Yoko Tawada; Überseezungen; Transcultural Language Games (transcript)
(University of Arizona, 2006-02-10)
Link to webpage with videos
In this performance, titled "Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games," Yoko Tawada and translator Bettina Brandt read a series of meditations on language drawn from fragments of Tawada's poetry and prose. This performance is given primarily in English, German, and Japanese.
Introduction
Yoko Tawada was originally born as Tawada Yoko in Tokyo, Japan in 1960. She established residency in Hamburg, Germany 22 years later, and has been living there ever since. Tawada first appeared on the literary scene in 1987 as a translated author, not only in the figurative sense in which Homi Bhabha makes use of this term in order to give a name to those authors who have left one country and now reside in another, often after crossing an ocean. Migrant writers, in other words, who have been carried over or were born across a body of water, thus referring to the etymological roots of translation, but also quite literally because Yoko Tawada made her debut with a poetry collection, Nur Da Wo Du Bist Da Ist Nichts, Only Where You Are There's Nothing, a collection of texts, which had been translated into German from Japanese. Two years later, she published a short novel, Das Bad, The Bath, in German, but it too was translated from Japanese. Since the beginning of the 1990s, however, Yoko Tawada writes and publishes both in German and in Japanese. Much of her German and Japanese fiction focuses on the relationship of space to mobility, subjectivity, language, and gender. In the process, she deconstructs established paradigms about nation, culture, and identity, and she does so with obvious pleasure and a certain dry humor. Tawada thrusts aside realist narrative structures. Her texts often contain a series of loosely related vignettes and observations, spinning tales in which recognizable autobiographical elements and fantastic features reside side by side, and where dreams suddenly interrupt descriptions of seemingly mundane daily activities. Tawada's writings continuously question and deconstruct our readerly expectations. Tawada's narrators do not portray cultures as realistic worlds subject to a continuous explanatory discourse. On the contrary, she shows us that ethnographic knowledge is a collection of data, scripts, and voices. Tawada's writings exude a certain strangeness, the strangeness does not appear in the cultures or the words of the fictional characters represented. What has become strange in Tawada's writings is the language of cultural description itself. Tawada's short story, Japanese short story, "Missing Heels" was awarded the Gunzo Prize for new Japanese writers in 1991. Her next publication, on sale at the end of the room, The Bridegroom Was A Dog won Japan's prestigious Akutagawa prize in 1993. By the time Yoko Tawada was awarded the Adelbert von Chamisso Prize in 1996, a literary award bestowed upon outstanding foreign born authors writing in German, the author had written a short novel, Ein Gast, A Guest, a collection of literary essays, Talisman, a collection of prose fiction and poems, Wo Europa Anfängt, Where Europe Begins, which is also on sale at the end of the room and which some of you read, I understand in preparation for coming here, and a theater play, Die Kranichmaske, die bei Nacht strahlt, The Mask of the Crane Which Shines At Night in the German language. Her literary ouevre, by now, spans a wide range of genres-- novels and short stories, poems and radio plays, text for the theater and experimental performance pieces like you will see in a moment. Tawada's texts have been translated into English, French, and Italian. Actually, two of her French texts just came out this year, The Naked Eye and Night Train With Suspect. Translation of fragments of texts and essays have also appeared in literary journals and in anthologies in the People's Republic of China, in the Netherlands, in Bulgaria, Romania, the Czech Republic, in Spain, Norway, and in Korea. Presumably, quite a few here today currently are, or have been in the past, students of one language or another. For all of us current and future language students, Tawada once wrote-- and I quote her in German first before I translate the sentence-- "Eine Sprachschule hat etwas heilendes. Man kann daraus vielleicht ein Lebensmodell entwickeln." "A language school has a certain healing quality. Perhaps it could produce a model for life. When asked what it is that language students can take home from the language classroom and incorporate into their daily lives, the writer answered, and I quote, "I want to live my life like a participant in a language class. In that context, language is never taken for granted. Rather, language is that which you don't know, what you have not mastered. As a result, you suddenly get the feeling that you don't know anything about the world either. That in turns n-- that in turn means-- sorry-- that as an adult you suddenly can have this rare feeling of lightness, of newness again. It is as if through learning and speaking a new word, you were able to touch each object again as for the first time. You attempt to say something, not because you want to say this particular word or sentence, but only because you're able to create this particular sentence. Sometimes you use variations because of grammar rules or simply because it is fun to say because it sounds musically interesting. You also lie a lot in a foreign language and you can play with language. It gives you pleasure, but sometimes it tortures you as well. In a language class, you're never allowed to forget that language is the main and most important character in the room." In a few moments, we will start our literary performance. Then you can see and hear for yourself what the benefits of the language classroom as a model for life might be. Our performance has the title, Überseezungen, Transcultural Language Games. Because Überseezungen is the title of one of Tawada's latest German prose collection, the title is a German pun. It is not only a fortuitous encounter between the German word for translation, übersetzen, and the German word for a certain type of delicate fish, Seezunge, or sole, as the fish is known in English. It also, as a result of this unusual word combination, forces us to consider what happens when words like fish start to travel and when slippery foreign words that you do not at all control enter into an environment where they have never been. What exactly happens when this place happens to be the space between your lips? Or the cavity under your tongue? Yoko Tawada and I ultimately read prose fragments and poems from a number of her texts. During the performance, you will not only hear our individual voices shift back and forth, but also the languages in which we read. The text fragments and poems themselves will constantly change as well. And now, let's start. I hope you'll enjoy this language show.
Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games pt. 1
トイレでひとり歌っていると 月が転がり込んできた 裸のままで自転車に乗って 暗喩の森を駆け抜けて月が私に会いに来た 外の通りを美しい女が 歯を磨きながら歩いていく 公園のベンチでは妊婦服を着た男が リンゴジュースを飲んでいる 世紀末には健康がつきものだ 空にぽっかり空いた穴 月のような不安も月のような憂いも消えて 「のような」 たちが穴の周りを朗らかに飛び回る 深淵の皺は伸び つるつるになった苦悩の表面で 詩人たちがスケートを始める 月 私の 隣の Ich sang auf der Toilette, da kam der Mond herangerollt. Nackt auf einem Fahrrad. Wer hatte den Weg mitten durch den Metaphern-Park genommen, um mich zu treffen? Draußen die Straße entlang spazierte zähneputzend eine schöne Frau. Auf der Bank im Park trank ein Mann in Umstandskleidung Apfelsaft. Am Ende eines Jahrhunderts ist Gesundheit eben angesagt. Im Himmel klaffte ein Loch, die mondgestaltige Angst,
die mondgestaltige [UNVERSTÄNDLICH] sind weg. Alles Gestaltige flattert munter um das Loch herum. Die Falte des Abgrunds glättet sich. Auf der blanken Oberfläche der Sorge treten die Dichter auf Schlittschuhen an. Mond, meiner, neben mir. When i came to Europe, I carried some burning questions in my travel bag. Will I become another person if I speak another language? Does a little seahorse look different if it is no longer called-- タツノオトシゴ. The last child of the dragon, but rather the little horse from the sea. Will I no longer cook rice, but eat it uncooked? If there's only one word, rice, for cooked rice-- ごはん. --as well as uncooked rice-- 米. --do I always have to cook chunky soup if I'm no longer supposed to say, to drink soup, but to eat soup? Do I have twice as much time after work, if there are two words for the same space of time, evening and night? In the evening, one can go to the theater, and during the night, one can sleep. In Japanese, there's only one word-- 夜. --for evening, as well as for night, therefore one does not sleep enough. Will I study with more self-confidence, if homework is considered work, just like all other work in the society? Can one, in good conscience, take years writing a paper? In Japanese, unfortunately, whatever belongs to the realm of learning-- 勉強 --does not belong to the realm of work. 仕事 I've been living in Hamburg for 23 years now. Have you become a different person, I'm asked. Are you a different person when you speak German, I'm asked. These questions are not easily answered. If a person were to acquire an additional personality when learning an additional language, someone who speaks five languages would possess five personalities. Should this person look like a country fair with five different booth? I don't have a single booth, I'm similar to a web. The structure of a web gets denser when new traits are incorporated. In this way, a new pattern is formed. They're more and more knots, tight and loose spots, irregularities, uncompleted corners, edges, holes, or superimposed layers. This web, which can catch tiny planktons, I will call a multilingual web. いつも何語で夢をみますか？ In which language do you dream? Kannst du dich an den Traum erinnern, von dem ich dir vor ein paar Jahren erzählt habe? Ich hatte eine leuchtende Birne in der Hand und – Do you remember the dream about a pear I told you a few years ago? I carried a glowing pear in my hand, and wanted to go to the temple where you slept. I did not forget that dream, because it answered the question I've been asked so often. Which language do you dream in? I spoke German when I talked to you in the dream, like in a non-dream. That does not mean that I dream in German. If it was as simple as that, I could even say that I dreamed in Polish, because I said the two Polish words I know in a dream once. It is not extraordinary to speak a foreign language in a dream, but the glowing pear shows clearly that I dreamt in the German language. In Japanese, the word, nashi, pear, has nothing to do with a light bulb, thank you. The Japanese pear has no reason to glow.
Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games pt. 2
In welcher Sprache träumen Sie? 何語で夢みますか？ いつもそればかり聞かれるんです Es war für mich immer ein qualvolles Spiel auf einer Fete neue Menschen kennenzulernen. Zuerst versuchen sie mit mir über das Wetter, das Tagesgeschehen oder über Bücher zu sprechen. Worüber wir auch sprachen, zum Schluss stellten sie mir immer dieselbe Frage: Und in welcher Sprache träumen Sie? In which language do you dream? Es war bei einer Geburtstagsfeier im Jahr 1998. Eine Gymnasiumslehrerin fragte mich wieder, in welcher Sprache ich träumen würde. Ich erzählte ihr von meinen Träumen. Ich gab zu, dass ich nicht wüsste, in welcher Sprache ich träumte. Ein Mann – er war der Ehemann von irgendjemandem – ich wusste nicht mehr von wem, drückte seine Zigarette gegen eine weiße Untertasse und sagte: Die Sprache, die ich beschrieben hätte, sei eindeutig die deutsche Sprache, jedoch völlig deformiert. Diese Missgestalt nehme sie an, weil sie in meinem Kopf ständig von der mächtigen Muttersprache unterdrückt werde. Es sei eine Zumutung, dass zwei erwachsene Schwestern ein kleines Kopfzimmer teilen müssten. Es war auf einer anderen Geburtstagsfeier--
[SPEAKING AFRIKAANS] Weißhaarige Damen--
[SPEAKING AFRIKAANS] spielende Kinder--
[SPEAKING AFRIKAANS] und Bücherfreunde. In der Küche unterhielt ich mich mit einer Holländerin. Es muss Anfang Dezember im Jahr 1999 gewesen sein. Weil sie Psychoanalytikerin war, kamen wir auf das Thema Traum. Ich erzählte ihr von meinen Träumen und bemerkte: Ich weiß aber nicht, welche Sprache diese Träume gestaltet hat. Das ist Afrikaans.
[SPEAKING AFRIKAANS] In which language do you dream? In Afrikaans, of course.
[LAUGHTER] How come? Have you had a lot to do with Afrikaans? Have you lived long in South Africa? No, I have never been there. That surprises me. One dreams in the language of the country in which the soul lives. I have many souls and many tongues. Im Sommer 2000 buchte ich eine Reise nach Kapstadt. Die Sprache, in der geträumt wird, muss besucht werden. 私は自分が習ったこともないアフリカンズ語で 夢をみていることに気が付きました それから この言語の使われている南アフリカという国に 早速行ってみることにしました I exchanged lands. I exchanged rands. I change around to sounds L and R, the land, a rand. The rand is the currency of South Africa. I was standing in front of the bank at the airport and saw the land as a currency on the board, exchange my money, replace your numbers. I drive to Cape Town. The mark into rand, please. What are the faces on the notes that I receive? Mandela? No. Gordimer? No. A hero of the civil war? Goodness me, no. The color of a peach. The color of an orange. The color of autumn. I am waiting for the faces that represent the land. On the 200 Rand note a Leopard was painted. On the 100 Rand note a Buffalo was running around. On the 50 Rand note a lion was resting. On the 20 Rand note an elephant is sleeping.
Thus, I exchanged my [? gauss ?] for a Buffalo.
I exchanged an [? iter ?] for a lion. I exchanged Clara Schumann for an elephant. The four legged beauties are better than tourist. I exchanged lands. I exchanged rands. Über Südafrika wusste ich nicht viel. Was mir aber sofort in den Sinn kam, war ein Foto aus Südafrika, das ich als Kind im Schulbuch sah. Das Foto zeigte zwei Türen von öffentlichen Toiletten. Auf einer Tür stand: Für die Weißen. Und auf der anderen: Für die Anderen, außer Japaner. Wir durften also weder in die eine noch in die andere Toilette gehen. Ich hatte nicht den Mut, den Lehrer zu fragen, warum es im Interesse der Apartheit sei, unsere Notdurft aufzusperren. Zum Glück fragte aber ein Klassenkamerad, wie das Foto zu verstehen sei. Dieser Schüler war auf eine merkwürdige Weise reif und frech. Der Lehrer verstand seine Frage nicht richtig und erklärte uns, dass die südafrikanischen Politiker die Japaner zu Weißen erklärt hätten, um die wirtschaftlichen Beziehungen zwischen beiden Ländern zu retten. „Ach, dann sind sie ja gar keine echten Rassisten. Sie denken nur an das Geld“, sagte der Junge abschätzig. 言葉 Die Sprache. Language, the 舌. Stop, die Zunge. Tongue, de tongen. Someone had left the times in the waiting room. I leafed through it and read that the financial value of the English language was 5,455,000,000,000 pound. By adding up the profit of all companies in which English was spoken, they have tried to capture the value of English in numbers. 口, der Mund. Mouth, der Mond. 空間, der Raum.
Space, the [ ? raumte ? ]. Die Sprache.
言葉 Language, the [INAUDIBLE]. Frau Tal unterrichtete die Sprache weiter, sie unterrichtete, sie überrichtete, sie durchrichtete ihre Sprache. Sie richtete die Nachtfalter hin, die in ihrem Klassenraum flogen. Ihr Mund öffnete sich. Ein Maschinenraum mit Zahnrädern, Zahlen, Zangen und Zungen. „A“, ein Wind stieg aus dem Magen. „E“, er verachtete den Gegner, hänselte ihn und schützte sich dabei durch eine Narrenmaske. „I“, vor Entsetzen lief sie nach links und er nach rechts. „O“, da begann-- der ganze Körper wurde zu einem Loch. „U“, da begann die Tanzmusik. „B“, die Rippen kamen zusammen, um wieder auseinanderzuprallen. „C“, eine Schlange zischte im Dachboden. „D“ stampfte mit dem Fuß auf die Erde. „F“. Der Luftzug brachte den Duft eines unbekannten Tieres. „E“. Der Motor lief in der Kehle an. „H“, Feuerspucken. „K“, kalkhaltig. „L“, Luxushotel. „M“, minderwertig. „N“, neugebaute Nebenstraße.
„P“, Polizeiparkplatz, „R“ [UNVERSTÄNDLICH]. „S“, Steuer steigend. „T“, trinken. Wohnen im eigenen Wundgehäuse.
Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games pt. 3
Raisin I. "On Tuesdays, I like to eat my father. It tastes of venison. Bread dough is what he's made of. I know he's really a woman, but you can't say this to his face or his eyes will turn hollow. When the fire is hot and the sun goes down, his dead brother whispers in his ear, you're a woman. He's made of bread dough. His nipples are raisins. The eyes of a woman he went to see in prison yesterday were also raisins. My father has black nipples. I've never seen them. They're buried deep in the flesh of his chest. Like mother and daughter, they lie side by side in a cold sweat. Once a day, they wake up and leap out of his flesh like a scream. My father tells me about them because he knows I'll like them. But he doesn't show them to me. He presses them back into place before I open my eyes. Usually, I eat my bread cold. As I chew, I feel the warmth of his flesh. I chew and chew, and imagine I am continuing to chew. In reality, I stop chewing and look around and find the raisins in the oven. They're burned and smell like the shadow of a stag. A woman once lived in this house. When my father moved in, she was abducted. I can no longer recall the woman's face. I feel annoyed and go on eating. I sit down on the chair and go on eating, for I like eating my father. It makes him think of the woman and repeat her words, which he taught to her. Whoever sits on the chair must want to stand. Whoever stands in the kitchen must want to fly. I could fly without effort if I stopped eating. But I go on eating, and grow heavier and heavier. I wish I were made of raisins. In the language of raisins, I say, do not call me by your place name. Do not give me women's shoes. It is the night of the festival of girls. My father gives me a woman's spoon. I can't sleep when my bed smells of burnt venison. My father tells me he used to be a man. When he ate bread from the oven, he became a woman. He shouldn't have told me that. I knew everything about him. The bread dough told me ages ago. Now we can no longer go on eating under one roof. I run away from home and have nothing left to eat. At the edge of town stands a house. The door is ajar. From the house comes the smell of venison. I go in and see a bed. It has three legs. In the bed lies my father, who can't possibly be here. His belly is soft and warm. In his belly, my mother sleeps. I'd have to wait a long time for her to be born. He doesn't want to let her go yet, otherwise I'll have to keep eating away at his belly until I reach her. I stand in the garden and ask the apple tree what will become of her. I can hear two people breathing in unison. One sleeps in the other's belly. The belly is made of bread dough. I'm not hungry. I don't have to be hungry to want to eat the bread. It is dark now, and the lantern casts the shadow of a hunter. If it is my father, I will kill him before he can shoot the sleeping woman. It is my father. I have no gun. He gives a cry and falls. A fatal bullet is embedded in his belly as proof of the murder. I didn't do anything. From his belly, two raisin eyes peer out. Two people are dead, and a third survives." 朝一番の大きな卵が太陽のお尻から産み落とされ 新宿３丁目の舗装通りに打ち砕かれて ジュージューと焼き上がる まだ柔らかい黄身の上を バスが通る 市電が走る 市電の中で「ハクショイ」とくしゃみした あなたの唾が床に落ちて 干からびたチューインガムから 芽が出る 花が咲く 花に水をやるあなたのじょうろがどんどん軽くなり あなたは空へと舞い上がる 風は西風 光る空
[音声なし] 言葉 Kot, Bar. 口の中から Kutsche, Norm, Nagel, Kakao, Bad. 飛び出す Topf, das. 唾と一緒に Tabak, treu, ich schon, nee. 花咲く Hahn, nah, Sack. 咲く Sack. 口が裂ける
[INAUDIBLE] 咲き乱れる 転がり出る Köln, Gader 単語 Tango. 遠くまで Türklingelmade? 止まらない Tunnelmaler, nein. 一度 Ich dumm. 動きだしたら Hugo Kinder starb im Taler. 言葉 Kot, wahr. 翻る Hildegard, roh. 誰のもの Da rennt Mond. でもない Des Monstrums, nein.
Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games pt. 4
Das nackte Auge. 『旅をする裸の目』 The filled eye attached to an unconscious body. It doesn't see anything because the camera already robbed it of its vision. The gaze of the nameless lens licks the floor like a grammarless detective. The doll. Another doll. A stuffed animal. A vase. Cacti. The TV. Cables. A basket. A corner of a sofa. A piece of rug. Cookie crumbs. Sugar cubes. An old family photograph. There's a girl standing in it, looking obliquely up at nothing. The girl's once eye, as it comes into focus, becomes bigger and bigger, more and more blurred. Now it looks like a blot on a piece of paper. Who will know later that this was once an eye? The camera slowly moves back. Next to a tipped over sofa, there's a cupboard standing on its head. You can't reconstruct a story out of this ruined landscape. In this film, I saw her for the first time. One year earlier, I still had been a student at a high school in Ho Chi Minh City, which in the past had been named Saigon, and still was often called that today. The teachers thought of me as the student with the iron blouse. My grades were unrivaled. That spring, our school received a letter from the GDR, in which we were asked to send along a student, male or female, for an international meeting of youth in Berlin. They wanted to hear an authentic voice on the subject of Vietnam as victim of American imperialism. Our principal had a good rapport with the GDR, and also had been there already. He had told us several times about his stay in Berlin, and about a certain Pergamon Museum. "Pergamon" sounded like the name of a migrating bird, and we liked the image of the Berlin sky with this bird fluttering in it. In a special meeting, the teachers decided to send me to Berlin. I mostly wrote lucid essays, and furthermore, had the voice of a crane. I had already made my appearance several times during athletic events and visits of official guests. Besides, I probably gave adults the impression that I could not easily be seduced. Es war der erste Flug in meinem Leben. Ich freute mich auf die Reise und konnte mir nicht vorstellen, dass mir etwas Gefährliches zustoßen könnte. Aber da die Gesichter meiner Familie und Freunde, die mich zum Flughafen brachten vor Angst leicht entstellt waren, fing ich an mir Sorgen zu machen. Vielleicht hatten sie mir etwas verheimlicht, um mich nicht zu beunruhigen. Aber was konnte das sein? Ich hatte zwar keine Ahnung von der Mechanik des Flugzeuges, war aber dennoch davon überzeugt, dass meine Maschine gut funktionieren würde. Ich war noch nie in so ein großes, hartes, gut geputztes Fahrzeug gestiegen. Das Motorrad meines älteren Bruders zum Beispiel war nichts anderes, als ein verrosteter Ochse voller Beulen und Kratzer. Wer weiß, ob alle Schrauben noch dran waren? Im Vergleich zu diesem Motorrad kam mir die Maschine von Interflug, die bestimmt, Made in Germany war, sehr vertrauenswürdig vor. Als ich meinen Sicherheitsgurt eng angezogen hatte, war ich restlos erleichtert, denn alles, was ab jetzt passieren konnte, lag nicht mehr in meiner Verantwortung. Ich trank das Glas Wasser, das mir zugeteilt wurde und schlief ein. Ab und zu spürte ich die Kälte des Fensters an meiner linken Schläfe und wachte auf. In Berlin holten mich zwei junge Männer ab. Ich war zuerst etwas überrascht, weil sie genau wie Amerikaner aussahen. Aber dann begrüßten sie mich auf Russisch, was mich wieder beruhigte. Willkommen. Wie war die Reise mit unserem Interflug? Einer von ihnen nahm mir meine Reisetasche ab. Er schien etwas erschrocken zu sein, weil sie unerwartet leicht war. Der andere versuchte seinen Zeige- und Mittelfinger in die vorderen Jeans-Taschen zu stecken, die aber in Wirklichkeit gar nicht existierten. Dabei betrachtete er die Knöpfe meiner weißen Bluse. Als unsere Blicke aufeinander trafen, grinste er. Es gab auf bestimmten Straßen in Saigon ungezogene Jugendliche, die ähnlich grinsten. Sie trugen Jeans, die in Thailand oder in der DDR hergestellt worden waren und beobachteten den ganzen Tag die Passanten anstatt zur Arbeit zu gehen. Ich fragte mich, ob der Mann wirklich ein Parteimitglied war. Unsere Blicke trafen sich noch einmal und er lächelte. Dieses Mal etwas anständiger. Berlin war eine riesige Messe an Ausstellungen alter Paläste. Wenn es so etwas geben würde wie die Inflation der Ruinen, müsste sie ungefähr so aussehen. Prächtige Gebäude, die sich bis zum Überdruss wiederholten, wirkten angeberisch und vereinsamt. Trotz der Pracht der Architektur konnte die Stadt nicht reich sein, denn es gab keine Köstlichkeiten auf der Straße, keinen Imbiss für Nudelsuppe, keinen Obstmarkt, keine Kokosnuss-Verkäuferinnen. Es roch nach nichts Essbarem. Mein Onkel hatte mir vor meiner Abreise gesagt: So ein Pech, dass du nicht nach Ungarn oder nach Tschechien eingeladen bist. Bulgarien wäre auch lecker gewesen; aber Deutschland? 『旅をする裸の目』の主人公はベトナム人の少女で 青年大会に出るために東ベルリンに行ったのですが そこで知り合った西ドイツの ボーフムから来た青年に誘拐されてしまいました ある日 ボーフムからモスクワ経由で 家に帰るために列車にこっそり乗ったのですが それが逆方向に行く列車で パリに着いてしまいました During this official visit to East Berlin, the narrator is carried off to West Germany against her will. Bored in the sleepy town of Bochum, she runs to a set of railroad tracks that long since have been abandoned, catches a train, perhaps the Trans Siberia Express, which the narrator believes will take her back to Moscow. Instead, she ends up in Paris. Le rideau ciel se ferma lentement et les pavés aux motifs ondulants se noircirent. Qui avait pu prendre le temps d'assembler minutieusement ces pierres ? Comment était-il possible qu'elles s'emboîtent si bien ? Là où les ondulations ont cédé la place aux motifs de peau de serpent, il se mit à pleuvoir. Je m'arrêtais, lançais un regard en arrière. Les pavés avaient disparu. Il n'y avait plus que l'asphalte mat d'une rue. Je continuais mon chemin. Un bruit de talon aiguille se rapprocha dans mon dos et me dépassa. Je ne sus rien du visage de cette femme et je ne vis que son dos contracté. D'autres gens me dépassèrent de même : un homme qui releva le col de son manteau d'été et qui marchait raide comme un piquet, comme s'il avait peur de perdre sa tête ; une dame mûre dont je ne vis aussi que le dos esseulé. Elle venait peut-être de perdre son caniche. Les embrasures sombres et mouillés des fenêtres me rappelaient des yeux cernés de fatigue. Je n'avais pas le courage de montrer le papier à quiconque pour demander mon chemin. Des gens me frôlaient. Ils filaient vers un but, vers un but inconnu de moi.
Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games pt. 5
電話をかける To make a phone call. 鍵を掛ける To turn a key. アイロンをかける To iron something. 橋を架ける To construct a bridge. 催眠術にかける To hypnotize a person. 迷惑を掛ける To give a person trouble. 罠を掛ける To set a trap. 気にかける To be concerned with. 枕にカバーをかけ ブラウスにアイロンをかけ 掃除機をかけ 洗濯機をかける 主婦の仕事にはあまり縁のない私でも 朝食のトマトには塩をかけ 椅子に腰を掛ける 昼になれば 鍋を火にかけてカレーを温め それをご飯にかけて食べ 満腹すると眠くなって 書けると思っていた小説の続きが書けなくなって 意識の扉に鍵を掛け ラジオをかけたまま布団を掛けて寝てしまう このまま静かにしていれば 誰の邪魔にもならないけれど 本当はもっと他人に迷惑をかける方が良いのかもしれない という気がしてくる 迷惑だって人に架ける橋なのだから 自衛的になるよりはまし 従順な人を罠に掛けたい 博識を鼻にかけたい 掛けを飛ばしたい そういう悪いことばかりして 縄をかけられ 道徳という裁判にかけられ そうなったら 尻に帆をかけて逃げる 日が暮れかけたころに目が覚めて かけ蕎麦を食べる どんなに保険をかけても いつかは死んでしまうのだから 面白いことは今のうちにやっておこう 例えば 文学 言葉に磨きをかけ 人に声を掛け 謎を掛け 催眠術をかける 鳥が巣をかけるように 私の中に巣食った 掛詞の習慣が話の筋を勝手に決めてしまう 声を掛け合っても犯罪は防げない それよりも猫と犬をかけ合わせて 混血文化を促進し 楽天主義にエンジンをかけ 時間をかけて物語という布地にミシンをかけた方がいい ７に7を掛けて 3で割る夢の中では いつも橋を渡りかけて止める 革の向こう岸には売店がある その売店で言いかけて止めた言葉を 駄菓子と一緒に売っている 日が暮れかけると 空から馬のようなものが駆けてくる 月が欠ける その月を齧った歯が欠ける 茶碗の縁が欠けるように 一人欠けると もうひとり芝居はできない Dans ma boîte, une enveloppe qui vient de France Je reconnais immédiatement la lettre D et malgré tout, je ne comprends rien. Elle forme exactement la moitié d'un mot, mais je ne comprends même pas le quart du sens de ce mot. Est-il possible qu'une lettre que je connaîs ne donne aucune information ? Une langue qu'on n'a pas apprise est un mur transparent. On peut regarder au travers jusqu'au matin. Aucune signification ne s'interpose. Chaque mot est ouvert infiniment. Il peut tout signifier. Je vois le mot « du ». Il est difficile de croire qu'il n'a absolument rien à voir avec le mot allemand « du ». Un « du » qu'on ne connaît pas peut vouloir tout dire : un sac de blé, une poupée mécanique, un pigeon ou une porte. Peu importe ce que j'imagine, les deux lettres, D et U, restent telles quelles. Les caractères sont peut-être totalement indifférents à ce qu'ils signifient dans un pays. En Allemagne, une chose, en France une autre. Ce sont des nomades. En chemin, on les comprend toujours différemment selon la langue où ils passent la nuit, mais leurs corps restent les mêmes, un D, demi-cercle à la main levée, et un U, récipient vide. Plötzlich taucht auf aus den grünen Wellen der kleinen Büschen zweimal das große P auf wie zwei Basstöne, die sich kräftig erheben. Zwei Wörter springen in meine Augen. Ich verstehe sie zweifellos. Bach und Bartok. Mit der Direktheit der Eigennamen erreicht mich die Musik. Sie ist unübersetzbar. Aber in diesem Augenblick an dieser Stelle anwesend. Ich weiß, dass ich bald eine Rohübersetzung dieses Textes bekommen werde. Ich bin froh einige Tage nur mit dem unlesbaren Original gelebt zu haben. Und dennoch freue ich mich auf die nächste Sendung, die mir die Bedeutung liefert. Dann wird die Rohübersetzung wie Rohstoff Energie erzeugen. Vielleicht werde ich eine interlineare Übersetzung bekommen, die mich von der Linearität der Sprache befreit. Wenn ich eines Tages diesen Text übersetze, werde ich eine Musik treffen wollen. Die Musik ist zwar schon da. Bach und Bartok. Aber die Musik muss in einer Übersetzung noch einmal erreicht werden mit einem großen Umweg mit Hilfe der Wörterbücher, Gespräche und Träume. Mit einem großen Umweg der Übersetzung werde ich der magischen Unlesbarkeit eines Gedichtes wieder begegnen wollen. Hair tax. After months of controversy, the new hair tax was approved. The Hamsters Lover's Guild was said to be the driving force behind the reform. The Guild had always found it objectionable that the tax levied on mammals was the same for a hamster as for a German Shepherd. They proposed that the tax be recalculated in accordance with an animal surface area. The tax agency accepted this compromise but then chose to avoid the term "surface area," which might have been construed as discrimination against the obese. A person who speaks of the size of a body surface is lacking in political sensibility, thus the term furred surface was coined. This expression was chosen to indicate that the law applied not to human beings but only to other mammals. The lawmakers, however, overlooked the fact that objects of other sorts could be furry as well. Genetic engineering had made it possible for the surfaces of desks, chairs, or beds to be covered with hair. The upwardly mobile quickly developed new tastes in furniture. At last, even those most pressed for time could have something to cuddle and stroke that did not require excessive care or attention. The reform of the tax law clearly put aficionados of this new hairy furniture at a disadvantage, as the new rules required that any hairy surface taxed. But they were not the only ones to see their taxes rise. One day, a group of tax agents announced that, according to the new law, women would be required to pay tax on their legs if they had hair on them. A handful of retired officials even began to carry out random checks at beaches. Female college students saved money by shaving their arms and legs to avoid the tax, but they left the hair on their heads alone, for head hair had been declared tax exempt. Most male students shaved their bodies as well. Men were subjected to inspections less frequently than women, but they didn't want to take any chances. University studies were risky enough, in all other ways, they wished to play it safe. One saw only the most successful businessmen and politicians and their wives lying on the beach as hairy as bears. A hirsute body became a status symbol. Poverty, on the other hand, was naked, smooth and soft. It became fashionable among industry leaders to have their wristwatches, pocket calculators, and ATM cards sprout hair in their own natural color. The hormone treatments needed to maintain these accessories were pricey, but their costs could be written off as a tax deduction.
[LAUGHTER] Ein Wort. 一つの言葉 Ein Wort. 殺すこと Wenn ich spreche, 私が喋るとき bin ich nicht da. 私がそこに居ない Ein Wort 言葉 in seinem Käfig. 檻に閉じ込めら Fesselnd. Gefesselt. 縛り縛られ Spuckt einen Bericht 報告書を吐き出す über meine Taten, 私のしたことについて über meine Karten. 私の持ち札について Kein Wort. 言葉はない Nur seinen Schatten, あるのは影だけ in denen ich ruhe. そこで安らぐ Mein Schatten verschwindet darin. 私の影がそこに消える Nichts wird bewertet. 何者も評価の足しのされない Wenn ich schweige, 私が黙れば bin ich aus demselben Stoff gemacht wie du. 私はあなたと同じ素材でできている Stoffliche Zeit. 物質的な時間 Zwischen einem Wort 一つの言葉と und einem Schluck Wasser. 一口の水の間 Dort, あそこで wo die Stimme im Fleisch aufwacht, 肉の中に声が目覚めるところで hört man ohne Ohren. 耳がなくても聞くことのできる Ein Wort, 言葉 befreit von seinem Dienst. 役目から開放されて Ein Wort, 言葉 direkt auf das Trommelfell geschrieben. 鼓膜の上に直接書かれた Die Trommel fällt. 鼓膜落ちる Lautlos. 音のない Stimmhaft.
[INAUDIBLE] Ein Wort. 言葉 Ein Ort. それは1つの場所 Ein Wort. 1つの言葉 Ein Wort. 殺すこと Wenn ich spreche, 私が喋るとき bin ich nicht da. 私はそこに居ない Ein Wort, 言葉 in seinem Käfig. 檻に閉じ込められ Fesselnd. Gefesselt. 縛り縛られ Spuckt einen Bericht 報告書を吐き出す über meine Taten, 私のしたことについて über meine Karten. 私の持ち札について Kein Wort. 言葉はない Nur sein Schatten, あるのは影だけ in dem ich ruhe. そこで安らぐ Mein Schatten verschwindet darin. 私の影はそこに消える Nichts wird bewertet. 何者の評価の対象にされない Wenn ich schweige, 私が黙れば bin ich aus demselben Stoff gemacht wie du. 私はあなたと同じ素材でできている Stoffliche Zeit, 物質的な時間 zwischen einem Wort, 1つの言葉と und einem Schluck Wasser. 一口の水の間 Dort, あそこで wo die Stimme im Fleisch aufwacht, 肉の中に声が目覚めるところで hört man ohne Ohren. 耳がなくても聞くことのできる Ein Wort, 言葉 befreit von seinem Dienst. 役目から開放されて Ein Wort, 言葉 direkt auf das Trommelfell geschrieben. 鼓膜の上に直接書かれた Die Trommel fällt, 鼓膜落ちる lautlos, 音はない stimmhaft. 有精卵の Ein Wort. 言葉 Ein Ort. それは1つの場所 Traurig sein. ということはありえない Wir. 組み上げポンプのように 納豆で Wurde geknetet. アンモニア Ammoniak enthalten kann. 困ると困らぬとに関わらず Eingesogen und ausgespuckt. 心から口座
Bankkonto. から[外国語]へ手渡された
[外国語]は 音楽をアートへとたしり続ける
[外国語]解散する匂いという匂いを
[外国語] Er vergeht. がアイスクリームのスタンドに Man wird sich verändern und darüber lachen. 回る 長い間 Alles, was ich gemacht bin. 忘れさせて は一台の自転車で 悲しいということは Gibt es nicht. きっと私達は Wasserpumpen. のように 朗らかに Kann nicht funktionieren. Die aus Bohnen. 練り上げられた Und auch die Ammoniak. アンモニアを含んだ Ob sie uns in Verlegenheit bringen oder nicht. 吸い上げられ また吐き出される Kommt mit Herzen zum Bankkonto. 口座から心へ Sie hört nicht auf zu rennen. 手形 消えて Wir stehen in der Eisdiele. Sich drehen. Sich krümmen.
忘れていたこと 長い間[外国語]させられていたこと 母は Ein Fahrrad fährt da. であった Traurig sein gibt es nicht. Wir funktionieren munter wie Wasserpumpen, die aus Bohnen gekneteten Tränen und auch die Irrtümer, die Ammoniak enthalten. Ob sie uns in Verlegenheit bringen oder nicht. Sie werden eingesogen und ausgespuckt. Der vom Herzen zum Bankkonto und vom Bankkonto zum Herzen gereichte Scheck atmet Musik und hört nicht auf zu rennen. Der Schlamm zerplatzt. Der Gestank, der geht. Die Parias stehen in der Eisdiele sich drehend, sich verändernd, sich krümmend, lachend. Das lang Vergessene, das lang vergessen-Gemachte, dass die Mutter ein Fahrrad war. When I'm sitting in the airplane. I have no room to move. My back gets stiff, my feet and thighs swell, my tailbone does not sit right, my skin gets dry. Only my tongue gets more and more moist and elastic. It prepares for the encounter with a foreign tongue. I arrived in Toronto and pronounced the name with pleasure, Toronto. How unusual for the sound O to occur three times in a place name. I had already been enthusiastic about place names where the sound O occurs twice, but three times was even better. To be precise, it was not the sound O but the letter O which fascinated me. O was an oval disk. The word Toronto means big water. I was picked up by my nice, tall English speaking host. "How are you?" he asked. "My back hurts from all that sitting in the plane," I answered. "That's because of the disks in your spinal column," he said. "I don't have a disk in my body, neither a floppy disk, nor a music CD, let alone a CD-ROM," I answered. It may be that the CDs in another language don't have anything to do with the disks in your spinal column, but when we're speaking English we do have disks in our spinal column. In these disks, all positions or postures you've ever taken are saved. And every time a disk pops out and grates
against a [? nerve string ?],, plainful, painful music is played. On this day, I changed into a CD rack.
[LAUGHTER] A column with 33 slots. In each there is a CD, not sorted alphabetically, not bound by category. I'm a DJ without hands, two disks turning simultaneously, or three disks, or four, or five, six, seven. Oh, how it swings and swirls, no more music, only phrases. Where it hits, and drops, where understanding is carefully avoided, where it staggers and stops, where it laughs and loses the rhythms, where lightning strikes. In Toronto, the city with three disks in its name. I heard music in my spine. A voyage knows no movements, but it moistens the tongue. When it speaks, the body changes. Nine fragments.
Überseezungen: Transcultural Language Games pt. 6
Two women sit at a table in front of an audience. One looks at her notes and pics up the microphone.
Newborns have soft lips, skillful tongues and elastic cheeks. They can produce any sound that exists on Earth.
She tosses the note paper away.
To learn one's mother tongue means to stifle the sounds one doesn't use. Many forgotten sounds never come back.
The other woman tosses her note paper away.
The sound of a foreign language recalls dreams in which the forgotten figures come back to us.
She tosses her note paper away.
The learning of a foreign language is a work of recollection.
The other woman tosses her paper.
In 1979, I made my first trip to Europe with the Trans-Siberian railway. It took 11 days from Tokyo to Moscow. Was it I that arrived the same as before?
She tosses her note paper away.
The human body is 80% water. Since I drank Russian water every day in Russia, my body became 80% Russian.
The other woman tosses her note paper away. The first woman checks her notes and holds up another paper.
In the Japanese language, there are many words that mean I, but none of them is a personal pronoun.
Tosses her paper.
Are you sure that a mere line, I, can stand for the subject?
Tosses her paper away.
In Germany, no one wants ice cubes in his drink. No one knows why.
She tosses her note paper away and pushes herself back in her chair with a small smile. The other woman puts her microphone in its stand. They stand up and bow as the audience claps. They both wear black.
Question and Answer Session
[APPLAUSE] Thank you.
[LAUGHTER] Bravo. It was very-- I don't know if there are any questions, or if people want to make comments that don't have to be related to the performance, too. Yes? I was absolutely fascinated by the use of the various languages. But there are about 5,000 languages. Why do you limit yourself to those few?
[LAUGHTER] Maybe it's your ability, but Italian is so beautiful, Hungarian so beautiful.
[INAUDIBLE]
[LAUGHTER] Sorry, we can't-- we can't speak more languages. Are there any other questions, or comments, or reflections about things you read before? Doesn't have to be what we just did. There also don't have to be any questions.
[LAUGHTER] Yes? Curious if there was anybody in the audience that could understand all of the languages and appreciate all of the puns in all of the languages? Did anybody understand all of them? Somebody who understood everything. No, it's quite a challenge. Are there any further questions? If not, maybe? Das heißt, fünf Sprachen sind genug, dass nicht alles verstanden wird.
[LAUGHTER] OK, there's your answer. That five languages suffice to not be understood in.
[LAUGHTER] Any further comment? I would like-- oh, there are some more comments. Hands are going up, so-- I have one.
[INAUDIBLE] Yeah. And I'm really curious about translation and interaction of languages. I know that there seemed to be, especially in the part about Afrikaans, in South Africa, there seem to be this-- maybe it's just because I understood the English and not others-- but it seemed to be, there seemed to be this sort of almost mystical view at times of language, and of what languages you can know, that it sort of defies logic. And I was wondering if you all could comment upon that influence, and thinking and talking about language. That makes sense.
[INAUDIBLE] Dass er... Südafrika? Er meinte, das hätte eigentlich etwas Mystisches. Ob du dazu etwas sagen kannst. Acha. Also einerseits war das ja nicht richtig, oder für mich... Dass im Traum die Sprache sehr verschoben vorkommt. Also Traumsprache immer verschoben ist. Und Holländisch klang für meine Ohren wie verschobenes Deutsch Und Afrikaans wie verschobenes Holländisch. Und das passte sehr gut, dass Also als Metapher, also Afrikaans als Metapher für Traumsprache. Und andererseits habe ich mich damit auseinandergesetzt, dass es gar nicht mystisch, sondern politisch...
[LAUGHTER] Dass es in Südafrika elf offizielle Sprachen gibt, Und in den Nachrichten wird auch alles elfmal gesagt. OK, so Afrikaans is an interesting example for Tawada to use, because to say that Africa is a dream-- the language of dreams-- which is what is being said in one of her text collections-- means, amongst other things, that German is-- That the language of dreams is a language of displacement and movements, and that Dutch is a little bit displaced from German, and that Afrikaans is a little bit displaced from Dutch. And that this is a good metaphor for what she's trying to say. At the same time, in South Africa, there are 11 languages being spoken. And on the news you hear these 11 languages are used to transmit the information. Yes, please? I had a question. Maybe I don't know exactly how to formulate it. But when you're reciting your poetry, do you have more problems switching between, say, German and Japanese than between two other languages? I noticed in some of what you were reciting, you were going between German and Japanese. Is that very difficult? Or is that something that you had to practice a lot? Ja, das ich schwierig, natürlich. Ich glaube, zwischen zwei Sprachen gibt es immer eine Kluft, wo keine Sprache mehr möglich ist, wo man das Gefühl hat, man kann gar nichts mit der Sprache sagen, aber immer wieder zu diesem Nullpunkt zurückzukommen, das bedeutet für mich Dichtung, also das ist was Grundsätzliches für mich. She says, of course, it's very difficult. But that between languages, there is a gap, and that, when you speak foreign languages, you risk falling into the gap. At the same time, that is the place where poetry is made.
[INAUDIBLE]. Nein.
[LAUGHTER] So, you know, fascinating place to return to, again and again in the work. Yes? Ich weiß nicht, soll ich Deutsch reden, oder... But then some people do not understand. So maybe you can translate. What you have been doing, in many respects, reminds me a lot of late medieval mystical literature. Because they try to come to terms with the divine language-- the apophatic, the ineffable-- for which there are no words. And poetry is, in a way, the expression of the divine. But I never-- I don't know whether you write religious poetry. Hast du das verstanden? Nein. Soll ich es nochmal auf Deutsch sagen? Ja, bitte. Was mich sehr an Ihrer Dichtung, an Ihrem Text interessiert hat, ist, dass es sehr stark mich an die spätmittelalterliche mystische Literatur erinnert, die sich mit der Erfahrung des göttlichen auseinanderzusetzen versucht, und immer wieder an die Schranke der Sprache selber kommt, nämlich mit dem Apophatischen, dem Unaussprechlichen, also mit dem Mystischen. Und ich frage mich deswegen, ob Sie auch manchmal religiöse Texte oder Texte geschrieben haben, die sich mit dem religiösen an sich auseinandersetzen? Nein, nicht direkt, ich bin auch überhaupt nicht religiös, aber wahrscheinlich weil ich nicht, weil ich die... an die Logik der Sprache oder an die eindimensionale Logik des Denkens gar nicht glaube. Und wenn man das nicht tut, dann ist es vielleicht für einige Leute mystisch, aber ob das das richtige Wort ist, weiß ich nicht. Auf jeden Fall, vielleicht wenn man, ja die... Aufklärung infrage stellt zum Beispiel, dann ist es dann gleichzeitig modern und dann mittelalterlich. She says that she's not religious, and that she doesn't write religious poetry. But at the same time, she strongly questions logic in her poetry as well. And at the moment you start to question logic, and the moment you reconsider enlightenment, then some people-- then this can be called mystical or seen as mystical, though that's not the word she would use to describe it. But perhaps, illogical? Anyway, the unlogical, or I don't know what word to use for it. But she also said, then, the medieval and the modern come together. OK.
[INAUDIBLE] Right, right. Any more, no medieval questions.
[LAUGHTER]
Your [? joy of ?] poetry is highly original and refreshing. While you play with the Japanese language, did you-- have you tried to play with the kanji-- the Chinese characters? Because that's very rich part of Japanese language. The thing is probably much to do.
Or I don't know, if you have [INAUDIBLE] or something in common with it? Yes, I have a text.
Ja, aber ich habe doch eins. Kannst du das kurz [INAUDIBLE]? Ja... Ja, das ist ein... Es gibt da Wörter... Wie kann man das erklären, es ist schwieriger als Vorlesen, oder?
Oder vielleicht, was du bei [INAUDIBLE]? Es gibt...
Na ja, nein, ich kann das [INAUDIBLE] It's easier to read than to explain. She's trying to find a way to explain.
[INAUDIBLE]
[LAUGHTER] Yes, please. Yeah, I wanted to know-- do you speak those five languages that have been translated, or do you speak more than those five languages? I speak only Japanese and German.
[INAUDIBLE] Yeah, but Bettina-- she speaks--
[LAUGHTER] yes Oh, this is it's more about culture then-- you know, you say you speak Japanese and German. In my experience with-- in dealing with business, Germans are like Americans. And I just give an example, like culture-- if you say-- if you're negotiating something, if they agree they will say yes, if they don't, they will say no. And that's what Americans will do. But in Japan, the Japanese they're-- they will say-- if they agree they, will say yes. If they don't agree, it'll vary, but usually it's something like, we will give that serious consideration, but it really means no. They just don't say no. What I'm saying, it's like, in their culture,
if you [INAUDIBLE] business, they don't clearly come out. And I think that is-- I don't know if it's captured in the language. So, do you notice anything like that? Can you rephrase that again?
[LAUGHTER] Can you say what your question is? There are these differences where-- Yeah, culture reflected in the language, OK. And you're translating back and forth. And since you know German, and you know Japanese, when you-- and you were talking about dreaming-- do you dream in what language? Or, I'm thinking, do you think based on a culture, also? And so, in German, and also in English, you know, American at least, if you say yes or no, you're going to say yes or no. At least in my experience in business is, that in-- with the Japanese. If they say yes, they mean yes. If they say anything else, it really means no, but they never really actually say. Usually they don't say no. They do say, we'll give it serious consideration.
But do you know that Japanese businessmen [? mean ?] Yes, no, yeah. So?
[INTERPOSING VOICES]
It's very clear that they may [? meant ?] in business, I say. I mean, yeah. So it's a different use-- different kind of using words, but I think it's not so prevalent in the literature. You don't say, yes, and you don't say no. In German, Japanese and in German. And it's-- nothing is clear. And so, and, yeah, but what is your question?
[LAUGHTER] So business language is clearer than literature, and even though you get two yeses, you know which one is no.
[LAUGHTER] There's a question, yeah? Yeah, I was reading Wörter, die in der Asche schlafen müssen, is what it is, the name of the writing?
And you speak of the difficulties of [INAUDIBLE],, of swearing in your language. And I was just curious what parts of speaking another language do you find most difficult, and the easiest? And what comes naturally to you, what do you have the most problems with? Nein, ich schimpfe nicht, auch wenn da deutsche Schimpfwörter sind. Und das sehe ich nicht als Problem. Es gibt in, also in diesem Text habe ich ja geschrieben zum Beispiel, Im Japanischen benutzt man Gemüsenamen als Schimpfwort. Wenn ein Schauspieler schlecht ist, ist das ein Rettich-Schauspieler. Und in Deutschland eher Tiernamen, das ist eine Ziege, das ist eine Kuh und so. Und man benutzt komischerweise diese Dinge, die man am meisten isst, als Schimpfwort, obwohl man die liebt, Schwein, Kuh und so. So in Japanese, there is a tendency to use vegetables when you're cursing. Whereas in German, there's a tendency to refer to animals when you're cursing. However both the vegetables and the animals are those that you eat or cherish a lot. They are common. Further questions?
[INAUDIBLE] Wondering why you chose German as your media to work with, in addition to Japanese? What's appealing to you about the German language as a literary medium?
[INAUDIBLE] Warum du ausgerechnet Deutsch
[INAUDIBLE] und was dir besonders an Deutsch gefällt. Deutsch kommt mir vor wie eine magische Sprache, womit man auch sehr abstrakte Sachen sehr gut ausdrücken kann. Es sind viele Wörter für mich, zum Beispiel das Wasser, das klingt wie das Wasser oder als würde aus dem Wort selbst das Wasser fließen. Oder der Baum ist der Baum selbst, im Klang dieser Sprache ist das Ding drin und das gefällt mir an der deutschen Sprache. So she says that German, besides being a very practical language-- because she that's where she lives, and the language in which she normally operates-- it's also a magical language, because words quite often sound what they are. So the German word for water, Wasser, sounds like water to her. Or the German word for tree, Baum, sounds like the thing itself. Which-- there's a one-on-one relationship in poetry. OK, next question. What about Schmetterling?
[LAUGHTER] It's those weird wings. Flap, almost, when you're speaking slowly. OK, there was one last question in the back I saw. It's somewhat obvious, so maybe I should save this for some of the more worthwhile questions. But it's just surprises me to hear you say that, that you would say that about a language that's not your first language. So would you not say the same about Japanese, that water sounds like water, and tree sounds like tree? Japanese water is 水. das klingt für mich überhaupt nicht nach Wasser, muss ich sagen.
[INAUDIBLE] das gefällt mir überhaupt nicht das Wort. Das hießt nicht, dass die japanische Sprache mir nicht gefallen würde, aber es gibt da eine... Bei der deutschen Sprache gibt es eine seltsame Kombination zwischen einer Direktheit und einer Abstraktion. Die Wörter, die ganz direkt für mich mit den Dingen zusammenhängen, kann man plötzlich auch für einen philosophischen Diskurs benutzen. Oft so was wie ein Wort wie anwesend oder sein und solche Sachen. Sie klingen für mich einerseits sehr konkret und das sind dieselben Wörter, die man für die Philosophie benutzt. Im Japanischen ist das nicht so. Es gibt verschiedene Wörter und das ist abgespalten. Das ist ein Problem mit der japanischen Sprache. Es gibt natürlich Vorteile bei der japanischen Sprache, aber ich lobe erstmal die deutsche Sprache. Bei Japanisch habe ich mir ja nicht ausgesucht, Deutsch ja. It's when you learn a foreign tongue that you become more aware of the materiality of the sounds, of the way the word looks, in your being free.
[INAUDIBLE] my translation, sorry.
[LAUGHTER] When you speak your mother tongue, you have a very close relationship to it. You don't see-- you don't look with different eyes to it. So therefore, in Japanese, which happens to be her mother tongue, she doesn't think that 水, which is water, sounds like water. Or she doesn't have that same relationship to it. And she also said that in Japanese, the vocabulary for certain topics is much more-- the vocabulary is separated. You have certain words for certain topics that aren't used in other realms. Whereas in German, the same words that can be very concrete, or very abstract, depending on whether you're talking about a philosophical discourse or your purchase in a store. There it is, there is a word. Yes? Question, and that's the last one. Yeah, this discussion triggered another question in my mind. I want to know if, when you write-- in German or in Japanese-- is there one language in which you feel more at ease? I come from French-speaking Africa, and I write some poetry in French. And I try to write poetry in English. But when I write in French, there comes a time where I'm fairly satisfied with what I've written. But when I write in English, I never know if the poem is finished or not. And I was wondering if you have this kind of experience, or if you are completely at ease in both languages that it doesn't matter. Wie dieser Tisch aussieht und wie er sich anfühlt und so weiter. Aber andererseits in der japanischen Sprache fällt es mir manchmal schwer über Dinge nachzudenken, mit Distanz, abstrakter. She says in German, she finds it difficult to describe in great detail, for example, the surface of this table. What's in it, and the colors, and the shapes. Whereas in Japanese--
[LAUGHTER]
[INAUDIBLE] Is it part of being abstract? Being abstract and adding a distance to it. So-- In Japanese or in German? In Japanese. Yeah. From a distance. So, yeah. Gedichte schreibe ich in beiden Sprachen, aber die sind wahrscheinlich unterschiedlich Ich kann die Unterschiede nicht beschreiben, aber sie sind schon unterschiedlich irgendwie. Weil Dinge, die für mich in der deutschen Sprache poetisch sind, sind nicht unbedingt in der japanischen Sprache poetisch und umgekehrt. Daher sind das unterschiedliche Gedichte, aber ich schreibe in beiden Sprachen Gedichte. She said she writes poems in both German and Japanese, but that they're somehow different. But that it's a little difficult to explain exactly how, especially for me.
[LAUGHTER] So I'm sure you can tell that I would be willing to talk to you if-- after you all get up from our chairs and we get away from these microphones, if there are further individual people who want to come up and say something, that can happen. There's also the books at the end of the room people can purchase stuff. So, thank you.
[APPLAUSE]