Winter, part one

Well, the spring is very much officially here, so its time to look back at the winter past. Let's take a stroll down memory lane and see what it had to offer, shan't we?

  

Winter was a bit long in the making: the brown and dreary autumn seemed to drag on for what seemed like a small eternity.

There had been snow, alright: but it always pooled, and turned to slush, and was gone. Then, one day, the world seized to be grey, and turned white.

 

 

The world had, overnight, turned white to stay. It was winter. And the next thing we knew, it was the end of December. I even got a glimpse of some aurora borealis in the making.

 

From there, it was a quick hop forwards to the turn of another year.

The nights did get dark, though.

-- but the days were quite bright, in comparison.

 

We'll carry on from here next time around. Remember the winter fondly, for it will be a while until another one. Dream cold dreams!

Translated literature

Is literature - especially poetry - different after translation? Short answer, yes. Long answer, still yes. I suppose I'll need to elaborate for it to actually be the long answer, though.

First thing to consider in translation would be language: the language of the original piece of literature, the language the literature is being translated to and the difference of those two. How does one translate metric poetry without changing the message? A stanza written in Russian, English or Finnish are quite different from each other, as even the morphology of the languages differs quite greatly. How can you translate metric lines without either changing the meter, the message, or both? What about names? In much of literature, especially fantasy, names carry meanings and implications. Should they be translated, especially as they are often so tightly wound into culture that if translated, they lose half of their meaning? What about other cultural reference? Of course, even time dims culture so that, without actually seeking the information, you will not know what has been meant and what underlying currents can be found in any given text or message.

Translated fantasy and science fiction prose from the 90's (translated to Finnish, that is) is an outstanding example of astoundingly badly translated literature. For example, in Robin Hobb's Farseer books' Finnish translation, no one is wearing pants: the original piece has everyone wearing leggings, which the translator has translated as gaiters (säärystimet). I suppose he might've been meaning breeches, but the effect was quite confusing as I first read the translated books. Translatory variation and dissonance, especially with names, appears throughout the decade: in Hobb's books, in Gaiman's translated works, in Pratchett's translations... Earlier translated works of the aforementioned genres are rather interesting reading as well as words have been made up - a brilliant example of this being Kalpa Kassinen and Liskiö (you may google these if you wish). Most of the fantasy and scifi translated to Finnish in the previous century does stand out as being slipshod, as if no one actually bothered. Then again, how well could it be translated?

As I mentioned previously, I had quite the epiphany while discussing Walt Whitman's Song of Myself: I read it in English, while the rest of the participants read the Finnish translation. Song of Myself is not exactly metric, so one could have translated it meaning to meaning. Some phrases had, however, been changed from positive to negative, or the other way around: some words were missing and others had been added, to give atleast a different implication, if not a completely different meaning.

All this sparked a question: can translated poetry be discussed as the same piece as the original? Personally I have yet to see translated literary works that would stand in comparison to the original: while they can be discussed in reference, they aren't actually the same. Sometimes even discussion in reference can be considered impossible: if one were to discuss a poem, and its implications and references are different in the two works read by the people discussing, it rather feels like one was discussing two different poems. How far apart can the translation and the original be from one another until they should be considered two separate works, or should they be considered such from the beginning? How can you draw the line?

On happiness and writing

Some conversation about writing, the answers I got on my previous post, and some friends reading The Sorrows of Young Werther have brought me back to a subject I visit sporadically but recurringly. Happiness and literary works.

If we are to believe romantic literature - especially old(ish), Mid-Europian romantic literature - true creativity is spawned from misery. If one were to look at movies made, books written or stories told of great writers of old, a common theme could be found: all of them seem to have been definitely unhappy. Of course, common happiness is rather dull, and therefore not very noteworthy, but still it seems that every literary genius until the twentieth century (and somewhat through it) had to have some great misdeed, unhappiness or malady to spur their writing.

I discussed writing with a friend, and mentioned my "write something every day" promise I made to myself. We began to discuss what it was I wrote. When we got to the fact that poems - or something very much poemlike, but where and how does one draw the line - made up most of what I wrote (my prose comes in spews and gusts: I did finish the muse piece though) he mentioned that he had not written almost anything for ages. It was interesting, as before he was one of the industrious striving desk drawer poets I knew. He had a theory of it, which, summed up, would be along the lines of "I'm too content with my life, and therefore have no great feelings to base any great lyric works on." I had no argument to counter him: it was what he felt, and there was no way of proving him wrong. There was a question this provoked in me, however, that gestated for quite a while before solidifying.

Is it truly only misery that spawns creativity? Foes writing reflects the writee (yes, it's writee on purpose), or the setting of the writing in some detail or undercurrent? Certainly, when browsing through most of what is listed as the great literary works of the world, one stumbles upon bad setting, bad luck or just generic bad something quite a deal, but surely there must be happy feelings down there? I have yet to take a plunge through the literary works of our forebearers, but I did do a routine check of world literature classics in the book sets that are laid out for literature studies in our university. Finnish literature shall hold steadfast to everything sucking for atleast someone (it is Finnish literature, after all) so I discounted it from my search.

For basic studies I found three arguably "happy" pieces: Decamerone, Don Quixote and Gulliver's Travels. As Don Quixote's focus in on mistravels, mishaps and, well, mis-everything, we shall discount that. The whole setting of Decamerone is rather morbid and most of the stories end rather sadly as well, it shall be discounted as well. Well, atleast Gulliver is jolly as can be, is it not? Let us consider what it was when it came out: a piece on corruption and faults of a nation, dressed and veiled in satire. Quite unappealing for the jolly folk. Alas, we are left with no happy books for basic studies. To have a few examples of other pieces on the list, there are E. A. Poe's The Raven (and other works), Goethe's Young Werther, Sofokles' King Oedipus, Tolstoi's Anna Karenina and Kafka's The Trial. For later studies, the list has few brighter spots.

Actually, I must digress myself: I just remembered atleast one piece that is happy, or atleast truly claims to be. Given, it is of mid-nineteenth century, but still. Walt Whitman's Song of Myself, fist published in 1855, is a first-person narrated poetic epic of the miracle of life in all it's forms. I suggest it to everyone (in it's original language: I'll perhaps write about this later).

Well, no matter how we look at this, it seems most of the great literary works of the western world are sombre, sad things. Perhaps great inner turmoil does create better art. Personally, I find sombre subjects in my writing more often than not, but maybe it's just my Finnish blood. You can't help what you're made. Either or, I still write something each day. My cellphone is slowly filling with saved messages after I wake up in the middle of the night only to realise the day's writing remains undone, tap something in the phone and just slam the cover. Thankfully, the automatic settings save whatever's on screen when I do this.

For today, my writing is done and it's time to skip to bed. Perhaps one of these days I'll actually get around to sorting through all of the photos I've taken in the last six months, and come up with some pictures up here. It's been a bit, shall we say, texty up here lately. And yes, I know my puns suck.

Inspiration

A favorite writer of mine, Neil Gaiman, once wrote in the introduction of a collection of short stories - and probably said or wrote it down many times before, and after - about how journalists and suchlike ask him where he gets his stories, and out of exasperation, he started answering each of these questions with "from the back of my head." After a while, he thought it over, and came to the conclusion that, though the answer was given as a sort of a quirky joke, it was the truth. Terry Pratchett, another writer I view rather highly, once said he simply writes down what comes to his head, and then waits for more of the story to arrive. I think he probably means the same thing.

I asked a friend of mine, who writes mostly poems, the same question, although as I write some myself, I knew the stupidity inbred in the question. He blogged about how he writes his poems: you can read his thoughts here. http://samuraikettu.wordpress.com/2011/02/21/4-ohjetta-taiteen-tekijalle-eli-miten-runoni-syntyvat/ The blog is in finnish, so here're the highlights: 1. Find out what you're good at, and use it in your favor. 2. Write a lot. Ridiculously lot. 3. Even bad and mediocre will do. There'll be pearls. 4. Good method is better than good work. After reading his post, and stumbling upon Neil's thoughts again while reading and re-reading his works, I started thinking.

My inspiration has always been sporadic: it's kind of like having a muse that spends most of her time sulking, or teasing by giving fragments of stories. I have some ten beginnings of a story, all different, written down somewhere, waiting for me (or perhaps someone else) to find out how they continue. Sometimes I might write ten stories in five days, while another time I might write three lines and have exhausted my literary givings for the day.

I lamented on the lack of a muse a couple of weeks back. On the same day, I went to town, talked to a friend about it, had an idea of a story where the ancient muses could actually be hired from the yellow pages for one-time kind of jobs. After I got home, I stayed up until four in the morning, writing the story and another one, which already is here: a story currently under the name of Night Gaunts. After this, I began to write something every day. Even if I wasn't feeling creative, even if I felt like writing nothing at all, I wrote: a poem with three lines, a haiku, two random thoughts mashed up together, anything would do. After doing this for a while, I now have more ideas, more musings bubbling inside of me than I've had in perhaps years. This brought me back to an idea I have had earlier, and that Mr. Fox (my friend mentioned earlier, Fox is the alias he goes by everywhere and shall be the one used here), I think, had in his post.

Writing spurs creativity. Writing calls for more writing. The more you write, the easier it is to start. If you write every day, you'll write something good one of those days. If you don't write at all, how could you write anything worthwile? Simply by imposing the compellation of writing something every day on myself, I have began to write different, to write anew. And I do write every day: I have woken up to find a slip of paper on by the bed, or a file on the computer I vaguely remember scribbling or typing in the night. By writing, I write more, and I write better.

I suppose I should draw this to a close by giving some kind of an answer to my question as well. Where does my inspiration come from? My inspiration comes from all my senses, from my feelings, from what I am and see and feel and smell and touch. My inspiration comes from the back of my head. I see the moon, and start thinking what it might see, on it's constant vigil in the sky. I see somebody dance, and think about how I could bind it down to paper. I think that, to write, you need the set of mind for it. Inspiration lurks somewhere in everyone's head: you just need to let it out.

Onnellinen vaiko oikeassa?

Milloin olet viimeksi valehdellut, koska se on helpompaa? Pienet, valkoisetkin valheet lasketaan. Siitä saattaa olla aikaa, mutta jokainen on kertonut joskus jonkun pienen tai isomman valheen siksi, että on yksinkertaisesti helpompaa väittää, että tilanne on hallinnassa ja kaikki on hyvin, kuin selittää, mikä oikeasti mättää.

Meille opetetaan pienestä pitäen, että valehdella ei saa. Jos kysyy miksi, ensimmäinen annettu perustelu on yleensä kristillinen sääntö: älä valehtele, valehtelu on väärin. Voidaanko valehtelulle kuitenkaan asettaa suoraan moraalista arvoa? Onko valehtelu itseisarvona väärin?

Totuus on arvo, johon jokaisella on mielestäni oikeus. Jos totuutta pidetään ihmisen oikeutena, valehtelu on väärin. Onko totuus tärkeämpää kuin onnellisuus? Valheen ja totuuden moraalinen aspekti on filosofinen kysymys, joten lähestytään sitä filosofian keinoin. Sen verran oion, etten puutu siihen, mitä totuus on, vaan pohdin nimenomaan moraalisia ja eettisiä kysymyksiä.

Klassisin moraalietiikan teoria lienee antiikin hyve-etiikka, joka listaa hyveiksi kauneuden, totuuden ja hyvyyden. Kuitenkaan esimerkiksi Sokrateen tai Aristoteleen mielestä hyveitä ei pidä ottaa sellaisenaan vastaan: hyveet ovat jotain käytännöllistä, jotain, joka järjen kanssa auttaa jäsentämään maailmaa paremmaksi paikaksi. Samalla Aristoteleen mukaan onnellisuus on ihmisen korkein päämäärä: tarkoittaako tämä sitä, että hyveiden kautta tulisi pyrkiä onnelliseksi vai kenties sitä, että hyveiden kanssa saa käyttää päätään, jos niistä ei onnellisuuteen tähdättäessä ole kuin haittaa?

Näitä kahta vanhempaa herrasmiestä hyvin paljon myöhäisempi filosofi David Hume vastaa edessämme olevaan ongelmaan omalla tavallaan. Hume on sitä mieltä, että totuuden, ollakseen miellyttävä, pitää sisältää tiettyjä arvoja. Hume on myös sitä mieltä, että ihmiset hakeutuvat nimenomaan kohti totuuksia, jos nämä totuudet täyttävät tiettyt lainalaisuudet. Totuuden täytyy olla erityisesti miellyttävä ja mielenkiintoinen. Hume kuitenkin puhuu ilmeisesti nimenomaan filosofisesta totuudesta, joten voimme käyttää hänen aivoituksiaan vain ohjenuorana. Erityisesti, koska Hume käsittelee totuutta nimenomaan uteliaisuuden lähtökohdasta, ei valheellisuuden kanssa.

Ratkaisun puuttuessa yhä pohditaan fiktiivistä (tai jollekin varmasti ajankohtaista ja todellista) tilannetta. Protagonistimme, joka nimetään vaikkapa Matiakseksi tämänpäiväisen Matiaksen ja Matin nimipäivän kunniaksi. Matias on ihastunut/rakastunut/mitälie (katso edellinen blogimerkintä) tyttöön, joka on vakituisessa, onnellisessa parisuhteessa. Tulisiko Matiaksen kertoa asiantilasta tunteidensa kohteelle, vai antaa hänen jäädä parisuhteeseensa autuaan tietämättömänä? Entä, jos tyttökin olisi ihastunut Matiakseen? Entä, jos hän ei kuitenkaan halua poistua onnellisesta parisuhteestaan?

Jos oletamme, että totuus on itseisarvo, johon kaikilla on oikeus, tulisi Matiaksen kertoa tunteistaan kaikissa tapauksissa. Jos pyrimme maksimaaliseen onnellisuuteen, meidän täytyisi saada myös tieto siitä, paljonko totuus tuo onnellisuutta. Päädymme lopulta kuitenkin tilanteeseen, jossa objektiivisuus voidaan heittää romukoppaan, ja voimme subjektiivisesti tehdä päätöksemme Matiaksen kengissä, omista lähtökohdistamme. Itse en pystyisi moralisoimaan mitään päätöstä, ainakaan järkevästi.

Olisitko sinä ennemmin oikeassa vaiko onnellinen?

Rakkaudesta

Mikä on ensimmäinen konnotaatiosi sanasta rakkaus? Entä rakastua? Tässä on meillä malliesimerkki latautuneesta sanasta. Rakkaus on suomen kielen latautuneimpia sanoja: jäyhä suomalainen mielenlaatu ei taivu herkän konseptin ympärille. Milloin olet viimeksi kuullut keskustelussa jonkun rakastuneen johonkuhun? Ei kukaan koskaan rakastu, vaan ihastuu. Rakastuminen tarkoittaa jotain massiivista, jotain kaikenkattavaa, jotain, joka pitää sisällään sen, että haluaa yhteisen punaisen tuvan vaikka sitten rivitalon päästä, kaksi koiraa tai kissan, lapsia, yhteisen asuntolainan ja onhan tuo rakastuminen muutenkin kauhean lopullista. Mutta kun ei ole.

Suomi on kielenä kansansa kuva. Jäyhä, katajainen kansa istuu savuisissa tuvissaan, ei hymyile eikä varmasti keskustele, ainakaan tunteista. Paitsi päissään, ja sitä ei lasketa. Rakastuminen on akkojen juttu, jota akatkaan eivät nykyään enää tee, kun siitä tulee niin kauheasti paineita ukolle saman tien, juoksee pian karkuun. Tunnesanoja on naurettavan vähän, ennemmin laajennetaan vanhan sanan merkitystä kuin keksitään uusi: eihän tunteista kuitenkaan puhuta, mihin niitä sanoja tarvitaan. Vertailkaa joskus joutessanne esimerkiksi suomen ja englannin, ranskan tai vaikkapa italian tunteita kuvaavia sanoja. Ihan noin määrän puolesta.

Kuten jo ylempänä mainitsin, suomen kielessä on vaihtoehto termille rakastua. Nimittäin ihastua. Ikävä kyllä ihastua on esimerkki sanasta, jonka merkityskenttä on yksinkertaisesti liian laaja. Vaatteisiin kaupan ikkunassa ihastuu. Alakoululainen ihastuu, ja päätyy vetämään toista ponihännästä. Teini ihastuu, ja istuu sitten puistonpenkillä tai vastaavassa paikassa vaivaantuneessa hiljaisuudessa kaksikymmentä minuuttia koska ei saa suustaan lausetta "mä oikeestaan pidän susta". Ihastuuko aikuinen? Ihastuminen tuntuu terminä kuvaavan enemmän juuri sitä kömpelöä, haparoivaa ensirakkauden esiastetta. Kuitenkin vaihtoehtona on rakastuminen, joka luo heti kuvan tarrautuvasta roikkujasta, joka haluaa saman tien lapsia ja yhteisen auton.

Muissa kielissä ongelma on ratkaistu helposti. Rakkaus on sana, jonka konnotaatiot eivät välittömästi ole kuin se kuuluisa pallo jalassa, tai kentästä löytyy muitakin sanoja, jotka antavat liukuvalintaan vaihtoehtoja. Japanilaiset ovat myös ottaneet omanlaisensa lähestymistavan tähän kaikkeen: japanissa on yksi sana, jota käytetään sekä rakastumisesta että ihastumisesta. Tuntuu toimivan heille. Toimiiko meidän kaksisanainen järjestelmämme, joka jättää kaiken ääripäiden välistä pois? Voihan kumpaa tahansa termiä levittää, mutta kuinka toimiva valinta se sitten on?

Nämä esimerkit on tietysti vedetty railakkaasti yli, mutta ongelma on silti olemassa. Olemmeko me suomalaiset yksinkertaisesti kansana nielleet sellaisen rautakangen, että emme pääse yli siitä jäykkyydestä, joka meihin on kansakuntana asettunut? Ei rakkaudesta tai rakastumisesta puhuta suomessa, siitä kirjoitetaan lauluja ja runoja. Nekin ovat usein synkkiä, koska ollaanhan sitä kuitenkin Suomessa. Tästä aasinsiltana jätän teille valokuvan ja runon. Kenties jotkut kuvassa ovat ihastuneet, ja toiset rakastuneet. Kenties joku valittelee termien ongelmallisuutta. Runolla ei ole nimeä, ainakaan vielä.

Hän rakastaa tulenpalavasti, koko sydämellään
hän menee eräänä päivänä naimisiin
he saavat lapsen, tai useampia.

Hän rakastaa tottumuksen voimalla
hänen rakkaudessaan näkyy vuosien paino
ja hänen puheessaan tuhannet yhteiset muistot.

Hän rakastaa vuoron perään kuin tyttö tai kuin nainen
ja hänen rakkaudessaan on tulevaisuus
valmiina odottamassa.

Night Gaunts

Yesterday, as I was walking home after dark, I saw the moon rise, and started thinking about what the moon might see in just one night. The name of the story originated from Lovecraft's lore and the help of a friend: "i'a i'a Cthulu Rlyeh" and all that. Here goes.

---

Night Gaunts

We flick from room to room, balcony to balcony, window to window.

Here, a couple, entwined, in the afterglow of their passion moments before. There, an old man, sleeping in his chair by a television now showing only grey static. Downstairs, two young men, sitting and laughing and crying and talking, drunken and sure that they'll enbetter the world in the morning.

Up on the roof, a woman, looking at the stars half hidden behind the smog and clouds and hoping she owned a telescope and could look at Mars in the evening and Venus in the morning. Down at the curve, a man, dowsing off and lamenting that he lost his keys and angered his girlfriend, and is now locked out of his apartment and has nowhere to go, no one to call. Down the street a teenager who's drunk too much, stumbling and falling over, yelling and bawling and cursing, with two of his friends helping him home despite all his verbal abuse.

 At the crossroads a truck driver, sitting in his pit, waiting for the light to turn green with no one in sight, not daring to break a law, even an arbitrary one, with two tickets waiting on his license. Two blocks down, a stripper, just out of work, being harassed by two bikers, with three of the men working the counters in the bar pouring out to help her with iron bars and baseball bats.

Up another street, a dark cat, mix between a bombay and an australian mist, prowling on top of a wooden fence, dreaming cat dreams and waiting for a sound of prey. Across the street, two young girls sleeping under a pillow fort hand in hand, having a sleepover and both dreaming of holding the promise they made of staying awake through the night. In the living room, the parents of one of the girls, speaking in soft voices about wether they should stay together or not, with their love having dwindled from the blazing passion it was into the dim glow of everyday life.

All this we see, as we flick through the town in the dim twilight before the dawn. We see all this, and much, much more, as we flick on the wings of gossamer, riding the shafts of moonlight past the open windows, through the silken curtains, by the doors and down the streets. Before the first rays of dawn light the horizon and dissolve the moonlight on which we ride, we see all these things, in tens of towns, in dozens of countries. We see all these little moments, and the night spreads infront of us like a velvet cover over the deceased at the wake. We see so many things, and we flit onwards through the dark to see many, many more.