English / Sample translations /

Translated by Jonathan Bolton (published in Daylight in Nightclub Inferno, Catbird Press 1997)

...in the beginning there is nothing — force fields — whirlwinds and waves — look, smoke: Is there a right angle here anywhere?

There are two little monkeys in the photograph: they hug each other tightly, convulsively, and gaze into the lens with big, questioning eyes. Underneath is written: Two frustrated baby monkeys...
— and humanity, confused, still sings ...

it could, incidentally, be phrased otherwise:
once upon a time everyone lived in paradise happy as a kitten —
— they rolled around in the soft grass and nothing was lacking: they hunted for beechnuts, warmed themselves in the sun, cuddled up together, nibbled each other's limbs and intertwined them, wrestling playfully —
and the sun rose and set, and divine energy changed from one form into another —
and another and another and so on ...
and all living creatures devoted themselves to this flow of forms as birds devote themselves to the air and fish to the waters —
and one creature ate another — and everything was good

and things went on this way for a thousand years and a thousand thousand years —
and the Supreme One said to his most devoted angel, who was licking His toes at the time: Go jump in a lake, you scoundrel, you bore me!
— and something rumbled inside devoted Scoundrel —
he immediately turned black, like any culprit —
and understanding nothing, he stole off into a corner to quiver;
and for him water is no longer water, grass grass, night night, or day day —
everything has rolled up into writhing anguish: petrifying — paralyzing — suffocating — it's raining in his eyes, his stomach is full of snakes, in his heart there is only cold and darkness and a silence without an echo, as he moans without a sound:
break, my heart, let me lie in the dust —
flow out, my eyes, onto that dust —
leave my body, my black soul, and don't come back; the sun shines equally on everyone, only over me is there a cloud, for the umbilical cord of His love has throbbed its last, and there is nothing else to nourish me, since I am no longer allowed to roll in the grass at His feet…!

...ugh, Scoundrel, Scoundrel,
as long as the God of Water ruled the waters and the God of Wind the winds,
as long as the God of Grass dwelt in the grasses and the sun warmed everyone equally, the world was at ease —
— but tell me, Scoundrel, what was it for?
How will you, not knowing darkness, recognize light?
How will you, not knowing evil, recognize good? Well?
You won't recognize them — you don't know them. Because you' re an idiot.

Come on, Scoundrel, you don't even want to recognize them — admit it!

It was enough for you to roll in the grass at His feet...but that isn't enough for Him. For Him it's too little. He requires more. He wants to see some movement — change — growth — results;
And He will help you grow, He has chosen you! He wants you to be perfect, because He loves you, Scoundrel — understand? That's why, in His infinite kindness, He will let you undergo much persecution: He will hound you through grief and misery and agony; He will drive you from your mother's lap right into a whirlwind of wrath — so that you can overcome it, so that you will be better! — Isn't that great? He will visit you with suffering and pain and tears and blood and sweat…
— aren't you delighted? Well, Scoundrel?
...ugh — you writhe in the mud instead of offering thanks, you moldy fool!

...ah, I like that — when the juice flows out of a wounded soul as if it were a hewn tree — after all, only a wounded oyster bears a pearl, and only a wounded beehive gives forth propolis. ...that's why I love art. A lot. It's therapeutic — and besides, it's not as boring as life...

Paralyzed by despair, devoted Scoundrel sobs silently, calling to the lord who has abandoned him —
— but the Supreme One doesn't answer. He's not keeping watch over that moldy fool, who doesn't know the value of His goodwill — He's not even anywhere nearby: He must have gone away. Somewhere else. He must have work to do. Something more important — and He has left Scoundrel alone.
And all the beasts devour each other in peace, and go on reproducing, and the sun shines equally on them all — except Scoundrel. He has burrowed down into the ground so he won't be so alone...
And always, when it gets dark and all the beasts, happy in their ignorance, lie down to sleep, God, unburied, stands quietly next to Scoundrel's bed of clay...

...you take life too seriously. You just can't take things so seriously...
Don't try and tell me that. I don't understand it, and it bugs the shit out of me that I don't understand it. But I'll tell you something: intelligent people think everybody else is intelligent, too, that you can learn how to be intelligent, that anyone can do it. But that's not the way it is, that's just what intelligent people think!

Scoundrel might bury God every day — but God returns to him: every night.
He sees everything and doesn't help.
...who are you to judge me? You Conceited Old Man? You Drill Sergeant? You Fart of the Absolute?! You electrical discharge!! You gaseous substance!! Don't pretend to be asleep! I'll find another God, if you're going to be so cruel!
...listen here, young man, calm down — none of us has it easy. Look at water, for example: so many obstacles in its way, and how hard it tries...or this tiny little ant here: he's built himself a path — and hey, whoops! — where'd it go? it's been destroyed! and he has to build a new one, poor little guy — idiot — there, you see: he doesn't complain. He plugs away and plugs away...So don't you complain either, and plug away. We can put this world into some kind of shape with or without you, you got that?
...Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me ...!!!

This is how we pray to Scoundrel:
Devoted Scoundrel,
our brother!
Thou, who have been chosen to writhe in anguish instead of us,
Thou, repudiated for our sake, suffering for us, infinitely striving for us,
forgive us our depravity, in which, inexperienced, we persist,
as we forgive ourselves, wretched and weak —
— but that's just the way we are — what do you want from us — our prince!
sun of our days!
intercede for us!
just look at us: our women get more and more pregnant,
our children want even more expensive toys, our mouths are greedy for feed, and our bodies have no strength
ugh, oy vay, sun of ours!
salvation!
intercede for us!
somehow you'll work things out with the Supreme One —
why, you have a way with him —
none of us could manage —
to talk our way out of it —
he way you can —
redeemer!
intercede for us!
You're my only friend, you bastard! I mean, you're all I have in the world ..! Look at me. See? I'm crying! I'm actually crying...! When I realize how terribly lonely I am...and helpless...and weak...how I can't ever seem to resist sin: I keep resisting and resisting — and suddenly I look up and see I've given in again...
what can you do...plenty of other guys have resisted and resisted — and in the end given in...
what can I say — you know best of all...
intercede for us!
here's a buffalo leg and a few raisins — that ought to be enough for today. I haven't been all that bad this quarter...
there wasn't even any reason...
or anyone to join me...
you know how it is...
sometimes it's awful...
When I realize how lonely I am, I actually cry and feel like a drink...
intercede for us!
well? is it a deal? Can I count on you?
Thanks!!
I knew you were a pal!
Amen

They say the Heavenly Virgin was discovered by the mail-man while he was searching for his hat. He was working his way through some bushes — when suddenly there was a marvelous light — and there was the Heavenly Virgin, sitting in a cherry tree. He called the police right away; they shot at her — but they just couldn't seem to hit her: she kept flying to another tree. So they called on the villagers for help — to cut down the trees. Our people are lazy — but once they're paid properly — besides, we were curious what would happen when the last tree fell: would the Virgin just sit there in the air? or would she fall to the grass? we could catch her and put her in a cage — what kind of feed do you think she eats? we could breed her...but with what?...we have to figure all that out: if she's edible, and so on ...if she can reproduce all by herself, and if she's edible and a little intoxicating, we could export her...
...when all the cherry trees were cut down, the Virgin turned into a white dove and flew away.
And suddenly we all realized we'd liked her: how good and kind and wise she was, how she loved us all and how the mailman had tricked us...
We cried bitter tears and asked for forgiveness, but no one ever saw the Heavenly Virgin again...
She was declared a saint, and the mailman was burned in a ceremony on the village square, which was named after her.

— too many unburied dead are hanging around our settlements; they're always giving us reproachful looks, crawling into our beds, getting underfoot, eating off our tables, interrupting us, babbling on about everything...maybe no one ever said a proper good-bye to them?
— that's why they introduced public confession, that's the only reason...

Scoundrel is setting off on a journey: he's been banished; okay. There was probably a good reason for it...Maybe he really is — bad, otherwise none of it would make sense...but he'll turn things around: as a matter of fact, they made it quite clear it was expected of him. And he'll manage: he'll go out into the world and show them he's good for something.That he knows how to try, how to grind and grind away until he destroys himself. That he knows how to sacrifice himself. That he can renounce himself for the sake of others. Completely. Forever. Until they say: Scoundrel, you're okay. Come join us unbanished ones.
Yes: that's how it will be. Of course — he has to try. In the end, it's not so bad: after all, he has his rags and his staff. If he's lucky, he may find a small bowl...

— We're a wretched society, it's true — look at how many sick people have been beaten to death by our merciless Samaritans —
why, we're waiting for Scoundrel, any day now —
meanwhile we change the rules of grammar, and are healed by the more sensitive among us: we bleed the sap out of them and we pry out their pearls with knives; we help ourselves whenever possible: a gardener, after all, tortures roses when, with his knife, he forces them to bloom; listen to the beautiful moaning of this wretch — and when I really hurt him: ooooooh...!
Of course, we throw the pearls back into the sea, so they'll remain rare, and we kill off the most beautiful girls, foreigner; how else could we go on loving them?
And abused children make such wonderful poets! — this one, for example: he's a capable bard; his mother never hugged him, his father drove him out — would you like to blind him?

Scoundrel set off, not knowing where, but the landscape seemed friendly to him: the high, rosy grass wrapped itself around his ankles, catching hold of his shroud with tiny fingers; all three suns sailed slowly to the west — and the green moon rose above them with a quiet whirr. A bluish zephyr carried sand dunes to the north, and a shiny silver insect, sailing through the whirlwinds, buzzed its evening songs. The green sea too was getting ready to go to sleep: with a rumble it began to turn itself water side down, until its white seashells faced the sky — a sky both black and low, because it was full of stars, as skies, if they're splendid, tend to be.
...and everything was there, yes, everything was there: steep hills whose tops were illuminated by the rising sun — their greenery a silky silver — and between them, far down below, valleys: green-black — black-green — deep, cool, and dark; yes, everything was there: the tops of hills, the sky, dark clouds — space — light and shade — the sky's open embrace — God: yes.
...everything all around is beautiful — but Scoundrel doesn't see it: he's just left paradise and stepped into the appalling landscape of humans...

In a village a woman ran out of her house, loudly lamenting:
oh, help me, foreigner, you've traveled through many lands and seen many things, surely you can tell me what to do! I have a husband and he doesn't want to die! I would kill him myself, but I fear the wrath of God. And he torments me and torments me and I'm so tired...
He's been getting ready for it all his life: the clothing for when he's in his coffin, the memorial speeches, the music, the banquet, the flowers and wreaths — he ordered everything in advance and paid for it, and all he talked about was what it would be like, the preacher, the hired mourners, the requiem mass, whether he'll look nice in his coffin — he sold the fields and the house and frittered away our daughter's dowry — but he says: I can have plenty of daughters — hah! — but I'll only die once! — and now he just doesn't want to die —
— the doctor tried reasoning with him, the priest tried reasoning with him, even the gravedigger — and I say to him, what are you afraid of? Why, you've done everything you could to prepare, you fed yourself the best food in the house, groomed, cleaned, and powdered yourself, covered yourself with perfumes to drown the smell of sweat, tanned yourself, exercised, had yourself massaged — you have nothing to be ashamed of, you'll be a beautiful corpse, the handsomest one in the graveyard!
And he says no, he has to think it over, and he whines and wants me to bring him something, take something away, scratch his back, turn the featherbeds, take him to the bathroom, give him something to drink and take away the bedpan, he won't walk, doesn't want to strain himself, at most he'll let himself be carted around in a wheelbarrow, around the square or the garden so he can see everything he's leaving behind, but otherwise he's conserving his energy, after all he's been dying long as I've known him, and that's a mighty long time, but now that he has the chance, he's suddenly been overcome by weakness and begun to get frightened —
— he wants me to be tender, though he never was to me, and to take care of him, though he never took care of our children, and to have sympathy for him, though he never had sympathy for his aging parents. He wants everything for himself —
— and the only thing he liked was his tomcat: for years that animal just rolled around in front of the hearth, slept in the same bed as him, and ate from the same plate — my husband caught mice for him and brought them to him every morning and evening —
— but now the cat's gone and died, and it's like my husband's thread's been cut — so I say to him: you've got no more spirit since that cat died — and your body doesn't want to go on living without the cat, so why don't you finally get a move on?
But he says no, it's not so bad — and he hangs on to the world as stubbornly as mildew — he has his hair curled and his ugly face made up and his ass-hairs dyed — and I sleep in the barn, with a sack for a blanket and nothing to eat — and now he wants me to love him — where am I supposed to find any love for him?
Scoundrel didn't know. He was looking himself. From the house came a droning voice, drawn out and mournful like the sound of a trombone: Mo-o-ther, don't let them ta-a-ke me to the ho-spi-tal, they'll kill me there, do-o-on't leave me alo-o-one…
The woman ran back into the house to tell her husband a bedtime story.

In another city there lived a woman with large, imploring eyes: her punishment in life was being born a woman, as everyone knew. She lived with a weak, pale, languid man who was balding, had sweaty palms, and respected her immensely: he prayed to her and wrote her poems, kissed her hand, gazed at her longingly when she wasn't looking — but as soon as she raised her eyes, he turned away. This fellow was very happy to have her: he bought her all kinds of gifts and the best food and bragged to everyone about his wonderful, beautiful wife. At home, he would sit three meters away from her so as to adore her better. But when she spoke to him, he immediately pulled back, and whenever she showed him affection, he rudely brushed her off and locked himself in his room, sobbing and moaning loudly about how she tormented him, how she understood nothing of the depth of his feelings...and when the woman then withdrew into herself, avoiding him, there he was, bringing her presents and paying her compliments, loudly praising her — and when she reached out her hand to him, he ran. He was also in the habit of approaching her bed at night, behaving affectionately and telling her of his great desire and love, praising her body, and describing everything he would like to do with her on that very bed, if she would only let him — in this and many other ways he would tempt her, driving her crazy until she yearned to give herself to him, her soul and body on fire, aching with excitement and longing — then he would get up and walk away. The woman often begged him, crying, to let her leave him, and he was always shocked: What was she talking about? Why, everything was going so well: look, in the spring I brought you that beautiful scarf from the fair, and last fall I had those two pairs of shoes resoled — and this is how you show your thanks? And he swore to her on his knees, if only she wouldn't leave him, he loved her so much, he would die without her, could she stand having that on her conscience?
— and so it went, day after day, night after night, on and on for many years — and no one knew what terrible things the woman had done to deserve such suffering; and when people passed her house, they walked on tiptoe, even during the day.
The woman was pale and shook like an aspen, there was a deep sadness in her eyes, and her unfulfilled desire blazed forth like flames to a distance of several miles, so there was a pleasant warmth all around and remarkable, heavily scented, pastel flowers grew up around her house, and whoever passed by could not help being moved and felt a sudden need to hug somebody. And so lovers, when they wanted to intensify their love, came to spend the night in that garden, and couples who had been married for many years walked by, seeking to revive their weary desire. And they called it The House of Bitter Love.

Such a peculiar world, thought Scoundrel, as he set up camp nearby. A man sat down next to him and said: I'm an endearing fellow and I'm going to tell you my story. I was born in a small village where people do nothing but work. My mother told me: people are swine. If you want to do something besides work all your life, give everyone a handsome smile and greet them politely. And because I wanted to do something besides work all my life, I gave everyone a handsome smile and greeted them politely. And people, those swine, smiled back at me and said, oh, isn't he nice, let me borrow him, let me pet him — and people were always sitting me on their laps and rooting around in my hair or in my underwear, and I held on and gave everyone a handsome smile. I was the darling of aunties and teachers and aldermen's wives; of inspectors, policemen, councillors, and older schoolboys. My classmates envied me, soldiers gave me medals, cooks gave me extra dumplings and girls secret signs — and I gave everyone a handsome smile. I was too endearing to support myself by working: I became a Darling. My last master — I think he fixed elevators or something before he became a judge — always used to sit in his armchair after an execution and devise instructions for future generations. Not even his dog liked him. When he was thinking, it got dark around his head and he gave off a terrible stench. I wrote down everything, as duty required; for example: "The world is guilty and is going to pay...," pretty fitting, eh? Or this: "...I like to punish colored people — they are so endlessly stupid!! What, do they think they're beyond good and evil…?…how inhuman!!”
And then, this is a little more — personal..: "Listen, idiot," — that was a kind of term of endearment, he called me that sometimes — anyway — "listen to what I tell you: — today I saw another dead animal, dead for some time, the way I like them — but — " and he said this with amazement — "but its gray color had been skillfully concealed with red aniline dye, its greasiness covered with sawdust, and its stench hidden by the scent of tar — it was pretty hard on my stomach...and I relieved myself in the bathtub: it's so — liberating..." A beautiful confession, don't you think? Ugh, his addiction to fresh salami, the endearing fellow sighed, and he closed his notebook —
Scoundrel looked at him questioningly.
I just wanted to point out that I don't know anything!! Is that clear? I didn't see anything, didn't hear anything! Yes, a lot of bad things happened, yes, supposedly he committed a lot of evil deeds, yes, people talk about it a lot, but I didn't have anything to do with the old man's crimes, understand? So kindly leave me alone for once, okay??? — smile at me like I smile at you — and leave me alone! damn it, leave me alone!!!!
The man pounded his cane in the glowing ash.
And what happened to him — to the old man? asked Scoundrel.
What? — nothing — he kicked the bucket, naturally — Fuck it — I've had enough of it, damn it!! why didn't all of you smile too, damn it? you were all supposed to smile, damn it! — All I can say is, fuck your proper upbringing..!!
The man flung his cane into the fire and walked away — thereby rendering Scoundrel's world even more peculiar.