruled by France, even today. This is where Annette and Christophine are from.
Granbois (meaning 'big tree'), where Antoinette and Rochester stay in part 2, is near Massacre, Dominica. (Dominica is the island right above Martinique.)
And of course, I managed to find Shmoop's explanation AFTER I finished all this research.
November 3, 2017
Meursault's Animal Impulses
During The Stranger, Meursault sometimes doesn't act very recognizably human. We've attributed this to various things-- dissociation, apathy, depression, sociopathy, a sense of superiority-- but my favorite explanation (as I've mentioned it several times in class) is Meursault as a sort of uncaring, mentally distant animal like a sunning lizard, or a fish staring blankly out of its tank in a populated waiting room. This comes up in a few places, namely during the funeral and on the beach with the Arabs, but most strikingly when he's sitting on his balcony in Chapter 2 for pretty much his entire Sunday. His balcony, this semi-public space where he can see and be seen but not interact, is his fishbowl. He alternates between people-watching and doing pointless things to pass the time, yet he's not waiting for anything. He has no responsibilities or work to do at this time (Something Uni students could never understand), and is content to just absorb the world around him, or be apart from it and look on; this description is what brings to mind a cat or lizard laying out in the sun, gazing at the world without focus. Meursault is a creature ruled by impulse, without an inner thought process telling him what to do.
As you may have noticed by now, this isn't coming to a point or a thesis. I just really like animal Meursault, and what that might say about neutrality or maybe his innocence later when he's being judged.
Notable animalian scenes on that casual Sunday:
"I cut out an advertisement for Kruschen Salts and stuck it in an old notebook where I put things from the papers that interest me" (21). Meursault just keeps a book of ...advertisements..? from old (not even recent or relevant) newspapers. He doesn't give a reason, just sticks it in the notebook, like a bird with its favorite strip of cellophane.
"I turned my chair and set it down like tobacconist's because I found that it was more comfortable that way" (22). Meursault see, Meursault do.
"I sat there for a long time and watched the sky" (22).
"One of [the soccer players] even yellled up to me, "We beat 'em!" And I nodded, as if to say "Yes" (22).
Ridiculous animal pictures aside, I'm sure there's some fascinating literary analysis waiting to be made about Meursault's attitude about the world in these scenes. For now, all I can do is draw mustaches on lizards.
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