28 de diciembre de 2007


El Cuervo


Las traducciones no reflejan completamente una narración tal cual fue escrita en el idioma nativo del autor. Logran capturar la esencia con mucha dificultad y más aún transmitirla, hacernos sentir las palabras en el lenguaje original. Esto también pasa en otro nivel con los doblajes de las películas. Ya con varios coincidimos en que los doblajes realizados en castellano de España desvirtúan demasiado el audio original, ya que los sudamericanos no estamos acostumbrados a ese acento, pero sí que aguantamos el acento mexicano, ya que desde pequeños escuchamos este tipo de doblaje. De cualquier modo algo siempre se pierde al doblar, se pierde el alma del asunto. A nivel textual, esto se intensifica demasiado en la poesía. Si se lanzan a leer a escritores anglosajones o norteamericanos sin saber aunque sea un poquito del idioma nativo de esos escritores, les puedo decir que no les encontrarán mucha gracia, o no toda la gracia en realidad. Me pasó hace mucho con el maestro de maestros, Edgar Allan Poe, uno de mis escritores favoritos (si es que no mi favorito), y mi más marcada influencia al igual que innumerables escritores del siglo pasado y el presente. Su poema más famoso se llama "El cuervo", y cuando lo leí, me maravillé al igual que me había pasado con sus fantásticos cuentos, sin embargo existía algo que no me calzaba, que me incomodaba. Ese algo tenía que ver con el ritmo del poema, con la rima. Y claro: lo que en inglés era una exelentísima, rebuscada y hermosa rima, en la traducción al español ya no lo era. Lo mismo debe pasar cuando traducen poemas de Pablo Neruda al inglés. Y peor es este caso ya que se trasquila el lenguaje castellano, como es sabido mucho más rico en sustantivos, adjetivos y conjugaciones verbales que el inglés.

Cuando leí The Raven, título original del poema de Poe (qué curioso que poeta y Poe empiecen por las misma letras, de hecho en inglés sólo hay que agregarle una "t" al final, poet=poeta), entendí la maestría del texto, la atmósfera creada, la estructura tan sólida de su desarrollo, antes predicho en su texto "Filosofía de la Composición" en donde explica técnicamente cómo llegó a escribir The Raven o El Cuervo y más allá, cómo se debe escribir cualquier cuento, o al menos cómo él los escribía.

Voy a transcribir a continuación el texto, en el idioma inglés, tal y como Poe lo escribió. Es una belleza en su pronunciación y su composición, yo hasta me llego a imaginar una voz lúgubre que la recita en una noche de tormenta, al lado de una tumba. Dejo un link para quien le interese el texto en español. A mi ya no me interesa. A aprender inglés que no hace mal.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you", here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before,
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster,
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never - nevermore."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee,
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore,
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

http://thcrow.iespana.es/thcrow/raven.html

1 comentarios:

Maine dijo...

A propósito de lo que comentas del parecido de "Poe" con "poet",o como él solía firmar jugando con eso y con la "A" de Allan: Edgar A.Poe; Edgar, A Poet, es notable cómo él se consideraba más poeta que cuentista y sin embargo ha trascendido como el padre del cuento corto. No podía faltar por estos lares.