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In 1993, I lived in a small Italian town for a winter. Expanding to a population of 350,000 German tourists during the summer, the town contracted back to 1500 rich but sleepy locals in winter. Housing by the sea was plentiful and affordable. The place I took was cheap and fine, with nine beds and two pots. There were also books left by prior renters. Potboilers in German; a Bible in Swedish; and a bilingual collection of Arthur Rimbaud’s poems, French/Italian.
I’d never been a big fan of Rimbaud. As a teen I found him to be too much.
As I discovered during that Italian winter, this early judgment proved to be a limitation not of Rimbaud’s but of mine. The poems turned out to be terrific, of course, and the copy of them that I lucked into, as much as it taught me an important lesson about taste and timing, also helped me learn Italian, which was why I’d gone to Italy in the first place.
Going to a country is the best way to learn a language; second best is to have a foreign lover, whether you’re in a foreign country or not (although, of course, if your lover is foreign and your affair domestic, they’ll learn more of your language than you theirs); third best—and the least costly (in every sense) of the top three—is a good bilingual collection of poems you love.
My Spanish is terrible, the spoken version of it limited to a very crude and limited (but effective) range of insults. I read it okay, but it’s like looking the landscape through gauze: What a pretty tree… I mean moose… I mean…. And so this week I’ve been enjoying, both for its content as well as its utility, The Romantic Dogs from New Directions (called, fondly, “Nude Erections” by Ezra Pound) a bilingual version on facing pages of Roberto Bolaño’s excellent Los Perros romanticos, in Laura Healy’s translation. You can grab one of the English versions of the poems for your e-reader here, and the full book here. It is agreeable for the brain:
ENTRE LAS MOSCAS
Ya nada de lo que podía ser vuestro
Ni templos ni jardines
Admirables poetas troyanos
More from Wyatt Mason:
Conversation — October 2, 2015, 8:26 am
“By committing to the great emotional extremes demanded by Greek tragedy,” says Bryan Doerries, author of The Theater of War, “the actors are in effect saying to the audience: ‘If you want to match our emotional intensity, that would be fine.’”
Years ago, I lived in Montana, a land of purple sunsets, clear streams, and snowflakes the size of silver dollars drifting through the cold air. There were no speed limits and you could legally drive drunk. My small apartment in Missoula had little privacy. In order to write, I rented an off-season fishing cabin on Rock Creek, a one-room place with a bed and a bureau. I lacked the budget for a desk. My idea was to remove a sliding door from a closet in my apartment and place it over a couple of hastily cobbled-together sawhorses.
Average number of bacteria living in a pound of U.S. mud:
Canadian doctors saved a baby from drowning in his own drool by using Botox on his salivary glands.
A black bear named Pedals, famous for walking upright on his hind legs through Rockaway Township, New Jersey, was reported killed by a hunter, and a hiker in California was attacked after he interrupted two bears mating. It was a “pretty good bear attack,” said the local police chief.
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"She never thanked me, never looked at me—melted away into the miserable night, in the strangest manner I ever saw. I have seen many strange things, but not one that has left a deeper impression on my memory than the dull impassive way in which that worn-out heap of misery took that piece of money, and was lost."