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Two Gallants
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 427 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )

“Two Gallants”


Lenehan and Corley, two men whose occupations are suspiciously vague, walk through the streets of central Dublin after a day of drinking in a bar. Corley dominates the conversation, chatting about his latest romantic interest, a maid who works at a wealthy home and with whom he has a date that evening. He brags about the cigarettes and cigars the maid pilfers for him from the house and how he has expertly managed to avoid giving her his name. Lenehan listens patiently, occasionally offering a question or a clichéd response. As the men talk, they reveal a plan they’ve hatched to convince the maid to procure money from her employer’s house. Lenehan repeatedly asks Corley if he thinks she is right for their business, which launches Corley into a short lecture on the utility of a good maid, or “slavey.” Unlike other women who insist on being compensated, Corley explains, slaveys pitch in. He pauses wistfully to recall one of his former lovers who now works as a prostitute, and Lenehan teases that Corley, who seems to excel in pimping, must have encouraged such a profession.

The men resume discussing their plan, and Corley confirms that the maid will turn up as promised. They pass a harpist playing a mournful song about Irish legends, then approach the appointed corner where the maid is waiting. She is a young, ruddy-cheeked woman, dressed oddly with a sailor hat and tattered boa. Lenehan, impressed with Corley’s taste, leers at her. Corley appears disgruntled, suspecting Lenehan of trying to squeeze him out of the plan. But as he leaves Lenehan to greet his date, he promises to walk past so Lenehan can look at her again. The men agree to meet later that night at a corner by the maid’s house. Lenehan watches as Corley and the maid walk off, and he takes another intense look before positioning himself so he can watch the couple pass once more.

Finally alone, Lenehan aimlessly wanders through Dublin to pass the time. Not wishing to speak with anyone, Lenehan continues to walk until he stops into a bar for a quick meal of peas and ginger beer. Over his food, he sadly contemplates his life: instead of just scraping by, he wishes instead for a steady job and stable home life. Lenehan leaves the bar and, after running into some friends in the street, makes his way to meet Corley. Lenehan nervously smokes a cigarette, worrying that Corley has cut him out of the plan, before he spots Corley and the maid. He stealthily walks behind the couple until they stop at a posh residence, where the maid runs inside through the servant’s entrance. In a moment, she emerges from the front door, meets Corley, and then runs back inside. Corley leaves. Lenehan runs after him, but Corley ignores his calls. Eventually, Corley stops and shows Lenehan a gold coin, a sign that the plan was successful.


The title of this story, “Two Gallants,” is ironic because Corley and Lenehan are anything but fine, chivalrous men. Instead, they make an unpleasant practice of duping maids into stealing from their employers. Of the two men, Lenehan is the more self-reflective, and he provides a quiet, contemplative balance for the burly actions of Corley, who has crafted and executed their current plan. Lenehan is a Dublin man quite literally on the edge. He has one foot on the path and one on the road as he walks with Corley, he must bide time while Corley woos the girl, he lives on the verge of bankruptcy, and many consider him to be “a leech.” At the age of thirty-one, Lenehan yearns for a comfortable life, but he is no less guilty of deceit than Corley is. Both men lead dissolute lives and have few prospects, and nothing but easy money gives them hope. The meanderings of the story ultimately lead to the gold coin, suggesting that for both of these men, the coin is their ultimate reward and desire.

Even though Lenehan and Corley use betrayal to make money, both men are anxious about treachery. Corley orchestrates his encounter with the maid defensively, allowing Lenehan only distant glimpses of the maid for fear of competition. Similarly, Lenehan pesters Corley about his choice of victim, worried that the plan will fall flat and leave him penniless yet again. When Corley and the maid reappear later than Lenehan expected, Lenehan momentarily convinces himself that Corley has cheated him out of the profits, and not until the final sentence of the story can we be certain that the men’s collaboration is intact. This constant worry about betrayal reappears throughout Dubliners and always recalls Ireland’s political scandal in which the politician Parnell, according to his loyal followers, was abandoned by the Irish government and many voters when news of his affair leaked into the press. Lenehan and Corley are part of a generation disappointed after Parnell’s downfall who now feel they have no one to trust. This state of mind leads only to further betrayal.

Traditional national images connect Lenehan’s and Corley’s desperate and shallow lives with Ireland itself. For example, the harp, a traditional symbol of Ireland, appears in “Two Gallants.” Outside a wealthy Anglo-Protestant gentleman’s club, the men pass a harpist who is playing on a feminized, bare, and “weary” instrument. The harpist’s melodies later follow Lenehan and pace his steps. While Corley gallivants with his maid, Lenehan acts as the harpist, tapping his hands to the notes as he walks through Dublin. This parallel suggests that Lenehan is in some ways guilty of the same swindling as Corley, of taking advantage of a “woman” in the form of his country. This ambiguous connection between Lenehan and the harp is typical of Joyce’s national references. Joyce both leaves the inferences open to his readers and continually complicates them. When Lenehan later enjoys the meager feast of peas and ginger beer and reflects on his directionless life, for example, his meal reflects the colors of the Irish flag (the green peas and the orange ginger beer). Such associations link the maligned life to an image of the country, but with no conclusive sense of cause and effect, and no potential for solution

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a poem:Complaint by William Carlos Williams
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 299 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )

by William Carlos Williams

They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick,
perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.

The title suggests the double meaning of the nature of the complaint. That
is, the narrator's complaint of being called away from his own life to
tend to the medical complaint of one of his patients. Initially, he goes
because it is his duty: "they call me and I go." It is a cold night and he
must drive on a "frozen road," but he is a man who lives up to his
obligations> He will not let those he is tending see his annoyance at being
called out. He will "smile, enter and shake off the cold" when he gets
there. Inside his resentment bubbles up. The middle of the poem focuses on
his own interior complaints, but by the end he is kind toward his patient
"picking hair from her eyes" and watching over her "with compassion."

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The Plague Albert Camus
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 325 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )


Dr. Bernard Rieux  -  Dr. Bernard Rieux is the narrator of The Plague. He is one of the first people in Oran to urge that stringent sanitation measures be taken to fight the rising epidemic. A staunch humanist and atheist, Dr. Rieux has little patience with the authorities' foot-dragging in response to his call for action. His actions and personality imply that he believes in a personal as well as a social code of ethics. When Oran is placed under quarantine, Dr. Rieux continues to doggedly battle the plague despite the signs that his efforts make little or no difference. Although he is separated from his wife, he does not allow his personal distress to distract him from his battle to relieve the collective social suffering wrought on the confused and terrified population of Oran.
Jean Tarrou -  Jean Tarrou is the author of the account that Dr. Rieux uses to give greater texture to his chronicle of the plague. Tarrou is vacationing in Oran when the epidemic requires a total quarantine of the city. As an outsider, his observations on Oran society are more objective than those of a citizen of the city. Tarrou's beliefs about personal and social responsibility are remarkably similar to those of Dr. Rieux, but Tarrou is far more philosophical. He does not believe in God, so he does not believe in the illusion of an intrinsic rational and moral meaning in death, suffering, and human existence. For him, human existence gains meaning only when people choose freely to participate in the losing, but noble struggle against death and suffering. Tarrou contributes to the anti-plague effort in accordance with his code of ethics.
Joseph Grand -  Joseph Grand is an elderly civil servant in Oran. When he accepted his job as a young man, he was promised the opportunity for promotion, but, over the years, he never actively pursued it. Therefore, he remained in the same job for decades. His marriage also settled into a daily humdrum. Eventually, Grand's wife Jeanne tired of the monotonous routine and left him. Over the years, Grand has tried to write her a letter, but he suffers from an intense anxiety over finding the "right words" to express himself. This anxiety also hinders his literary pursuit. Grand is trying to write a book, but he wants to create the perfect manuscript, so he has never gotten beyond the opening line.
Raymond Rambert -  Raymond Rambert is a journalist from Paris. He comes to Oran to research the sanitary conditions in the Arab population, but the sudden, unexpected total quarantine of Oran traps him in the city. He desperately struggles to find some method of escape from Oran to rejoin his wife in Paris.
Cottard -  Cottard is suspicious, paranoid, and mercurial. In the past, he committed a crime that he does not name, so he constantly fears arrest and punishment. When Oran falls under total quarantine, Cottard is happy because he no longer feels alone in his state of constant fear. Moreover, the plague occupies the authorities entirely, so he does not fear arrest. He engages in the profitable smuggling trade during the epidemic and eschews all responsibility to help fight the disease.
Father Paneloux -  Father Paneloux is a Jesuit priest in Oran. Early during the epidemic, he delivers a sermon to his confused, frightened congregation declaring that the plague is a God-sent punishment for their sins. As the plague rages on, he modifies this stance, seeing the Plague as a supreme test of faith.
M. Othon  -  M. Othon is a conservative magistrate in Oran. Because he is a judge, Tarrou considers him "public enemy number one."
Jacques Othon  -  Jacques is M. Othon's small son. After he contracts the plague, he is the first to receive some of Dr. Castel's plague serum.
Dr. Castel  -  Castel, an elderly doctor, is the first person to utter "plague" in reference to the strange, fatal illness that appears after all the rats in Oran die. He and Dr. Rieux struggle with the authorities' denial and foot-dragging when they urge that stringent sanitation measures be taken to combat a possible epidemic.
The asthma patient  -  Dr. Rieux's asthma patient serves as mouthpiece for the changing whims of Oran society during the prolonged epidemic.
Dr. Richard -  Dr. Richard is the chairman of the medical association in Oran. When Rieux and Castel suggest that the strange illness is the bubonic plague, Dr. Richard does not want to believe it. He prefers to adopt a "wait-and-see" attitude instead of "alarming the public" with immediate, decisive action.
The Prefect -  The Prefect drags his feet when Rieux and Castel urge him to enact stringent sanitation measures to combat a possible epidemic of bubonic plague.
M. Michel -  M. Michel is the concierge for the building where Rieux works. He is the first victim of the plague.


The Plague is a novel about a plague epidemic in the large Algerian city of Oran. In April, thousands of rats stagger into the open and die. When a mild hysteria grips the population, the newspapers begin clamoring for action. The authorities finally arrange for the daily collection and cremation of the rats. Soon thereafter, M. Michel, the concierge for the building where Dr. Rieux works, dies after falling ill with a strange fever. When a cluster of similar cases appears, Dr. Rieux's colleague, Castel, becomes certain that the illness is the bubonic plague. He and Dr. Rieux are forced to confront the indifference and denial of the authorities and other doctors in their attempts to urge quick, decisive action. Only after it becomes impossible to deny that a serious epidemic is ravaging Oran, do the authorities enact strict sanitation measures, placing the whole city under quarantine.

The public reacts to their sudden imprisonment with intense longing for absent loved ones. They indulge in selfish personal distress, convinced that their pain is unique in comparison to common suffering. Father Paneloux delivers a stern sermon, declaring that the plague is God's punishment for Oran's sins. Raymond Rambert endeavors to escape Oran to rejoin his wife in Paris, but the city's bureaucrats refuse to let him leave. He tries to escape by illegal means with the help of Cottard's criminal associates. Meanwhile, Rieux, Tarrou, and Grand doggedly battle the death and suffering wrought by the plague. Rambert finalizes his escape plan, but, after Tarrou tells him that Rieux is likewise separated from his wife, Rambert is ashamed to flee. He chooses to stay behind and help fight the epidemic. Cottard committed a crime (which he does not name) in the past, so he has lived in constant fear of arrest and punishment. He greets the plague epidemic with open arms because he no longer feels alone in his fearful suffering. He accumulates a great deal of wealth as a smuggler during the epidemic.

After the term of exile lasts several months, many of Oran's citizens lose their selfish obsession with personal suffering. They come to recognize the plague as a collective disaster that is everyone's concern. They confront their social responsibility and join the anti-plague efforts. When M. Othon's small son suffers a prolonged, excruciating death from the plague, Dr. Rieux shouts at Paneloux that he was an innocent victim. Paneloux, deeply shaken by the boy's death, delivers a second sermon that modifies the first. He declares that the inexplicable deaths of innocents force the Christian to choose between believing everything and believing nothing about God. When he falls ill, he refuses to consult a doctor, leaving his fate entirely in the hands of divine Providence. He dies clutching his crucifix, but the symptoms of his illness do not match those of the plague. Dr. Rieux records him as a "doubtful case."

When the epidemic ends, Cottard cannot cope. He begins randomly firing his gun into the street until he is captured by the police. Grand, having recovered from a bout of plague, vows to make a fresh start in life. Tarrou dies just as the epidemic is waning, but he battles with all his strength for his life, just as he helped Rieux battle for the lives of others. Rambert's wife joins him in Oran after the city gates are finally opened, but Dr. Rieux's own wife dies of a prolonged illness before she and her husband can be reunited. The public quickly returns to its old routine, but Rieux knows that the battle against the plague is never over because the bacillus microbe can lie dormant for years. The Plague is his chronicle of the scene of human suffering that all too many people are willing to forget.


The central irony in The Plague lies in Camus' treatment of "freedom." The citizens of Oran become prisoners of the plague when their city falls under total quarantine, but it is questionable whether they were really "free" before the plague. Their lives were strictly regimented by an unconscious enslavement to their habits. Moreover, it is questionable whether they were really alive. It is only when they are separated by quarantine from their friends, lovers and families that they most intensively love them. Before, they simply took their loved ones for granted.

Camus' philosophy is an amalgam of existentialism and humanism. An atheist, Camus did not believe that death, suffering, and human existence had any intrinsic moral or rational meaning. Because he did not believe in God or an afterlife, Camus held that human beings, as mortals, live under an inexplicable, irrational, completely absurd death sentence. Nevertheless, Camus did believe that people are capable of giving their lives meaning. The most meaningful action within the context of Camus' philosophy is to choose to fight death and suffering.

In the early days of the epidemic, the citizens of Oran are indifferent to one another's suffering because each person is selfishly convinced that his or her pain is unique compared to "common" suffering. When the epidemic wears on for months, many of Oran's citizens rise above themselves by joining the anti-plague effort. The recognition of the plague as a collective concern allows them to break the gap of alienation that has characterized their existence. Thus, they give meaning to their lives because they chose to rebel against death. Fleeing the city or otherwise avoiding the anti-plague effort is tantamount to surrendering to the absurd death sentence under which every human being lives.

Just as any rebellion against death and suffering is ultimately futile, so do the anti-plague efforts seem to make little difference in the relentless progress of the epidemic. However, Camus' novel declares that this rebellion is nonetheless a noble, meaningful struggle even if it means facing never-ending defeat. In this way, The Plague is infused with Camus' belief in the value of optimism in times of hopelessness. Everyone who chooses to fight the plague, to rebel against death, knows that their efforts increase their chances of contracting the plague, but they also realize they could contract the plague if they did nothing at all. In the face of such a seemingly meaningless choice, between death and death, the fact that they make a choice to act and fight for themselves and their community becomes even more meaningful; it is a note of defiance thrown against the wind, but that note is the only thing through which someone can define himself.

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خريد كتاب استاد مهدي پور
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 391 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )

اسم كتاب را جست و جو كنيد

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عليرضا مهدي پور؛ مترجم «حکايت هاي کانتربري» در گفت وگو با خراسان:
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 340 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )
عليرضا مهدي پور؛ مترجم «حکايت هاي کانتربري» در گفت وگو با خراسان:
چاسر بعدازشکسپيربزرگترين شاعرانگلستان است

دانشجويان رشته ادبيات انگليسي به خوبي مي دانند که در قرن ۱۴ ميلادي شاعري در انگلستان مي زيست که امروز شهرتش دست کمي از شکسپير ندارد؛ «جفري چاسر». اما شهرت چاسر در ايران تنها به محيط هاي دانشگاهي محدود مي شود. شاهکار اين شاعر بزرگ « حکايت هاي کانتر بري» گرچه پيش از اين به نثر ترجمه شده بود اما ترجمه منظوم عليرضا مهدي پور اتفاقي در ادبيات ترجمه است. مهدي پور پروژه اي را آغاز کرده که معتقد است ترجمه اش آغازي بر چاسر شناسي در ايران خواهد بود. عليرضا مهدي پور در مهرماه سال ۱۳۴۱ در تبريز به دنيا آمد. کارشناسي زبان و ادبيات انگليسي را از دانشگاه تبريز در سال ۷۱ و کارشناسي ارشد همان رشته را در سال ۷۴ از دانشگاه تهران گرفت و به تدريس در دانشگاه هاي تبريز، آزاد مرند و اروميه پرداخت و هم اکنون عضو هيئت علمي دانشگاه اروميه است. علاقه او بيشتر به داستان کوتاه است و تاکنون دو کتاب به زبان انگليسي در اروپا منتشر کرده است: (Reading between the Paragraphs )کتابي درباره تدريس داستان کوتاه توسط ناشر آلماني VDM Verlag منتشر شده و مجموعه داستان هاي کوتاه به نام کابوس بيداري (Waking Nightmares) توسط Authorhouse در انگليس و آمريکا به چاپ رسيده است. داستان ها و قطعات طنزي هم به فارسي نوشته و ترجمه کرده که هنوز موفق به انتشار آن ها در ايران نشده، از جمله مجموعه داستان کابوس بيداري. ترجمه حکايت هاي کانتربري اثر جفري چاسر به شعر فارسي را تقريبا از ۱۰ سال پيش آغاز کرده و تاکنون دو کتاب از آن مجموعه را توسط نشر چشمه به چاپ رسانده و کتاب سوم نيز زير چاپ است.

جايگاه جفري چاسر در ادبيات انگلستان چگونه است و چرا در ايران چندان توجهي به اين نويسنده بزرگ نمي شود؟

جفري چاسر بزرگترين شاعر انگلستان بعد از شکسپيرمحسوب مي شود و حتي به دلايلي از او هم بهتر است و در موضوعاتي که هر دو شاعر به آن ها پرداخته اند چاسر از شکسپير بهتر بوده است. چاسر را به حق پدر شعر انگليسي ناميده اند و تاريخ ادبيات انگليس معمولا با او آغاز مي شود. اين شاعر دو قرن پيش از شکسپير مي زيسته و به قدري ادبيات انگليس را تحت الشعاع خود قرار داده که تا يک و نيم قرن بعد از خود شاعر بزرگ و مطرحي ظهورنکرده و شعرا مقلد او بودند. ابداعات و ابتکارات او در فرم شعري، فنون و صناعات و مضامين بکر و متنوع بي نظير است، نظير معرفي قافيه درشعر انگليسي که در زمان او رايج نبود، و پيوند دادن ادبيات انگليسي با ميراث فرهنگي ادبي اروپا، به ويژه فرانسه و ايتاليا و حتي مشرق زمين. اما اهميت والاي چاسر براي انگليسي ها در اين است که او در زماني که هم وطنان معاصر او به لاتين يا فرانسه شعر مي گفتند، او به زبان انگليسي مردم آن زمان شعر گفت و انگلوساکسون را زنده کرد.

پس چرا در ايران چندان توجهي به چاسر نمي شود؟

ناشناخته بودن چاسر در ايران براي من هم سوال است و براي پاسخ به آن به فرضيه متوسل شده ام. وقتي ناصرالملک نمايشنامه اتللوشکسپير رابه فارسي ترجمه مي کند، ترجمه اي که هنوز يکي از شاهکارهاي زبان فارسي به حساب مي آيد، چرا به چاسر توجه نداشته است. با توجه به اين که ناصرالملک سال ها در انگليس و فرانسه اقامت داشت. شايد تغيير زبان انگليسي و گنگ بودن متن چاسر بوده که بعدها با ترجمه چاسر به زبان انگليسي مدرن اين مشکل رفع مي شود. آن وقت چرا بعدها کسي به ترجمه چاسر همت نگماشت؟ فرضيه ديگري که دارم و پرداختن به آن خود مي تواند موضوع مقاله اي چالش برانگيز باشد، اين است که با احتياط مي گويم که شعر چاسر در ترجمه به نثر ملاحت خود را از دست مي دهد و کساني که چاسر را خوانده بودند اين را مي دانستند.

اگر در ايران به چاسر توجهي نمي شود، به دليل معرفي نشدنش بود. حتم دارم بعد از اين با ترجمه هاي من و ديگران چاسر جاي خود را بين مردم باز خواهد کرد.

چاسر را با رودکي، ويرجيل و هومر مقايسه مي کنند. وجه شباهت اين شخصيت ها در چيست؟

چاسر با شعراي بزرگ و حتي حماسه سرا قابل مقايسه است. او را با رودکي مقايسه کرده اند، به دليل اين که هر دو به زبان هاي مادري خود خدمت بزرگي کرده اند او با شعراي عهد کلاسيک مثل ويرجيل هم قابل مقايسه است چرا که هر دو از هومر اقتباس کرده اند و آثار بزرگي چون انه ايد (ويرجيل) و ترويلوس پديد آورده اند. اما چاسر را نمي توان در طبقه و تراز هومر دانست. هومر يک حماسه پرداز افسانه اي و حتي اسطوره اي است و حتي در اين که وجود داشته و يا يک نفر بوده ترديد وجود دارد. اما چاسر شاعري است که علاوه بر حماسه تقريبا در هر نوع شعر رايج آن زمان دست داشته و آثارش بسيار متنوع هستند.

چاسر معاصر حافظ و عبيد زاکاني است. با عبيد قابل مقايسه است و حتي با شعراي قبل از خودش، سعدي و مولوي، از نظر شعرهاي روايي، و من در ترجمه چاسر مقايسه هايي انجام داده ام.

در حکايت هاي کانتربري با گونه هاي ادبي گوناگوني روبه رو مي شويم؛ اين کتاب متعلق به چه نوع ادبياتي است؟

حکايت هاي کانتربري آخرين اثر چاسر است و شاهکار او به شمار مي رود. در اين کتاب گونه هاي متعدد ادبي رايج در قرون وسطي که چاسر در آن دوره مي زيست آورده شده اند. حماسه، رمانس، افسانه، موعظه، فابل، لطيفه هاي بلند و نه چندان لطيف و محترمانه و ... اين نوع نگارش در قرون وسطي مرسوم بود، درست مثل مثنوي معنوي مولوي يا هزار و يک شب خودمان، که ملغمه اي از همه نوع داستان در فرهنگ ماست.

ترجمه ديگري از اين کتاب به نثر وجود دارد که شايد بر نظريه ترجمه ناپذيري شعر تاکيد داشته باشد.

بله کار آقاي محمد اسماعيل فلزي است، که ترجمه کل کتاب به نثر است و ترجمه بسيار خوبي است. دست مريزاد بايد گفت به مترجم و ناشر. معرفي چاسر چون در ابتداي راه است هر قدر بيشتر و به صورت هاي مختلف ترجمه شود ديد بهتري پيدا مي کنيم. مثل شکسپير که ترجمه هاي گوناگوني از آن شده و مي شود و به هيچ وجه زائد نيستند. در دیباچه ی کتاب آقای فلزی نظریه ای مبنی بر ترجمه ناپذیری شعر مطرح شده، از طرف مارک وان دورن، که می گوید مدت هاست به این نتیجه رسیده که ترجمه شاهکارهای شعری به شعر بزرگ ترین لطمه ها را به آن ها وارد می کند. این نظریه همیشه در همآیش ها و چالشهای مربوط به ترجمه مطرح می شود . مثالهای فراوانی از ترجمه ناپذیری در شعر معرفی می شود. ولی ترجمه ای که من کرده ام یک اتفاق شگفت انگیز بوده و برای خود من هم جای تعجب است. منظور خودستایی نیست. اگر مرگ مولف را بپذیریم، باید مرگ مترجم را هم بپذیریم و قبول کنیم که مترجم فقط ترمینالی است که اثر در زبان مبدا و اثر در زبان مقصد در ذهن او ارتباط برقرار می کنند. آن چه این ترجمه را شگفت انگیز کرده، و به باور من بزرگان و استادان ترجمه سرانجام آن را خواهند خواند و به آن اذعان خواهند کرد، (آن چنان که در امریکا و اروپا حتی پیش از چاپ کتاب خبرش را پخش کرده اند و تشویق نامه هایی فرستاده اند و انجمن چاسر New Chaucer Society در خبرنامه اش این ترجمه را معرفی کرده)، قابلیت و امکانات فراوان زبان و ادبیات فارسی در شعر و نیز ویژگی جهانشمول و عمق جفری چاسر بوده و نه توانایی مترجم. و گرنه من نه شاعرم و نه طبع روان دارم و به قول خودم:

نیستم شاعر، زبانم از سرودن قاصر است

آن چه گفتم ترجمان طبع جفری چاسر است.

 این که تا به حال شعری نسروده ام (به جز این بیت) خود گواه مطلب است.

 من فکر می کنم نظریه ی ترجمه ناپذیری شعر در تئوری درست است اما گاهی پیش می آید و ترجمه ی من یک پیشآمد بوده است. در مورد وفادار بودن باید بگویم که اصرار من به درج زبان مبدا در کنار زبان مقصد با انگیزه ی نشان دادن میزان وفاداری بوده، و جاهایی که محدوديت های  اجتناب ناپذیر زبانی بوده، با پانوشت ها تکمیل کرده ام. در بازنویسی يک متن کهن و تاريخی پانوشت لازم است، چه برسد به این که این متن ترجمه از زبانی دیگر باشد.

 چقدر به متن اصلي وفادار بوده ايد؟

بايد بگويم که اصرار من به درج زبان مبدا در کنار زبان مقصد با انگيزه نشان دادن ميزان وفاداري بوده و جاهايي که محدوديت هاي اجتناب ناپذير زباني بوده، با پانوشت ها تکميل کرده ام. در بازنويسي يک متن کهن و تاريخي پانوشت لازم است، چه برسد به اين که اين متن ترجمه از زباني ديگر باشد.

در برخي از قسمت ها، اثر خيلي فارسي به نظر مي رسد. هدفتان جلب مخاطب بوده؟ يا به قول معروف قافيه به تنگ آمده بود؟

زحمت دادن به ناشر براي چاپ دو زبانه کتاب و تحميل هزينه  اضافي به خاطر همين بود که خواننده متن اصلي را ببيند و خود درباره امانت در ترجمه قضاوت کند. جالب اين که يکي از ناشرين به همين دليل که اثر رنگ و بوي انگليسي نمي دهد آن را رد کرده بود. اين نقطه قوت ترجمه است نه نقطه ضعف، و اين گونه خرده گرفتن نشان دهنده آن است که ناشر مزبور به متن انگليسي توجه نکرده و همچنين قابليت هاي زبان فارسي را ناديده گرفته بود.

به نظر مي رسد فاصله اي بين  ترجمه و چاپ وجود دارد از طرفي بسياري از حكايت ها  بي پروا روايت و ترجمه شده اند. نقش مميزي در انتشار كتاب چه بود؟

تاریخ ترجمه ی کتاب خود ماجرایی دارد که می تواند یک حکایت مستقل باشد و می ترسم از حوصله ی این گفتگو بيرون باشد. به هر حال، من خیلی خوشحال شدم که آخر سر چاپ این اثر به دست نشر چشمه انجام شد. نشر چشمه با سعه ی صدر و صبر و حوصله تمام شرایط را رعایت کرد، به ویژه مسئله ی دو زبانه بودن کتاب که جزو روال کار این نشر نبود و مشکلات خودش را داشت. دستشان درد نکند. به ویژه این که کتاب ها در سال پر تب و تاب 88 چاپ شدند. به محض این که من از ویرایش های بی پایان دست برداشتم، آنها هر دو کتاب را چاپ کردند. هر چند کتاب اول ديرتر از کتاب دوم به بازار آمد و خوانندگان و کتابفروشی ها را کمی  دچار سردرگمی و تردید کرد و منتظر کتاب اول ماندند، و بعد که کتاب اول با تاخیر روانه ی بازار شده بود ديگر از دهن افتاده بود! اما باید بدانیم که این کتاب ها مستقل از هم هستند، و کتاب سوم هم که اکنون دست همین ناشر هست، همین طور. خود جفری چاسر حکایت های کنتربری را در چند مجلد مستقل از هم نوشته بود.       

  وظیفه ی من ترجمه ی امانتدارانه بود و وظیفه ی ممیزان بررسی آن. دست ممیزان هم درد نکند که در بررسی کتاب سلیقه و سعه ی صدر به خرج دادند. و اگر حکایت ها بی پروا روایت شده اند بی گمان تقصیر خود جناب چاسر بوده است. مولوی در بعضی جاها از چاسر هم بی پرواتر است.

 و براي ترجمه و انتشار ديگر حکايت هاي کانتربري چه برنامه اي داريد؟

کتاب سوم حکايت هاي کانتربري شامل سه حکايت را چند ماه است که به ناشر داده ام و منتظرم. کتاب شامل حکايت هاي شهسوار، آسيابان، داروغه و حکايت ناتمام آشپزباشي است. در حال حاضر روي کتاب چهارم کار مي کنم، البته اگر وسوسه نوشتن رمان بگذارد که به کارم برسم. اگر بخواهيم کل حکايت ها را چاپ کنيم شش هفت کتاب مي شود. هنوز درباره ترجمه کل حکايت ها ترديد دارم. بعضي از آن ها به نثرند و بعضي ها خيلي جالب نيستند. ديباچه کلي حکايت ها و پنج حکايتي که چاپ شده اند ، به علاوه سه حکايتي که در دست انتشارند جزو زيباترين و مهم ترين بخش هاي کتابند و در اين که هر که آن ها را بخواند نظرش جلب خواهد شد و لذت خواهد برد ترديدي نيست. اما ترجمه کل کتاب شايد از نظر به اصطلاح آکادميک و تاريخي قابل توجيه باشد.

 (قسمت هاي قرمز رنگ در نسخه منتشر شده در "خراسان" چاپ نشدند.)

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A short story :A Pair of Silk Stockings By Kate Chopin
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 357 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )
Little Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the way in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years


The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really absorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act hastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But it was during the still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in her mind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money.

A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie's shoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than they usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make the old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings--two pairs apiece--and what darning that would save for a while! She would get caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives excited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation.

The neighbors sometimes talked of certain "better days" that little Mrs. Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Sommers. She herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time--no second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes.

Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand for hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with persistence and determination till her turn came to be served, no matter when it came.

But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light luncheon--no! when she came to think of it, between getting the children fed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all!

She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was comparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge through an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting and figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she rested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By degrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very soothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by announced that they had been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the counter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. She smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, sheeny luxurious things--with both hands now, holding them up to see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through her fingers.

Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at the girl.

"Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?"

There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of that size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some lavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. Sommers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely. She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured her was excellent.

"A dollar and ninety-eight cents," she mused aloud. "Well, I'll take this pair." She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her change and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemed lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag.

Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain counter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into the region of the ladies' waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process or reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be taking a rest from that laborious and fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some mechanical impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.

How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying back in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag. After doing this she crossed straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to be fitted.

She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not reconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily pleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize that they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, and she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long as she got what she desired.

It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On rare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always "bargains," so cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to the hand.

Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a pretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a long-wristed "kid" over Mrs. Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second or two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. But there were other places where money might be spent.

There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few paces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines such as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been accustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her stockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her bearing--had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed multitude.

She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings for food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed herself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain any such thought.

There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; from the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask and shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion.

When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, as she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table alone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite--a half dozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet--a creme-frappee, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a small cup of black coffee.

While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through the window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle breeze, was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in the silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he bowed before her as before a princess of royal blood.

There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented itself in the shape of a matinee poster.

It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun and the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here and there, and into one of them she was ushered, between brilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time and eat candy and display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there solely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one present who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to her surroundings. She gathered in the whole--stage and players and people in one wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at the comedy and wept--she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the tragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman wiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and passed little Mrs. Sommers her box of candy.

The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to the corner and waited for the cable car.

A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study of her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In truth, he saw nothing-unless he were wizard enough to detect a poignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever

  "A Pair of Silk Stockings Analysis"

Little Mrs. Sommers unexpectedly acquires fifteen dollars, which seems like a large amount to her. Feeling important and wealthy, she considers how to invest her money, feeling that she must carefully allocate her funds. During the night, she thinks of a sensible use for the money.

She determines that she should spend a dollar or two extra for Janie's shoes, so that they will last longer and be of better quality, and she plans to buy some fabric for her children's clothing. After that, she will still have enough money for new stockings and hats for everyone, which pleases her because her children will have new clothing for the first time in a while. Mrs. Sommers used to have more money long ago, before her marriage, but she does not worry about the past or the future, focusing mostly on the present.

Mrs. Sommers is accustomed to bargaining, but today she is tired and forgets to eat lunch prior to shopping. While sitting on a stool to rest before her shopping, she realizes that her hand has brushed against a pair of two-dollar silk stockings. She continues to feel the luxurious fabric and asks the shop girl for a pair in her size.

After choosing a black pair of stockings, Mrs. Sommers buys them and goes directly to the ladies' waiting room to change. For once, she abandons thinking about responsibility or about why she is so satisfied at her purchase. She sits in the room for a while, reveling in her stockings, before going to the shoe department, where she tries to find a pair of shoes to suit her stockings.

She pays for a stylish pair of boots, although they cost a dollar or two more than her usual shoes, and she then goes to the glove counter. She has not been fitted with gloves for a long time because they are too expensive, but she takes pleasure in the experience. She also buys two expensive magazines such as those that she used to read long ago, and she enjoys a new feeling of assurance in her new clothes.

Hungry, she decides against her usual approach, which is to wait until she returns home and then find a bit of food. Instead, she follows her impulse and goes to a nice restaurant, where she has a small, tasty meal as she takes off her gloves and reads her magazine, sipping her wine. No one looks at her askance, and not minding the price, Mrs. Sommers even leaves a tip for the waiter as she leaves.

She next enters a theater to watch a play. Many of the people are at the theater primarily to enjoy the play, but Mrs. Sommers absorbs the entire experience. Afterward, Mrs. Sommers waits for a cable car to take her home, and the man opposite her studies her expression. Bemused, he sees nothing and does not discern her desire for the cable car to keep going forever and never stop.


In "A Pair of Silk Stockings," Little Mrs. Sommers faces a minor dilemma that eventually becomes a conscious expression of her desire to return to a past that she can no longer have, reflecting her subconscious craving for the autonomy and independence that she does not have while under the pressures of poverty. The nostalgic desire to reclaim past grandeur recalls the dilemma of Ma'ame Pélagie in Chopin's eponymous short story, although Ma'ame Pélagie lives in the past and sacrifices it for the present whereas Mrs. Sommers lives in the present and temporarily leaves her reality in order to recall her past. Mrs. Sommers does not merely aspire to wealth in the manner of those who have never had money; instead, as Mrs. Sommers's neighbors note, she has in fact seen better days and intuitively equates her youth with simple luxuries such as silk stockings and kid gloves.

The second element of Mrs. Sommers's motivation for her impulse purchases relates to her need to assert personal autonomy. As Chopin establishes at the beginning of the story, Mrs. Sommers has several children to feed and clothe, and her first thoughts for spending her money come directly from the need to scrimp and save every scrap of her money. Although fifteen dollars had a great deal of purchasing power in the 1890s, much more than it would have today, it was not a significant amount of money for the long term. The indication that Mrs. Sommers cannot truly afford to spend it on luxury items suggests that she is greatly constricted in her actions by the requirements of minimum subsistence to which she is now reduced. Thus, Mrs. Sommers's purchase of silk stockings, a plain symbol of relatively luxurious abundance, may be interpreted as her attempt to deny the limits characterizing her worldly situation.

If Mrs. Sommers's excesses are a refutation of the powerlessness caused by her lack of wealth, then the manner in which she succumbs to temptation is ironic because Chopin's narration suggests that her decision to make her purchases is not made entirely by choice. Whereas she actively plans to buy hats and clothes for her children, Chopin describes her as "not thinking at all" after putting on her stockings. The tone of the narration is distant and dreamy, with a simple description of Mrs. Sommers's actions and limited discussion of her motivations. As a result, the protagonist seems to hold even less control over her behavior when indulging herself than when the lack of money is the deciding factor.

The readiness with which Mrs. Sommers gives in to temptation might seem at first glance to be a sign of succumbing or exhaustion in the face of suppressed consumerism. Certainly, Mrs. Sommers' lack of food and subsequent fatigue provide the impetus for her initial acquisition of the silk stockings. Chopin's narration, however, does not leave the impression of a woman who is weak and easily swayed. Instead, Mrs. Sommers is not condemned and does not condemn herself for indulging herself and providing a day of respite from her difficult life. Even when she returns by cable car to her home, she shows no regret for her lack of fiscal control and exhibits only a wish to continue her borrowed life. It seems that her dominant motivation for giving in is not the crass joy of shopping but, as in so many of Chopin's stories, a deeply held urge toward freedom, indulged here by releasing herself, however briefly, from the bonds of relative poverty.

Although the end of "A Pair of Silk Stockings" does not end with Mrs. Sommers in a position that is significantly worse than that in which she commenced the story, it still bears an element of tragedy and loss. Fifteen dollars has been enough to bring Mrs. Sommers back to her past and to give her an evanescent feeling of control, but it does not suffice to change her basic situation. Although the purchases made by Mrs. Sommers will remain with her until they wear out, almost all of the freedom that she enjoyed will disappear once she leaves the cable car, and she will be left again with nothing but memories and unfulfilled desires.


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Waking Nightmares by alireza mahdipour
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 345 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )

"In the thriving cemetery of the city whose heart has no beat,
There is not even a shriek of an owl.
The afflicted do not wail and roar,
And the wrathful do not roar and wail…"

Mehdi Akhavan Saales (M. Omid)

He often startled from troubled sleep in the dead of the night, sat upon the bed and gaped around vaguely without seeing things. He often heard himself raving inarticulately and groaned and woke up and went to sleep again. He sometimes got up without waking and walked in a mad menacing moment and touched things in his room or got dressed and did things he was wont to do in his waking hours or talked to himself, with nobody to witness anything of those lonely hours. And in the morning, when he was wide awake, he found himself dressed up in his bed, the alarm clock button pushed, the curtain drawn, the door ajar, books and papers scattered around, the bed migrated to an unaccustomed corner, and things missing or misplaced. Had somebody happened to lurk in his room in the heart of the night, making all the mess? He sat up and thought but remembered nothing, and pretended that he had made the confusion consciously, yet forgetfully. But he knew it was not so.

That night, there was a frost-storm outside and again he couldn't sleep. He feared the inevitable nightmare. Through the half-drawn curtain he looked at the frozen window-panes that trembled against the wind. In pre-sleep anguish he crumpled himself inside the cozy cave of quilts and listened to the world without. There was the wind hammering against the window and agitating the oil-burning stove that hissed and howled and snarled at him with its fiery fangs, through the slits of its iron form.
He peeped out of his quilts and looked around, and tried to memorize the places of things in the room: The clock on the wall that had soothingly ceased counting the time, the dismal coffin shaped cupboard towering over him, and a few other meager things on the niche of the wall, all stood in sober silence, where they belonged, and regarded him gravely.
And there was his dark, heavy coat; hanging from the clothes hanger above his head, parodying his pose and poising over him as if in expectation of his wearing it.
He was still far away from sleep, and had to lull himself to sleep by some torturing thoughts for an hour or two. His drowsy careless mind would venture through thoughts and remembrance of things past until he would be lost, like a wandering ghost who had deserted his grave, and he would imagine flying over the cold and windy roofs of the houses in the town.
It was cold outside. The streets and lanes around his house were vacant in that dead of night. Beyond his walls there were people, who like him were sleeping snugly in the depth of their quilts, or tried to. There was a narrow back lane before his house that meandered its downward way to the main alley, which was yet far away from the street that was so far-off that he fancied it belonged to an alien town. But just behind his house there was an open field with weird inhabitants who didn't suffer the pre-sleep anguish: the forsaken old graveyard of the quarter and its forgotten dead, sealed down in eternal sleep. He couldn't imagine how they didn't shiver and complain under the heavy burden of earth, when the cold wind blew against the stony gates of their graves.
That graveyard, as far as he remembered, had been his adjacent neighbor. It was used by him and perhaps by some of his lazy neighbors as a short-cut passage to the other part of the town. When necessary, he climbed down his wall, which was shorter than the others', and walked his way through the path among the graves into the next quarter. That route was one-way, of course, and impossible for returning home.
The last time he passed the place he noticed new houses had been built around the graveyard; high blocks of apartment houses planted here and there, with their backs to the graveyard, making it look deeper, dingier, and more deserted.
Nobody opened any window to the graveyard. It never occurred to him, too, to open a window or a shutter to it. There was a small back-room attached to his bedroom, with its wall bordering on the graveyard. It was utterly dark, even in day time, when its door was closed. Yet it had never occurred to him to make at least an aperture to the graveyard.
He opened his eyes inside the quilts, to make sure they had been closed. It was utterly dark. He tried to imagine the world around with his mind's eye, but his imagination was frozen too, and fused like an icicle to the shrouding darkness.
Yet, when he would go to sleep, he promised himself he would arrive in mysterious worlds. A phantom door would open through a wall of his room, perhaps, and he would see the vast, various lands that had been made in his imagination or his olden dreams, just behind his room. He might migrate to those lands without toil or tarry, and he might fly over the tall roofs of the houses, soar higher and higher and perch upon a turret that was perhaps pigeons' nest, and lose his own roof among the multitude of roofs at that height, and he would fear from falling, and would soon fall off in spite of himself, and . . . would gasp inside the snug cave of his bed, and would wake, to find himself soaked in cold perspiration. He would try to know where he was, and he would move his cushion to the other end of his bed, to avoid facing the clothes hanger when his eyes opened, and he would compose himself to sleep again . . . and he would dream another dream, that would turn into another nightmare, and further fear.
The winter wind wailed without. He peeped out of his quilts and stared at the darkness. The oil-burning stove mumbled with the voice of the wind, and darted uncertain flickers of light quivering on the ceiling. Above his head, his coat was hanging, parodying his pose, and poising over him, as if in expectation of his wearing it.
Through half-drawn curtains he looked at the window-panes that were festooned with frost-wrought forests; with every bend looking like a frozen dream. The wind burst into the window in a fit of frustrated gusts, sobbed stiflingly, and moaned away.
He withdrew his head into the quilts and the outside noises mingled together and got more confused. By and by came those intoxicated moments, when strange sights and wild associations assailed his mind; confused fancies and visions that he could not clarify to others or even to himself . . . At last! That could be the glorious moment when he knew he was going to sleep. But the very awareness of it betrayed him back to wakingfulness. His mind grew calm and clear again, and then he was wide awake. And then, he had to begin the process anew. And again, he didn't know when he went to sleep. . . .


He found himself peeping out of his quilts. A dark figure towered over his head, in his coat, bending towards him. He fancied that the figure was grinning, though his face was shrouded in the darkness. Yet somehow he felt the silent laugh. The apparition held an eloquent hand to him, as if expecting him to attend to him. It subdued his thoughts and actions, his mind and body. He wanted to say something but his voice failed him. He knew that that was a nightmare. He needed to yell and knew he couldn't. He wished to wake up but couldn't. He knew he had a long way to be awake, and had to worry and wait until then. There was nobody to wake him. Even if there had been somebody, they wouldn't have heard his voiceless cries.
He woke up by his own gasping, and found himself half-risen in bed, grabbing at his coat sleeve above his head. He was wet with sweat, and felt cold. The wind assailed the frosted window ¬panes and agitated the fire in the stove, who glared and growled at him. There was still a long way to the morning. He withdrew inside the heap of quilts, and crouched deeper there, and tried to go to sleep again…


A tall darksome figure towered over his head, in his coat. He knew it would bend over him and hold its hand to him. He took his hand out of the quilts and took its. His coat dropped from the clothes hanger softly over him. He was in a sweat, and panting. He rose but got a whirl in his head, fumbled for the wall, found it, and felt it to find the door. He went round the room, groping for the door, but it was nowhere to be found. It was lost. The room seemed larger. Was he in his own room, or in the adjoining back-room? He leant against a wall, and suddenly a door opened to him, soft and soundless. A cold wind blew into his face. Was that the vast and various land of his all-nightly dreams?
He slipped and staggered in spite of himself and rolled down a slope. He was in a big, dark and deep ground. Perhaps that was the deserted graveyard behind his house, that lonely, dark, and deep ground, girdled by tall, towering walls. He wished all of that to have been a mere dream.
He tried to wake up but couldn't. He was already awake, then. He was in the graveyard, yes, and in a dark, cold, endless night, with its forsaken dead. He was then conscious of the nightmare that had possessed him.
But how had he happened to run into that dreary place? Perhaps he had walked in his sleep, lured by the illusion of a coming dawn, and had descended from the wall of his house as in his daily habit. And now he had to walk through the path among the graves; the path he was familiar with by frequenting, and to come back home, hopefully, from the usual route of the lanes; a long, upward way, and that in the long, lone, cold dark of the night.
He walked for a while. He must have lost his way in the darkness. He couldn't find the way out of the graveyard. He sat upon a gravestone and gazed into the empty space. The graveyard was in the grip of a monstrous gloom and stillness. There was not even a shriek of an owl. There was just the low whistle of the wind, the faint rasping of the thorns among the graves, and the rustling of some trees that stood in a remote corner by the high walls; whispering with the cold wind. His own wall was hidden among the other walls.
He rose and walked. He walked for a while but got nowhere. The graveyard wasn't that big, but then it seemed larger than ever. Maybe he was going astray, or turning round himself. It was difficult to walk straight with all those thorns, gravestones, and the caves of empty graves. Some graves were also unstable and might easily collapse and give way without warning.
He had to return. But it was absurd to return, when all the directions were lost. He had to go to the nearest wall. After all, wall is a human invention, and leads to human abode. Then he should walk along the walls and circle the graveyard and find a way out. He had to keep calm. He shouldn't panic.
He made for the darkness of a wall nearby and walked slowly among the gravestones that were intolerably indistinct, trying to avoid the empty graves and pitfalls. The darkness of the wall grew larger and leant over him as he went forward. He felt sleepy, and his eyes were closed. He had forgotten the illusion of the morning, and all that he desired then was to open his eyes and find himself in the snug hole of his bed-quilts, and to render all that nothing but a nightmare.
He heard the trees rustling against the wind and his eyes opened. He found himself by the steep ground near the walls. The graveyard trees sullenly watched him, who had disturbed the graveyard repose. He passed them by and climbed the steep ground and reached his hand towards the walls. He was weary now. He sat down and rested his head against a wall.
But he had to rise and go. He had to find the way out of that graveyard.
He rose, with closed eyes, and staggered forward; groping his way along the walls lest he should lose the direction. He opened his eyes, and there was the shrouding darkness as usual. He leant his head against a wall, and listened to the other side. No voice of men, no heat of houses, and no smell of kitchens. The other side of the walls was more silent than the graveyard. Behind those besieging windowless walls people were deadly silent.
He closed his eyes again and walked in utter darkness. He plodded for a long time and suddenly heard the rustling of the trees again and opened his eyes. He had come to the trees again. Had he circled the graveyard? But what had happened to the way out?


Seven times he circumambulated around the graveyard in a counter-clockwise direction, like a Mecca pilgrim, without finding a way out. Perhaps a new wall was set where there had been an exit. He was enveloped by the walls.
Perhaps He should shout for help. A ladder, a rope, or something might be sent down for him, hopefully. He had forgotten the wall of his own house. It was lost. He couldn't climb it up though, even if he found it.
He wanted to shout and his voice failed him.
He felt that a great nightmare was possessing him again, a nightmare without waking, a nightmare of nothingness, of loneliness, of the lost door, of the way that had been vanished, and of the people who were nowhere; the silent people, who were more terrible than the dead.
He heard his own breathing. He felt his face with the palms of his hands, and poured the warm stream of his breath in his hands. He touched his skull, and felt the weight of his head above his body, and the weight of himself on the earth. But that nightmare had no waking. It was a nightmare in wakefulness. He wasn't dreaming. He wasn't sleepwalking.
He wanted to run wildly into the depth of the graveyard and get lost in the heart of darkness. Or maybe a forgotten dead would hospitably open his grave for him.
He rose, and there was a whirl in his head. He fell. His head hit against the wall and he dropped down from the steep ground near the walls. He closed his eyes for a painless fall, and everywhere turned into a wall, a dark, endless wall.
He fell upon the thorns and ice in dark, and fumbled with his fingers, and touched a chilly gravestone. He crept over the grave and fell into the thorns among the graves again. He dragged himself to the middle of the graveyard, and suddenly there came the revelation of the whole thing. It was as if he had seen that scene before; as if the end of his dream was being realized, and he knew what would happen next.
He struggled in a blissful vision and dragged himself forth wildly. A black hole appeared before him, a magic tunnel perhaps, which might lead him out of the graveyard. In an ecstasy of fumbling with his whole being he plunged headlong into the pit, and closed his eyes for a bottomless sinking, but he came to a stop soon, without injury. He smelt the familiar earth and opened his eyes; relieved.
It was not the Well, then, as he used to dream of falling into it abysmally in his every night nightmares. It was a ruined grave, perhaps, or a vacant one. Like many other local graveyards, that graveyard was disused, though, he knew, and no corpse was brought here. The relics of some corpses were even recovered and transferred to the thriving general graveyard of the town, and all that remained there were the open graves, and broken gravestones. Perhaps the tenant of that pit had migrated to some new graveyard and had left his vacant home for him. Anyway.
He leant against the surrounding wall of earth and stretched his legs comfortably. He felt good then. He breathed the familiar smell of the earth and listened to the world without. The thorns rasped against the wind, and the silent walls crouched more and more over the graveyard. He stared at his small share of the outside world and saw, for the first time, some stars twinkling uncertainly under the vague vault of heaven.
He closed his eyes. His den was serene, secure, and certain, and a drowsy numbness calmed his sense; a pleasant sense of fatigue, that promised a deep dreamless sleep. . . .


By and by came the intoxicated moments when strange sights and wild associations assailed his mind. Confused fancies and visions that he could hardly clarify to others and even to himself, and that was the glorious moment when he knew he was going to sleep . . . And again, he wouldn't know when he went to sleep. . . .

Tabriz - Winter 1996

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7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 389 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )


I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play


The narrator, an unnamed boy, describes the North Dublin street on which his house is located. He thinks about the priest who died in the house before his family moved in and the games that he and his friends played in the street. He recalls how they would run through the back lanes of the houses and hide in the shadows when they reached the street again, hoping to avoid people in the neighborhood, particularly the boy’s uncle or the sister of his friend Mangan. The sister often comes to the front of their house to call the brother, a moment that the narrator savors.

Every day begins for this narrator with such glimpses of Mangan’s sister. He places himself in the front room of his house so he can see her leave her house, and then he rushes out to walk behind her quietly until finally passing her. The narrator and Mangan’s sister talk little, but she is always in his thoughts. He thinks about her when he accompanies his aunt to do food shopping on Saturday evening in the busy marketplace and when he sits in the back room of his house alone. The narrator’s infatuation is so intense that he fears he will never gather the courage to speak with the girl and express his feelings.

One morning, Mangan’s sister asks the narrator if he plans to go to Araby, a Dublin bazaar. She notes that she cannot attend, as she has already committed to attend a retreat with her school. Having recovered from the shock of the conversation, the narrator offers to bring her something from the bazaar. This brief meeting launches the narrator into a period of eager, restless waiting and fidgety tension in anticipation of the bazaar. He cannot focus in school. He finds the lessons tedious, and they distract him from thinking about Mangan’s sister.

On the morning of the bazaar the narrator reminds his uncle that he plans to attend the event so that the uncle will return home early and provide train fare. Yet dinner passes and a guest visits, but the uncle does not return. The narrator impatiently endures the time passing, until at 9 p.m. the uncle finally returns, unbothered that he has forgotten about the narrator’s plans. Reciting the epigram “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” the uncle gives the narrator the money and asks him if he knows the poem “The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed.” The narrator leaves just as his uncle begins to recite the lines, and, thanks to eternally slow trains, arrives at the bazaar just before 10 p.m., when it is starting to close down. He approaches one stall that is still open, but buys nothing, feeling unwanted by the woman watching over the goods. With no purchase for Mangan’s sister, the narrator stands angrily in the deserted bazaar as the lights go out.


In “Araby,” the allure of new love and distant places mingles with the familiarity of everyday drudgery, with frustrating consequences. Mangan’s sister embodies this mingling, since she is part of the familiar surroundings of the narrator’s street as well as the exotic promise of the bazaar. She is a “brown figure” who both reflects the brown façades of the buildings that line the street and evokes the skin color of romanticized images of Arabia that flood the narrator’s head. Like the bazaar that offers experiences that differ from everyday Dublin, Mangan’s sister intoxicates the narrator with new feelings of joy and elation. His love for her, however, must compete with the dullness of schoolwork, his uncle’s lateness, and the Dublin trains. Though he promises Mangan’s sister that he will go to Araby and purchase a gift for her, these mundane realities undermine his plans and ultimately thwart his desires. The narrator arrives at the bazaar only to encounter flowered teacups and English accents, not the freedom of the enchanting East. As the bazaar closes down, he realizes that Mangan’s sister will fail his expectations as well, and that his desire for her is actually only a vain wish for change.

The narrator’s change of heart concludes the story on a moment of epiphany, but not a positive one. Instead of reaffirming his love or realizing that he does not need gifts to express his feelings for Mangan’s sister, the narrator simply gives up. He seems to interpret his arrival at the bazaar as it fades into darkness as a sign that his relationship with Mangan’s sister will also remain just a wishful idea and that his infatuation was as misguided as his fantasies about the bazaar. What might have been a story of happy, youthful love becomes a tragic story of defeat. Much like the disturbing, unfulfilling adventure in “An Encounter,” the narrator’s failure at the bazaar suggests that fulfillment and contentedness remain foreign to Dubliners, even in the most unusual events of the city like an annual bazaar.

The tedious events that delay the narrator’s trip indicate that no room exists for love in the daily lives of Dubliners, and the absence of love renders the characters in the story almost anonymous. Though the narrator might imagine himself to be carrying thoughts of Mangan’s sister through his day as a priest would carry a Eucharistic chalice to an altar, the minutes tick away through school, dinner, and his uncle’s boring poetic recitation. Time does not adhere to the narrator’s visions of his relationship. The story presents this frustration as universal: the narrator is nameless, the girl is always “Mangan’s sister” as though she is any girl next door, and the story closes with the narrator imagining himself as a creature. In “Araby,” Joyce suggests that all people experience frustrated desire for love and new experiences.

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7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 292 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )



Eveline Hill sits at a window in her home and looks out onto the street while fondly recalling her childhood, when she played with other children in a field now developed with new homes. Her thoughts turn to her sometimes abusive father with whom she lives, and to the prospect of freeing herself from her hard life juggling jobs as a shop worker and a nanny to support herself and her father. Eveline faces a difficult dilemma: remain at home like a dutiful daughter, or leave Dublin with her lover, Frank, who is a sailor. He wants her to marry him and live with him in Buenos Aires, and she has already agreed to leave with him in secret. As Eveline recalls, Frank’s courtship of her was pleasant until her father began to voice his disapproval and bicker with Frank. After that, the two lovers met clandestinely.

As Eveline reviews her decision to embark on a new life, she holds in her lap two letters, one to her father and one to her brother Harry. She begins to favor the sunnier memories of her old family life, when her mother was alive and her brother was living at home, and notes that she did promise her mother to dedicate herself to maintaining the home. She reasons that her life at home, cleaning and cooking, is hard but perhaps not the worst option—her father is not always mean, after all. The sound of a street organ then reminds her of her mother’s death, and her thoughts change course. She remembers her mother’s uneventful, sad life, and passionately embraces her decision to escape the same fate by leaving with Frank.

At the docks in Dublin, Eveline waits in a crowd to board the ship with Frank. She appears detached and worried, overwhelmed by the images around her, and prays to God for direction. Her previous declaration of intent seems to have never happened. When the boat whistle blows and Frank pulls on her hand to lead her with him, Eveline resists. She clutches the barrier as Frank is swept into the throng moving toward the ship. He continually shouts “Come!” but Eveline remains fixed to the land, motionless and emotionless.


Eveline’s story illustrates the pitfalls of holding onto the past when facing the future. Hers is the first portrait of a female in Dubliners, and it reflects the conflicting pull many women in early twentieth-century Dublin felt between a domestic life rooted in the past and the possibility of a new married life abroad. One moment, Eveline feels happy to leave her hard life, yet at the next moment she worries about fulfilling promises to her dead mother. She grasps the letters she’s written to her father and brother, revealing her inability to let go of those family relationships, despite her father’s cruelty and her brother’s absence. She clings to the older and more pleasant memories and imagines what other people want her to do or will do for her. She sees Frank as a rescuer, saving her from her domestic situation. Eveline suspends herself between the call of home and the past and the call of new experiences and the future, unable to make a decision.

The threat of repeating her mother’s life spurs Eveline’s epiphany that she must leave with Frank and embark on a new phase in her life, but this realization is short-lived. She hears a street organ, and when she remembers the street organ that played on the night before her mother’s death, Eveline resolves not to repeat her mother’s life of “commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness,” but she does exactly that. Like the young boys of “An Encounter” and “Araby,” she desires escape, but her reliance on routine and repetition overrides such impulses. On the docks with Frank, away from the familiarity of home, Eveline seeks guidance in the routine habit of prayer. Her action is the first sign that she in fact hasn’t made a decision, but instead remains fixed in a circle of indecision. She will keep her lips moving in the safe practice of repetitive prayer rather than join her love on a new and different path. Though Eveline fears that Frank will drown her in their new life, her reliance on everyday rituals is what causes Eveline to freeze and not follow Frank onto the ship.

Eveline’s paralysis within an orbit of repetition leaves her a “helpless animal,” stripped of human will and emotion. The story does not suggest that Eveline placidly returns home and continues her life, but shows her transformation into an automaton that lacks expression. Eveline, the story suggests, will hover in mindless repetition, on her own, in Dublin. On the docks with Frank, the possibility of living a fully realized life left her.

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After the Race
7 بهمن 1396 ساعت 4:4 | بازدید : 273 | نویسنده : . | ( نظرات )

“After the Race”


As many flashy cars drive toward Dublin, crowds gather and cheer. A race has just finished, and though the French have placed second and third after the German-Belgian team, the local sightseers loudly support them. Jimmy Doyle rides in one of the cars with his wealthy French friend, Charles Ségouin, whom he met while studying at Cambridge. Two other men ride with them as well: Ségouin’s Canadian cousin, André Riviére, and a Hungarian pianist, Villona. Driving back into Dublin, the young men rejoice about the victory, and Jimmy enjoys the prestige of the ride. He fondly thinks about his recent investment in Ségouin’s motor-company business venture, a financial backing that his father, a successful butcher, approves and supports. Jimmy savors the notoriety of being surrounded by and seen with such glamorous company, and in such a luxurious car.

Ségouin drops Jimmy and Villona off in Dublin so they can return to Jimmy’s home, where Villona is staying, to change into formal dress for dinner at Ségouin’s hotel. Jimmy’s proud parents dote on their smartly dressed and well-connected son. At the dinner, the reunited party joins an Englishman, Routh, and conversation energetically moves from music to cars to politics, under the direction of Ségouin. Jimmy, turning to Irish-English relations, rouses an angry response from Routh, but Ségouin expertly snuffs any potential for argument with a toast.

After the meal, the young men stroll through Dublin and run into another acquaintance, an American named Farley, who invites them to his yacht. The party grows merrier, and they sing a French marching song as they make their way to the harbor. Once on board, the men proceed to dance and drink as Villona plays the piano. Jimmy makes a speech that his companions loudly applaud, and then the men settle down to play cards. Drunk and giddy, Jimmy plays game after game, losing more and more money. He yearns for the playing to stop, but goes along nevertheless. A final game leaves Routh the champion. Even as the biggest loser alongside Farley, Jimmy’s spirits never dwindle. He knows he will feel remorse the next day, but assures himself of his happiness just as Villona opens the cabin door and announces that daybreak has come.


“After the Race” explores the potentially destructive desire for money and status. The monetary standing and social connections of most of the characters are explored, but the story focuses on the efforts of Jimmy, and to some extent Jimmy’s father, to fit into an affluent class. Jimmy is completely unburdened and childishly whimsical about life and money, as his father fosters Jimmy’s lush lifestyle. Having earned a large income from wise contracts and retail developments in his butchery business, the father provides Jimmy with a prestigious education at Cambridge, where he gains Ségouin’s coveted friendship. However, this potentially sunny portrait of carefree wealth and prestige is dulled by the less impressive excesses of success. Jimmy’s studies focus mainly on social outings and spending, and at the end of “After the Race” Jimmy emerges not as a dashing, popular bachelor, but as a clueless fool, his pockets empty after a spate of card games in which he was barely sober enough to participate. Indeed, Jimmy hardly seems cognizant of himself as a person, but highly aware of where and with whom he is seen. For Jimmy, seeking riches and notoriety leads only to poverty and embarrassment.

Like many of the characters in Dubliners, Jimmy has a moment of revelation in which he recognizes the truth of his situation, but he does nothing to change it. After he loses ruinously at cards, Jimmy hangs his head in his hands, knowing that regret will set in the next day. The irony of the conclusion is that the next day is already there, that daybreak has come. Jimmy, the story suggests, always faces the reality of his feigned wealth and his follies, but he also always avoids it. Regret lurks constantly beneath the surface of his actions, yet he continuously puts off fully acknowledging it. Jimmy instead submerses himself in his infatuation with signs of wealth. He relishes the experience of riding in the French car, exclaiming to himself how stylish the group must look. Such statements reveal Jimmy as intoxicated with presentation and committed to convincing himself of his rightful place in the group. When Jimmy delivers his speech on the yacht, he cannot remember what he says only moments after finishing, but assures himself that it must have been decent if such excellent people applauded him. The story casts Jimmy as simple and passive, placing trust in money that constantly eludes him.

“After the Race” highlights the political interests that underpin the Doyle family’s clamoring for money. The father’s profitable business that gives leisure to Jimmy flourished at the cost of his political views. Though once a fervent supporter of Irish independence, the father makes his money on contracts with the same police who uphold British law. He also acts against the national interests of promoting all things Irish by sending his son to England and encouraging his investments in French business ventures. When Jimmy attempts to talk about such popularly debated issues at the dinner table, his voice is silenced. The Englishman leaves this story the winner. Like the luxury cars that speed away from the countryside to return to the continent in the opening of the story, all money seems to flee from Jimmy’s pockets into those of others by the end of the story. The Irish, “After the Race” implies, always finish in last place.

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