To Serve God in Holy Freedom

The book I've spent nearly the last three years working on with my friend and colleague Daniel Michon, of Claremont McKenna College in California, has finally been published. To Serve God in Holy Freedom: The Brief Rebellion of the Nuns of the Royal Convent of Santa Mónica, Goa, India, 1731–1734 is primarily a translation of a lengthy complaint to the authorities in Rome and the King of Portugal about Ignácio de Santa Teresa, the archbishop of Goa. There's also an introduction written mostly by Daniel, a preface by Timothy Coates, who translated the well-known Portuguese treatise Diálogo do Soldado Prático into English, and a transcription of the original text, which I frankly am shocked that we managed to translate as well as we did. It's a wildly idiosyncratic writing style even by contemporary standards.

Alas, since this is an academic book, it bears an academic price tag. You can order it here, but I don't blame you if you don't. Books should never be that expensive, even those aimed at institutions and libraries instead of individuals. At some point in the next few months we'll make it open access, but for now, dear reader, you're stuck paying through the nose.

I'll write more about Soror Magdalena, the archbishop, and 18th century Goa later. Take it easy, folks.

Yours,
DAS

"Viola chinesa" por Camilo Pessanha

It's been a while since I translated a Camilo Pessanha poem, so here's "Viola chinesa". The viola in question, if you go by the images you get when you Google the phrase, is most likely a 琵琶 pipa, AKA the "Chinese lute."

I wish I knew the circumstances under which Pessanha heard the instrument, since the poem seems to juxtapose two elements: the sound of the pipa, and whatever dull conversation he's stuck having when he hears it. I doubt he was chatting with Cantonese-speaking locals, but rather Macau's stuffy, provincial Portuguese administrators and their families, or maybe the local Macanese, neither of which group would have serenaded their guests with the pipa. That's why this poem makes me think Pessanha was zoning out during some social event and heard, or imagined, a pipa somewhere in the distance that provided a distraction—albeit a painful one—from the situation at hand.

I've more or less given up on following Pessanha's punctuation, though I also try not to insert too much of my own. I've also rendered things a bit more colloquially than in the past.

Enjoy, dear reader/caro leitor/看倌, and I'll catch you soon.

DAS

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"Viola chinesa"
Camilo Pessanha

Ao longo da viola morosa
Vai adormecendo a parlenda,
Sem que, amadornado, eu atenda
A lengalenga fastidiosa.

Sem que o meu coração se prenda,
Enquanto, nasal, minuciosa,
Ao longo da viola morosa,
Vai adormecendo a parlenda.

Mas que cicatriz melindrosa
Há nele, que essa viola ofenda
E faz que as asitas distenda
Numa agitação dolorosa?

Ao longo da viola, morosa...


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"Chinese Viola"
Camilo Pessanha


As the viola slowly plays
the chatter drifts off,
my languorous attention is not on
the tedious prattle.

My heart isn't in it,
as, nasal, painstaking,
the viola slowly plays,
the chatter drifting off.

But what sensitive scar
does it bear, that the viola offends,
and makes its little wings spread
in a painful flutter?

As the viola plays, slowly...

司空圖二十四詩品《流動》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 24 - "Fluidity"

And here we are, folks: we've arrived at the final poem in Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. It should come as no surprise that it resembles its fellows in many ways; it also seems to be the most straightforwardly Daoist of the bunch, albeit with a pessimistic undertone that makes you wonder if Sikong Tu might have had his fill of philosophizing and was growing skeptical. (Or maybe I'm projecting; who knows.)

Whatever the case, I'm fairly happy with my translation. There are some lines I particularly like—the last one of the first stanza, the whole third stanza—and I think I did a decent job of capturing Sikong Tu's mood. It's been a while since I worked on it, so I don't have any notes on the language itself to add. I can say that along with my friend and colleague Ana Katryna Cabrini (who turned me onto Sikong Tu in the first place) I'll be writing a little somethin' somethin' about this poem in Portuguese, so when/if that makes its appearance, I'll be sure to let y'all know.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the poem. You may dig listening to Hiiragi Fukuda's Seacide while you read, but probably not. It's cool; I appreciate you anyway, especially if you've followed along with the Sikong Tu project all these months.

微臣
史大偉

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流動
司空圖

若納水輨

如轉丸珠

夫豈可道

假體如愚

荒荒坤軸

悠悠天樞

載要其端

載同其符

超超神明

返返冥無

來往千載

是之謂乎

-----

"Fluidity"
Sikong Tu

Like water passing through a mill-wheel,

like a pearl rolling around—

can a man really attain the Dao?

Pretending it has a form is for fools.

The earth's axis stretches on and on,

heaven's pivot dim and distant—

strive to get to the heart of things,

fit together with it.

Go beyond the spiritual,

return to the empty dark;

a thousandfold comings and goings—

that is the meaning of this.