A serious question, and lagniappe

What is a good literary or poetry magazine, in French, that publishes translations and that is not terribly hard to get into? One of my undergraduates has published translations to English in Alchemy (a translation journal for students) and Tripwire (a poetry journal, not just for students), and I know of many other places to submit translations to English.

I also know that Asymptote has a Spanish version somehow, and is looking for interns too (if you are interested, the best way to find out about that is probably on Facebook). But what about translations of Cristina Peri Rossi to French? This is for a different student. The only journal I have found that might publish translations of an Uruguayan poet is Nuit Blanche and I would like more options.

Here are some of the interesting journals and presses I have learned of in this quest: The Apostles Review, Hablar de poesía, Reflet de lettres. There are more; they are the journals and presses I am discovering as I get closer to finding what I seek.

Lagniappe for today includes a recreation of a Homeric performance, a new recording of ancient Babylonian songs; a very interesting interview with Zizek on “esa izquierda que ni siquiera desea ganar,” a response to Wendy Brown’s analysis of neoliberalism, an interview of Roberto Echavarren about poetry and about identity, and another interview, this time of Enrique Dussel, on Latin American culture and the future; an essay on language teaching and the foreign language requirement, David Sobrevilla’s piece on Moro, surrealism and homosexuality; the Institut français d’études andines; Bruno Bosteels’ new book on Marx and Freud in Latin America, writings of René Magritte, and a correspondence on surrealism between Adorno and a graduate student.

Also, I have found a new source of the kind of bed linen I want. I do not buy sheets or pillowcases by the set, but by the piece, as I do not have more cash than that. But I can tell you that really good bed linen lasts a very long time, and is less expensive than any other.

I have a burning question: what was I going to do with Agamben (in relation to Foucault and Vallejo) and where is that book chapter? This question is truly burning since I have given up other activism and committed to poetry, put it first openly for the first time.



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Our luck has changed and the tide is turning, I can feel it. I have had this feeling once before that I can identify clearly–something was happening, I did not know what it was, but it was good, I knew–and I recognize it now.


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La aventura estética de nuestra edad

Our library actually owns a copy of this book by Guillermo de Torre, so I am recycling my xeroxed pieces of it. These sorts of items I like to keep around me, as they are mementos of my love for the field and of my innocence, in the time before I thought I must renounce it.


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Pour penser

I would not frame the discussion in terms of success and failure, instructions for success, but I think this post gets closer to a useful discussion of how to do an academic job than do most in the genre. The activities it discusses are, of course, the ones that interest me and also interested me in taking this direction.

In my case the question is complicated, of course, since I was not raised to think I would ever be able to do anything. And my father was a professor and said he was unhappy. He thought going into academia was a poor idea, and did not think I could survive in it. I, of course, did not think I could do anything at all, yet knew I could do academic work and was very interested in it. I was careful each year of graduate school to make sure the main reason I was continuing was that I was interested, not that I was trapped; and to make sure I was working to lessen the factors that had made graduate school my only option when I was twenty.

I always felt I should quit to please my father, and I always felt one could not commit fully, since one would probably not be let in. And I haven’t always had the best of luck, or made the best informed choices, but these things, no matter how serious (and they are serious), are secondary. The primary issue is the early and constant message: you must renounce now what you love because it will never love you.

My father loved this song. It seemed to express much of what he felt and to comfort him, but it terrified me. I already knew my parents were afraid of ending up on the streets themselves, and ambivalent about us. Would they put us on the streets if they could? Would we ever be able to hold onto anything we loved?

And these things are all true and must be acknowledged but at the same time, I am so tired of them. I would like to work as I did in graduate school, days of innocence, when the work itself was healing balm.



Filed under Da Whiteman, What Is A Scholar?

La fin

It is as though we had been through a long war and it were finally over, and we had had losses but had won, were in a position to pick up our lives again. Perhaps we have been through a long war that is now over, have had losses but have won, and are in a position to pick up our lives again.

Here is Vargas Llosa on Moro:



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On giving up what you love most

I was saying things about academia, how I dislike it because it requires you to renounce the things you love most about it. That is about working at institutions that work against your programs, of course, and I won’t say this is not a real problem, and that it is not highly irritating. But “renouncing the things you love most” means something more to me, I realized as I heard myself speak.

“I don’t have the money to keep you.” That was what my mother always said, and she kept saying it even though she had the money. We were to be cast out, it was a daily danger, and she was to commit suicide, and that was a daily danger as well. Again and again I prepared myself for these losses and although they did not actually take place, the psychic one kept being repeated. Every day we were told, every day we renounced and steeled ourselves; every day we knew we would be abandoned, and love was withdrawn.

I always appreciated and felt affection for my mother, but I do not remember loving her. One could not love her, she was too coercive, cruel, weak and vindictive too often, and she might commit suicide any day. She was also a potential role model, and that was risky. If I got too close, I feared, I could become death-oriented like her, and I did not want this.

Just now I was thinking irritably about how foolish it is to accuse people of insufficient love (“you don’t love the university enough, if you did, you would put up with this!”) when they have in fact gone so far as to renounce what they most love to prove this love — renounced their own work and their better judgment to be polite to fragile power. I realized suddenly what this meant at another level: it means I must have loved my mother once. I don’t remember when I had to stop but it was very early on, and it must have been very painful because I have repeated it a few times, to try to get over it and also to try to see it; this also explains the reactions I have when I am asked to sacrifice or renounce.

People really should not have children to amuse themselves or to claim an identity. They should also not threaten suicide around their children. With the suicide threats, and also the accusations having to do with our failure to fill an emptiness, I remember renouncing love again and again. I remember the toy I held in my hand one time, watching my mother sail away from me as it were, and saying, “Good-bye, my honey. Good-bye, my honey.”

I can see it now. It must have been devastating, and I know there were many such scenes.



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Quintín Lame

We will talk about this. I would like to teach Quintín Lame along with Macunaíma and other Indian things, and perhaps I will.


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