CESAIRE NOTEBOOK OF A RETURN TO THE NATIVE LAND PDF

James Arnold and Clayton Eshleman At the end of the small hours burgeoning with frail coves the hungry Antilles, the Antilles pitted with smallpox, the Antilles dynamited by alcohol, stranded in the mud of this bay, in the dust of this town sinisterly stranded. At the end of the small hours, this town sprawled—flat, toppled from its common sense, inert, winded under its geometric weight of an eternally renewed cross, indocile to its fate, mute, vexed no matter what, incapable of growing according to the juice of this earth, encumbered, clipped, reduced, in breach of its fauna and flora. And in this inert town, this squalling throng so astonishingly detoured from its cry like this town from its movement, from its meaning, not even worried, detoured from its true cry, the only cry one would have wanted to hear because it alone feels at home in this town; because one feels that it inhabits some deep refuge of shadow and of pride, in this inert town, this throng detoured from its cry of hunger, of poverty, of revolt, of hatred, this throng so strangely chattering and mute. This throng that does not know how to throng, this throng, one realizes, so perfectly alone under the sun, like a woman one thought completely occupied with the lyric cadence of her buttocks, who abruptly challenges a hypothetical rain and enjoins it not to fall; or like a rapid sign of the cross without perceptible motive; or like the sudden grave animality of a peasant, urinating standing, her legs parted, stiff 8 In this inert town, this desolate throng under the sun, not connected with anything that is expressed, asserted, released in broad earth daylight, its own. Not with Josephine, Empress of the French, dreaming way up there above the nigger scum.

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Shelves: favorites , poetry , ebook , netgalley , french-cosmopolitan , At the end of the small hours: Life flat on its face, miscarried dreams and nowhere to put them, the river of life listless in its hopeless bed, not rising or falling, unsure of its flow, lamentably empty, the heavy impartial shadow of boredom creeping over the quality of all things, the air stagnant, unbroken by the brightness of a single bird.

A term which turned into a synonym for the celebration of shared black identity and self-confidence as a counter to French colonialist racism and a legacy of consequential self-hatred. I want to rediscover the secret of great speech and of great burning. I want to say storm. I want to say river. I want to say tornado. I want to say leaf, I want to say tree. I want to be soaked by every rainfall, moistened by every dew. As frenetic blood rolls on the slow current of the eye, I want to roll words like maddened horses like new children like clotted milk like curfew like traces of a temple like precious stones buried deep enough to daunt all miners.

The poem brims with a wondrous catalogue of geographical, zoological, biological terms like noctiluca, coccinella, syzygy, uvula and holothurian to just name a few, which must have been a challenge for any translator I believe.

John Berger and Anne Bostock, both language artists who translated this beautifully often decided to replace those terms with more familiar, less alienating synonyms, if available. It certainly helps making the text more approachable.

But this is a minor question mark. What remains is a sense of having discovered a poetic treasure, and the certainty to be picking this up time and time again.

ELSA BORNEMANN NO SOMOS IRROMPIBLES PDF

Aimé Césaire; Notebook of a Return to the Native Land (1939)

What is mine a lone man imprisoned in whiteness a lone man defying the white screams of white death TOUSSAINT, TOUSSAINT LOUVERTURE a man who mesmerizes the white sparrow hawk of white death a man alone in the sterile sea of white sand a coon grown old standing up to the waters of the sky Death traces a shining circle above this man death stars softly above his head death breathes, crazed, in the ripened cane field of his arms death gallops in the prison like a white horse death gleams in the dark like the eyes of a cat death hiccups like water under the Keys death is a struck bird death wanes death is a very shy patyura death expires in a white pool of silence Thematic Analysis Toussaint Louverture was a pretty awesome guy. After all, he led one of the first—and earliest—successful revolts against colonial rule and slavery. Stylistic Analysis This is poetry, so imagery and repetition are very important. Toussaint Louverture is "imprisoned" by whiteness. These lines show Louverture defeating death and whiteness, which seems to be almost the same thing.

LA DIOSA CIEGA ANNE HOLT PDF

Aimé Césaire

Shelves: favorites , poetry , ebook , netgalley , french-cosmopolitan , At the end of the small hours: Life flat on its face, miscarried dreams and nowhere to put them, the river of life listless in its hopeless bed, not rising or falling, unsure of its flow, lamentably empty, the heavy impartial shadow of boredom creeping over the quality of all things, the air stagnant, unbroken by the brightness of a single bird. A term which turned into a synonym for the celebration of shared black identity and self-confidence as a counter to French colonialist racism and a legacy of consequential self-hatred. I want to rediscover the secret of great speech and of great burning. I want to say storm. I want to say river. I want to say tornado.

JACI BURTON THE TIES THAT BIND PDF

Postcolonial Literature

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