Instructions for Winding a Watch

Incredible amounts of snow. Freezing cold (high of 13 F, low of -5 F) but sunny!
Our power went out three times yesterday, but the longest was only for an hour so more of an adventure in candles than a problem. I'll try to take some pictures today.

I've been thinking a lot about this translation lately. I did it a few years ago for a class on translating poetry, and although it's not my best work, something about the piece captivated me. I should really buy his most famous novel, "Hopscotch," so I can unstick myself from his Instrucciones. Part of what makes this short fiction fun is that the words don't make a whole lot of sense in Spanish, so translating them directly doesn't convey much. Instead, you have to decide what level of integraty can be maintained by changing words to say the same thing in another language. I should probably edit my translations, pull them together into one 'favorite', but until then here are the two I think are closest:

Instructions for Winding a Watch

Translation 1:

There at the end is Death, but do not fear. Hold the watch steady in one hand, hold the knob in two fingers, wind it gently. Now you open another time period; the trees display their leaves, the boats run in regattas, time like a fan will fill it exactly, and off it buds the air, the breeze of the earth, the shadow of a woman, the perfume of bread.

What more does it want? What more? Attend quickly to your wrist, leave it throbbing freely, mimicking panting. Fear rusts the anchors, each thing that it could reach and was forgotten circling the veins of the watch, gangrening the small rubies of cold blood. And there at the end is Death, if we don’t run and arrive before and understand that this does not matter.



Translation 2:

There at the end is death, but do not fear. Secure the watch in one hand, take the knob with two fingers, wind it gently. Now it opens another era, the trees display their leaves, the boats run regattas, time like a fan will fill this place, and off it buds the breathe of the earth, the shadow of a woman, the aroma of bread.

What more does it want, what more does it want? Attend quickly to your wrist, leave it throbbing freely, mimicking panting. Fear rusts the anchors, each thing that it could reach and was forgotten running through the veins of the watch, gangrening the rubies of cold blood. And there in the end is death if we don’t run and arrive before and understand that it won’t matter.

~ Julio Cortazar