Contents
Translator's Introduction
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
The French Text
The French Text - Compressed, and Punctuated
The English Translation
The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated
Translator's Introduction
The French text displayed here is as close as I could achieve to that printed in the edition of July 1914, which produced a definitive version superseding the original publication of 1897.
Translator's Introduction
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
The French Text
The French Text - Compressed, and Punctuated
The English Translation
The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated
Translator's Introduction
The French text displayed here is as close as I could achieve to that printed in the edition of July 1914, which produced a definitive version superseding the original publication of 1897.
Mallarme - Poems
.
.
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors' chant!
Index of First Lines
Nothing, this foam, virgin verse
Princess! To be jealous of a Hebe's fate
Possessed by some demon now a negress
I don't come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast
The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,
Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn
I bring you the child of an Idumean night!
These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.
To you, gone emblem of our happiness!
Such as eternity at last transforms into Himself,
The buried shrine shows at its sewer-mouth's
The black rock enraged that the north wind rolls it on
Hyperbole! From my memory
With nothing of language but
O dreamer, that I may dive
All at once, as if in play,
Not meaningless flurries like
Any solitude
When the shadow with fatal law menaced me
The virginal, living and lovely day
Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
To the sole task of voyaging
All summarised, the soul,
What silk of time's sweet balm
To introduce myself to your story
Crushed by the overwhelming cloud
My books closed again on Paphos' name,
My soul, towards your brow where O calm sister,
Each Dawn however numb
She slept: her finger trembled, amethyst-less
Frigid roses to last
O so dear from far and near and white all
Mery,
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or you
The flesh is sad, alas! - and I've read all the books.
Poetry in
Translation
HOME NEWS ABOUT LINKS CONTACT SEARCH
Stephane Mallarme
Un coup de des jamais n'abolira le hasard
(A throw of the dice will never abolish chance)
The game is done!
'The game is done! '
Gustave Dore (1832 - 1910), The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Coleridge
Wikimedia Commons
Home Download
Translated by A. S. Kline (C) Copyright 2007 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Translator's Introduction
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
The French Text
The French Text - Compressed, and Punctuated
The English Translation
The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated
Translator's Introduction
The French text displayed here is as close as I could achieve to that printed in the edition of July 1914, which produced a definitive version superseding the original publication of 1897. The English 'translation' is offered as an equivalent text to, or interpretation of, the original. The compressed and punctuated translation is offered as an aid to grasping the poem as a whole, in a swift reading.
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
'I would prefer that this Note was not read, or, skimmed, was forgotten; it tells the knowledgeable reader little that is beyond his or her penetration: but may confuse the uninitiated, prior to their looking at the first words of the Poem, since the ensuing words, laid out as they are, lead on to the last, with no novelty except the spacing of the text. The 'blanks' indeed take on importance, at first glance; the versification demands them, as a surrounding silence, to the extent that a fragment, lyrical or of a few beats, occupies, in its midst, a third of the space of paper: I do not transgress the measure, only disperse it. The paper intervenes each time as an image, of itself, ends or begins once more, accepting a succession of others, and, since, as ever, it does nothing, of regular sonorous lines or verse - rather prismatic subdivisions of the Idea, the instant they appear, and as long as they last, in some precise intellectual performance, that is in variable positions, nearer to or further from the implicit guiding thread, because of the verisimilitude the text imposes. The literary value, if I am allowed to say so, of this print-less distance which mentally separates groups of words or words themselves, is to periodically accelerate or slow the movement, the scansion, the sequence even, given one's simultaneous sight of the page: the latter taken as unity, as elsewhere the Verse is or perfect line. Imagination flowers and vanishes, swiftly, following the flow of the writing, round the fragmentary stations of a capitalised phrase introduced by and extended from the title. Everything takes place, in sections, by supposition; narrative is avoided. In addition this use of the bare thought with its retreats, prolongations, and flights, by reason of its very design, for anyone wishing to read it aloud, results in a score. The variation in printed characters between the dominant motif, a secondary one and those adjacent, marks its importance for oral utterance and the scale, mid-way, at top or bottom of the page will show how the intonation rises or falls. (Only certain very bold instructions of mine, encroachments etc. forming the counterpoint to this prosody, a work which lacks precedent, have been left in a primitive state: not because I agree with being timid in my attempts; but because it is not for me, save by a special pagination or volume of my own, in a Periodical so courageous, gracious and accommodating as it shows itself to be to real freedom, to act too contrary to custom. I will have shown, in the Poem below, more than a sketch, a 'state' which yet does not entirely break with tradition; will have furthered its presentation in many ways too, without offending anyone; sufficing to open a few eyes (This applies to the 1897 printing specifically: translator's note). Today, without presuming anything about what will emerge from this in future, nothing, or almost a new art, let us readily accept that the tentative participates, with the unforeseen, in the pursuit, specific and dear to our time, of free verse and the prose poem. Their meeting takes place under an influence, alien I know, that of Music heard in concert; one finds there several techniques that seem to me to belong to Literature, I reclaim them.
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors' chant!
Index of First Lines
Nothing, this foam, virgin verse
Princess! To be jealous of a Hebe's fate
Possessed by some demon now a negress
I don't come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast
The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,
Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn
I bring you the child of an Idumean night!
These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.
To you, gone emblem of our happiness!
Such as eternity at last transforms into Himself,
The buried shrine shows at its sewer-mouth's
The black rock enraged that the north wind rolls it on
Hyperbole! From my memory
With nothing of language but
O dreamer, that I may dive
All at once, as if in play,
Not meaningless flurries like
Any solitude
When the shadow with fatal law menaced me
The virginal, living and lovely day
Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
To the sole task of voyaging
All summarised, the soul,
What silk of time's sweet balm
To introduce myself to your story
Crushed by the overwhelming cloud
My books closed again on Paphos' name,
My soul, towards your brow where O calm sister,
Each Dawn however numb
She slept: her finger trembled, amethyst-less
Frigid roses to last
O so dear from far and near and white all
Mery,
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or you
The flesh is sad, alas! - and I've read all the books.
Poetry in
Translation
HOME NEWS ABOUT LINKS CONTACT SEARCH
Stephane Mallarme
Un coup de des jamais n'abolira le hasard
(A throw of the dice will never abolish chance)
The game is done!
'The game is done! '
Gustave Dore (1832 - 1910), The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Coleridge
Wikimedia Commons
Home Download
Translated by A. S. Kline (C) Copyright 2007 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Translator's Introduction
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
The French Text
The French Text - Compressed, and Punctuated
The English Translation
The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated
Translator's Introduction
The French text displayed here is as close as I could achieve to that printed in the edition of July 1914, which produced a definitive version superseding the original publication of 1897. The English 'translation' is offered as an equivalent text to, or interpretation of, the original. The compressed and punctuated translation is offered as an aid to grasping the poem as a whole, in a swift reading.
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
'I would prefer that this Note was not read, or, skimmed, was forgotten; it tells the knowledgeable reader little that is beyond his or her penetration: but may confuse the uninitiated, prior to their looking at the first words of the Poem, since the ensuing words, laid out as they are, lead on to the last, with no novelty except the spacing of the text. The 'blanks' indeed take on importance, at first glance; the versification demands them, as a surrounding silence, to the extent that a fragment, lyrical or of a few beats, occupies, in its midst, a third of the space of paper: I do not transgress the measure, only disperse it. The paper intervenes each time as an image, of itself, ends or begins once more, accepting a succession of others, and, since, as ever, it does nothing, of regular sonorous lines or verse - rather prismatic subdivisions of the Idea, the instant they appear, and as long as they last, in some precise intellectual performance, that is in variable positions, nearer to or further from the implicit guiding thread, because of the verisimilitude the text imposes. The literary value, if I am allowed to say so, of this print-less distance which mentally separates groups of words or words themselves, is to periodically accelerate or slow the movement, the scansion, the sequence even, given one's simultaneous sight of the page: the latter taken as unity, as elsewhere the Verse is or perfect line. Imagination flowers and vanishes, swiftly, following the flow of the writing, round the fragmentary stations of a capitalised phrase introduced by and extended from the title. Everything takes place, in sections, by supposition; narrative is avoided. In addition this use of the bare thought with its retreats, prolongations, and flights, by reason of its very design, for anyone wishing to read it aloud, results in a score. The variation in printed characters between the dominant motif, a secondary one and those adjacent, marks its importance for oral utterance and the scale, mid-way, at top or bottom of the page will show how the intonation rises or falls. (Only certain very bold instructions of mine, encroachments etc. forming the counterpoint to this prosody, a work which lacks precedent, have been left in a primitive state: not because I agree with being timid in my attempts; but because it is not for me, save by a special pagination or volume of my own, in a Periodical so courageous, gracious and accommodating as it shows itself to be to real freedom, to act too contrary to custom. I will have shown, in the Poem below, more than a sketch, a 'state' which yet does not entirely break with tradition; will have furthered its presentation in many ways too, without offending anyone; sufficing to open a few eyes (This applies to the 1897 printing specifically: translator's note). Today, without presuming anything about what will emerge from this in future, nothing, or almost a new art, let us readily accept that the tentative participates, with the unforeseen, in the pursuit, specific and dear to our time, of free verse and the prose poem. Their meeting takes place under an influence, alien I know, that of Music heard in concert; one finds there several techniques that seem to me to belong to Literature, I reclaim them.
