el motivo

El motivo para este blog es muy simple: para practicar el pensamiento en español sin mucho uso de “google translate” ni diccionario. Soy estudiante y normalmente hablo en inglés pero me fascina aprender idiomas. El español es el quinto idioma que he tratado de aprender, pero es probablamente  el tercer idioma en que soy más fluído.

Elijo estudiar español por un motivo muy azarozo y mundano–uno de amor, ¿pero no es amor la razón más grande de todas?

Espero que ustedes estén dispuestos a dejarme comentarios y ¡buen día a todos!

**El título de este blog “de terciopelo verde” es de “La continuidad de los parques” de Julio Cortázar, un cuento muy bueno que he traduccido aquí.

8 comentarios to “el motivo”

  1. where are you from?? this seems very odd but every poem you have done here is from a course I am taking…

  2. Hola, Nice translation of Cortazar you have here.
    Estoy buscando una traducción de un cuento suyo de este mismo libro, me parece, Historias de Famas y Cronopios, titulado “Mas sobre escaleras”… Es por motivos de amor justamente (my boyfriend doesn’t have a clue on Spanish and I’d love to share a piece of this Argentinean giant with him… the one I just mentioned it is highly recommended, by the way). ¿Saben dónde podría conseguirla?
    Just in case, you might want to know : es “fluído”, no “fluente” / “azarozo” (when using “random” as adjective) / la razón más grande de “todas” (it’s a she: la razón).

    Best regards from Colombia,

    m

    • Hola, y gracias. Lo siento pero no sé donde se puede encontrar el texto en inglés para “Más sobre escaleras”, pero hay un gran traductor se llama Hadi Deeb que ya ha traducido muchas historias por Cortázar. No pienso que haya una traducción por el cuento que quiere, pero si le interese el texto, él pueda traducirlo. There’s a contact form on his blog that you can fill out.

      Also, is this the Spanish text of what you are looking for?

      Thanks for the grammar corrections! Todavía tengo un problema de concordancia porque casi nunca reviso mi trabajo.

      • Hello Siv,
        Thanks for your kind reply. It is indeed that text. Since it isn’t that long, I have just attempted a translation myself… I’d appreciate a lot if you could give me any hints on how to make it work better.

        More about stairs

        In some place of the bibliography I have no desire to call to mind, it was explained there are stairs to go up as well of stairs to go down. What wasn’t said back then, however, is there also might be stairs to go backwards.

        The users of these practical artifacts would understand without great effort that any stair might go backwards if you ascend giving your back to it, but, in any case, what’s at stake here is the result of such unheard process. You may do a test with any outward stair —once you overcome the initial uneasiness feeling, or even vertigo, you will discover at each footstep a new field that not only belongs to the one of the previous step, but also corrects, criticizes and broadens it. Consider how just shortly before that, the last time you climbed up that same stair in the usual manner, all this background world was abolished by the stairway itself and its hypnotic succession of steps. However, it would be enough to climb up backwards to make this horizon, at first limited by Peñaloza’s backyard fence, jump now to encompass the mill of the Turkish lady, to then explode in the elms at the Cemetery and, with a bit of luck, reach the actual horizon —that one that our third-grade teacher would taught us the definition. How about the sky and the clouds? Count them when you are at the peak, drink the sky that falls upon your face as if through a gigantic funnel. Maybe later on, as you turn on your feet and walk inside the upper floor of the house, to your domestic and everyday life, you would learn how you should have looked at many things in there that way. That also in a mouth, a love, a novel, you should have walked up backwards. But be careful, it is easy to trip and fall; there are things that would only turn visible to you as you go up on your back, and others that won’t give in, afraid of that ascension that forces them to undress to such extent. Obstinate in their own level and mask, they take revenge of that one who walks up backwards to grab the unseen, little Peñaloza’s field or the Cemetery elms. Careful with that chair; careful with that woman.

        gracias de nuevo,

        m.

  3. Hola Mara, here’s a slightly modified translation of the one you posted above. Hope it’s sufficient! As for tips, I am not a native Spanish speaker so I don’t know what the connotations are in the text that contribute to its meaning, but as an English speaker trying to understand a Spanish text, below is my own interpretation of it. There were a couple sentences of which I was not sure of the meaning of, and these I have changed to better reflect my understanding of the text. With your permission, can I post the revised version on my blog? I would credit you, of course. Gracias!

    More about stairs

    Somewhere in the bibliography of which I have no desire to call to mind, it was explained that there are stairs for climbing as well of stairs for going down. What was not mentioned then, however, is that there might also be stairs for going backwards.

    Users of these practical artefacts will understand without excessive effort that any stair might go backwards if you ascend giving your back to it, but, in any case, what’s at stake here is the result of such an unheard of process. You may do a test with any external stair —once you overcome the initial feeling of unease, or even vertigo, you will discover in each footstep a new field that not only belongs to the one of the previous step, but also corrects, criticizes and broadens it. Consider how just shortly before that, the last time you have climbed up that same stair in the usual manner, all this background world was abolished by the stairway itself and its hypnotic succession of steps; in contrast, climbing backwards would be enough, so that a horizon limited at first by the garden wall now jump to the small field of Peñaloza, encompassing then the Turkish mill, explode in the poplars of the cementary, and with a bit of luck, arrive at the actual horizon, the one whose definition was taught to us by our third-grade teacher. And the sky, the clouds? Count them when you are at the peak, drink the sky that falls upon your face as if through a gigantic funnel. Maybe later, when you turn on your feet and enter the upper floor of the house to your domestic and everyday life, you will learn that there also you should have looked at many things in that way, that also in a mouth, in love, in a novel, you should have walked up backwards. But be careful, it is easy to trip and fall; there are things that would only turn visible to you as you climb up backwards, and others that won’t give in, afraid of that ascension that forces them to undress to such extent; obstinate in their own level and in their mask, they cruelly take revenge of those who walk up backwards to see the world in a different perspective, the little field of Peñaloza or the poplars in the cementary. Be careful with that chair; be careful with that woman.

  4. Hello, Siv.
    I’ll be honored if you publish this piece in your blog on my name (Maria Villa, now that you mention it). I’m no professional translator, and no English native speaker surely, but I’ve worked as an editor in Colombia for almost a decade. I have published a few translations to and from Spanish in the past and very much enjoy figuring out language workings, musicality and expression (I also work with Italian).

    Thank you for your kind adjustments to the text… only one thing remains, maybe, to suggest the version above: the mill is definitely from a Turkish lady, a somehow distinct character in the argentinean immigrant culture at Buenos Aires… (Polish and Turkish old ladies are famous for their temperament). You’d be losing that local hint if you take the gender off: “el molino de la turca”.
    And a question: can you indirectly refer to that horizon definition (a thing) with “whose”? I thought it only applied to people.

    I’d also suggest that you include at the end the original complete reference of each translated text, or at least the first edition, as it helps your readers to find authors and further works of them that might be of interest. It was actually difficult for me to find it in this case (I was familiar with the 1970 voice recording Cortazar did, but not the book that included the text):
    Julio Cortázar, Último round (Tomo II), Siglo XXI, Madrid, 2009 (1969), pp. 222-224.

    best regards,

    M.

    • Hi Mara,
      Sorry for the late reply. Thanks for the tips! I have made the changes and it is now published on the blog. According to a friend of mine (who is more grammatically inclined than I am), “whose” can be used to refer to the horizon definition. It is not technically incorrect, but is not often used as it is “off-setting”. I suppose I could’ve used “the definition that which was taught to us by our…” instead.
      Best,
      Siv

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