never was, never saw, don’t exist:
what is all this? In which June, in what wood
did I grow until now, being born and born again?
I didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?
In doorways, I repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked for myself, with wonder,
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
I was always arriving late.
I had traveled far from who I was,
I could not answer any questions about myself,
I had too often left who I am.
I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
I traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you, for everybody:
and where I was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.
Why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
That is how I found out
that I was exactly like you
and like everybody.
-from "The Sea and the Bells"
, translated by William O’Daly
—————————————-
Todos
Yo tal vez yo no seré, tal vez no pude,
no fui, no vi, no estoy:
qué es esto? Y en qué Junio, en qué madera
crecí hasta ahora, continué naciendo?
No crecí, no crecí, seguzí muriendo?
Yo repetí en las puertas
el sonido del mar,
de las campanas:
yo pregunté por mí, con embeleso
(con ansiedad más tarde),
Ya estaba lejos mi anterioridad,
ya no me respondía yo a mí mismo,
me había ido muchas veces yo.
Y fui a la próxima casa,
a la próxima mujer,
a todos partes
a preguntar por mí, por ti, por todos:
y donde yo no estaba ya no estaban,
todo estaba vacío
porque sencillamente no era hoy,
era manana.
Por qué buscar en vano
en cada puerta en que no existiremos
porque no hemos llegado todavía?
Así fue como supe
que yo era exactamente como tú
y como todo el mundo.
—————————————-
i,
perhaps i never will be,
perhaps i was not able,
never was,
never saw,
don’t exist:
what is all this?
in which June,
in what wood
did i grow until now,
being born and born again?
i didn’t grow,
never grew,
just went on dying?
in doorways, i repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
i asked myself, with wonder
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
i was always arriving late.
i had traveled far from who i was,
i could not answer any questions
about myself,
i had too often left who i am.
i went to the next house,
to the next woman,
i traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you,
for everybody:
and where i was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn't today,
it was tomorrow.
why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
this is how i found out
that i was exactly like you
and like everybody
--alternate translation
(translator unknown)
. I read it with the pain of knowing that Bolton won't write another (since he took his own life at the age of 28 soon after finishing it). I read it with the fear of finishing it, like the work of