I will die from a cancer of the spine
Boris Vian (1920-1959), translated by F.J. Bergmann
I will die from a cancer of the spine
I will die from a cancer of the spine
It will happen on a horrible evening
Fair, warm, perfumed, sensual
I will die from the putrefaction
Of specific, little-known cells
I will die from having a leg torn off
By a giant rat springing out of a giant hole
I will die from a hundred cuts
The sky will have fallen on me
Breaking itself like a heavy windowpane
I will die from the boom of voices
Imploding my eardrums
I will die from deafened wounds
Inflicted at 2 a.m.
By bald and indecisive killers
I will die without noticing
That I am dying, I will die
Buried under the desiccated ruins
Of a thousand collapsed cotton bales
I will die drowned in the engine oil
Trampled underfoot by indifferent beasts
And immediately again, by different beasts
I will die naked, or wearing red cloth
Or sewn into a sack full of razor blades
Perhaps I will die without putting
Nail polish on my toes
And my hands filled with tears
And my hands filled with tears
I will die when someone unsticks
My eyelids under a rabid sun
When someone slowly speaks
Cruelties into my ear
I will die from seeing children tortured
And stunned and ashen men
I will die gnawed alive
By worms, I will die with
My hands tied beneath a torrent
I will die burned in a sorrowful fire
I will die a little, a lot,
Without passion, but with interest
And then when everything is finished
I will die.
Boris Vian (1920-1959)
Je mourrai d’un cancer vertebrale
Ce sera par un soir horrible
Clair, chaud, parfumé, sensuel
Je mourrai d’un pourrissement
De certaines cellules peu connues
Je mourrai d’une jambe arrachée
Par un rat géant jailli d’un trou géant
Je mourrai de cent coupures
Le ciel sera tombé sur moi
Ca se brise comme une vitre lourde
Je mourrai d’un éclat de voix
Crevant mes oreilles
Je mourrai de blessures sourdes
Infligées à deux heures du matin
Par des tueurs indécis et chauves
Je mourrai sans m’apercevoir
Que je meurs, je mourrai
Enseveli sous les ruines sèches
De mille mètres de coton écroulé
Je mourrai noyé dans de l’huile de vidange
Foulé aux pieds par des bêtes indifférentes
Et juste après par des bêtes différentes
Je mourrai nu, ou vêtu de toile rouge
Ou cousu dans un sac avec des lames de rasoir
Je mourrai peut être sans m’en faire
Du vernis à ongles aux doigts de pied
Et des larmes plein les mains
Et des larmes plein les mains
Je mourrai quand on décollera
Mes paupières sous un soleil enragé
Quand on me dira lentement
Des méchancetés à l’oreille
Je mourrai de voir torturer des enfants
Et des hommes étonnés et blêmes
Je mourrai rongé vivant
Par des vers, je mourrai
Les mains attachées sous une cascade
Je mourrai brûlé dans un incendie triste
Je mourrai un peu, beaucoup,
Sans passion, mais avec intérêt
Et puis quand tout sera fini
Je mourrai.
French poet:
Boris Vian (1920-1959) was a noted French Surrealist novelist, playwright and poet, as well as a songwriter and jazz musician. Inspired by use of mescaline, he wrote successful hard-boiled novels, pretending to be their translator—the banning of these works for “moral outrage” can only have helped their sales. He translated Van Vogt’s The World of Null-A into French.
Translation notes:
I’m bilingual in French as a result of having lived in Paris for a couple of years during a critical part of my childhood. A fondness for Surrealism led me to Alain Bosquet and then Boris Vian. This poem is from Je voudrais pas crever (1962, Éditions Fayard). John C. Mannone has pointed out that at least two other translations are available online, and comparing my version to those has been interesting. In a few lines, my wording is identical; in others there are differences in syntax, level of diction, and even the interpreted meaning of words. Some choices are more or less arbitrary; e.g., deciding whether contractions fit with the tone of the poem in the original language (I decided that they did not), some depend on knowing colloquial conventions as opposed to literal meanings: “colonne vertébrale” does indeed mean “vertebral column”—but it is the common term for “spine” or “backbone” in French, and I much prefer the flow of the line with “spine.” But some ostensibly simple French words are almost impossible to translate accurately and depend almost entirely on context; the pronoun “on,” for instance, can mean “we,” “they,” “somebody,” or “you” depending on how it is used—and does not quite correspond to any of them. But English, in general, has a wider choice of terms than are available in French; English cannibalizes almost every language it encounters, assimilating a truly enormous vocabulary from global sources. Each translator will make word choices based on accuracy of meaning for individual terms, resonance with the phonetics, rhythm and context of the source, and a feel for the basic style of the work, as well as the idiosyncrasies of individual aesthetics.
The word vers translates as not only the plural of “worms,” but also as “verse.” Unfortunately, the pun is not possible in English.
Translating poet:
F.J. Bergmann writes poetry and speculative fiction, often simultaneously, appearing in The 5-2, Black Treacle, North American Review, On Spec, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. Editor of Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (sfpoetry.com), and poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com).
“Je mourrai d’un cancer de la colonne vertébrale”
extract of « JE VOUDRAIS PAS CREVER »
by Boris Vian
© Société Nouvelle des Editions Pauvert1962, 1996
© Librairie Arthème Fayard 1999 pour l’édition en œuvres complètes
The poem, “Je mourrai d’un cancer vertebrale,” is reproduced and translated with permission, courtesy of:
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