Sunday, September 29, 2019

International Translations Day

From a translator of sorts.....

Here is something to read....


8 Indian Translators On Their Favourite Work And What They'd Like To See Translated

When political leaders want India to have one “common language”, the act of translation is more important than ever.

International Translation Day
In a resolution passed in 2017, the United Nations General Assembly declared September 30 as International Translations Day, an opportunity to “pay tribute to the work of language professionals”. In India, at a time, when political leaders want the country to have one “common language”, the act of translation is more important than ever to support linguistic diversity even while building bridges between languages.
We mark the day, we asked some of India’s finest literary translators who translate into English to answer two questions: what has been their favourite work out of all that they’ve translated, and what work or author, in the languages they work in, would they most like to translate or see translated into English.

Nirupama Dutt (Punjabi and Hindi)

Although I translate prose aplenty, I enjoy translating poetry the most. I have translated works of several poets from Hindi and Punjabi. However, what I look back on with the most love are two poems. The first is the last poem written by Amrita Pritam, to her partner Imroz. After she wrote it, I got a call from her to come and meet her. She showed me the poem and said, “All ends with death but there is something that survives and thus I have addressed this poem to Imroz.” The poem was “Main Tainu Phir Milangi” and my translation of it “I Will Meet You Yet Again” was published in The Little Magazine while she was still alive and it made her smile even amidst pain. The second is a poem on Partition by a Hindi poet of Punjab, the late Kumar Vikal, called “Smriti Aur Sugandh Ke Beech”. It recalls the shared culture of Punjab before Partition as seen through the eyes of an adolescent. In English, it is called “Betwixt Remembrance and Fragrance”.
Nirupama Dutt
I would like to see more works of Amrita Pritam translated well into English. A few have been published but there is a lot more that needs to be done. Also, the complete poetry of Kumar Vikal. The first poems I translated were his, for an anthology ‘Spring Thunder’ published in the early 80s. I owe my learning of translation to this amazing poet.

J Devika (Malayalam)

I generally enjoy translating poetry more than prose but KR Meera’s Hangwoman was the most exciting challenge. Like I said in my translator’s note, it felt like a swimmer taking up the challenge of long distance swimming across treacherous waters. But each author is a unique challenge because one tries to carry their unique rhetoric into another language.
N Prabhakaran was on my list but Jayasree Kalathil has translated Diary of a Malayali Madmanbrilliantly. I am now looking forward to working on a novel that Meera is beginning to write that promises to be even more exciting than Hangwoman.
J Devika

Rakhshanda Jalil (Urdu)

Without question, the works of Intizar Husain, the Man Booker Prize shortlisted Pakistani writer who wrote in Urdu, have been my favourite. I have translated several of his stories for two collections – Circle and Other Stories and The Death of Sheherzad – and a novel, The Sea Lies Ahead (Aagaey Samandar Hai in Urdu). I love the way he crafts his stories and builds them at a gentle pace, and his fine craftsmanship as a prose stylist.
Rakhshanda Jalil
Qurratulain Hyder is an important voice in modern Urdu prose. Unfortunately, she insisted on translating her own works and in the process did not do justice to her writing for an English readership. I would love to, systematically, work my way through her short stories, novellas and novels. 

N Kalyan Raman (Tamil)

I loved working on Manasarovar, my translation of a Tamil novel by Ashokamitran. The backdrop of the novel is the film industry in Madras during the early 60s. It is narrated alternately by Satyan Kumar, a superstar from Bombay, and Gopalan, a local screenwriter whom he befriends. The novel is not just an account of the two men struggling to find faith and inner peace in the aftermath of certain tragic events but also a portrait of the times with a cast of characters that includes, among others, Pandit Nehru and Meher Baba, the silent mystic. A complex and meditative work, Manasarovar showcases Ashokamitran at the height of his craft as a novelist. It was also the work closest to his heart. I loved translating the voices of those fragile, besieged men as they strove to respond to both history and their private circumstances. Since the actor was modelled on Dilip Kumar and the story was set in the Madras and India of my childhood, it was a source of endless fascination for me. It puzzles me to this day why such a dazzling work that strives to illuminate the private hungers and impulses from a certain period in our recent history is not more widely known, even among the intellectuals of our film industry.
PHOTO BY PRADEEP CHERIAN
N Kalyan Raman
Though my translations of contemporary Tamil poetry have been published widely in many journals and anthologies, I haven’t had the opportunity so far to publish a volume of Tamil poetry in translation. Among contemporary Tamil poets working today, I find the work of Perundevi fascinating. Not only is Perundevi innovative in terms of language and themes, she also experiments with styles ranging from lyric poetry to anti-poetry a la Nicanor Parra. Perundevi brings a sophisticated political vision – shaped by issues of gender, sexuality, technology – and a deep empathy for the human condition, fraught with desire, hope, quest for love and need of community, to her poetic imagination. She is a contemporary Indian poet who needs and deserves a wider audience.

Aruni Kashyap (Assamese)

I just finished translating one of my favourite Assamese novels: Hriday Ek Bigyapan by Anuradha Sharma Pujari. First published in 1997 in Assamese, Hriday Ek Bigyapan was an instant bestseller, selling 32 editions over the next 10 years, which was a surprise because it wasn’t a thriller or potboiler. It asks the reader to take a hard look at the heavily corporatized world, our lives governed by advertisements, mindless consumerism, and objectification of the female body by a culture led by sexist men. I do not remember any other Assamese writer asking those questions in the early 90s. Despite the bleak atmosphere, the novel offers so much hope. While translating it, Anuradha Pujari told me about the thousands of letters she received after its publication. Most of them were from people who are successful in their careers but find no meaning in their work. They say reading the novel gave them hope and prodded them to continue living and to fight depression.
Aruni Kashyap
I want to translate more works by Yeshe Dorjee Thongchi to English. I am translating one of his novels called So Kota Manuh and have finished translating a collection of his stories. Thongchi is a Sahitya Akademi award winner from Arunachal Pradesh, belonging to the Serdukpen tribe. Thongchi mostly writes about Arunachal and his community. His stories and novels often make me think of Chinua Achebe from Nigeria but most importantly, he reminds us of the numerous tribal writers who have contributed to Assamese literature. I also want to see more translations of writers such as Anupama Basumatary, Lutfa Hanum Selima Begum, Syed Abdul Malik, Jehirul Hussain, Medini Choudhury, Sameer Tanti, Hafiz Ahmed, Kengsam Kenglang, Addus Samad, among others. I also want to see more writers translated from the Barak Valley. When we talk about literature from Assam, we often forget the writers there. 

Jerry Pinto (Marathi)

I suppose there will always be a special place in my heart for Baluta by Daya Pawar. I never did meet him personally but by all accounts, except his own, he seems to have been a very good man. In an odd way though I feel I know him well because for two years he was a constant voice in my ear, a companion in the lonely business of writing.
PHOTO BY ASHIMA NARAIN
Jerry Pinto
I think we need many fresh translations even of works that have already been translated. But Sane Guruji’s Shyamchi Aai would be my choice. My cup runneth over to know that Shanta Gokhale is doing one.

Daisy Rockwell (Hindi and Urdu)

It’s hard to think in terms of favourites when thinking of translation. It can be mind-bogglingly exhausting to translate a book. The incredible attention to detail, working through many more drafts than one would with writing of one’s own, and then the copy editing. Translators love metaphors: maybe it’s like running a marathon? Do runners have favourite marathons? But since I’m being asked to pick, I’ll choose Krishna Sobti’s A Gujarat Here, A Gujarat There. First, because I had the great honour of meeting Krishna ji in person at the end of her life. She was an amazing human being – full of insight and thoughtfulness even in her final year. Second, because there were times I felt as though the book was impossible to translate. Sobti writes so sparingly, cutting out all extra words, that it is hard to guess what she means at times, and difficult to reproduce in equally sparing English. I was delighted to work on the project, but also terrified, and what’s more, I was happy with the results, which is rare for a translator. We hate to look back at our work because we always see room for improvement.
Daisy Rockwell
There is one work that I would like to see re-translated in English, one that I would never attempt myself, as the heavy flavouring of the Maithili language would be difficult for me: Phanishwar Nath Renu’s 1954 novel Maila Aanchal. This novel is a satirical masterpiece, which would be extraordinarily difficult to translate, starting with the title, which no one seems to be able to render properly (the one English translation is titled “The Soiled Border”). I happen to know someone is attempting it right now, but I won’t divulge the details.

Arunava Sinha (Bengali)

Buddhadeva Bose’s When The Time Is Right stands out for me. It really has something to do with the nature of the prose – half the quality of this work lies in the way the words unravel, and there’s no better way of savouring it than by translating it, which is the closest form of reading. Besides, this is a novel of delicate sensibilities, which personally resonate with me.
Arunava Sinha
Kamalkumar Majumdar’s fiction is incredibly difficult to translate because of the complex structure and layers of the prose, which is perhaps why it has not been translated at all. But each of his works bring a poet’s vision to stories featuring characters placed in a vortex of personal and social upheaval. The novels and short stories are quite unique, and will test the true mettle of a translator.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

Did You know Lynn Margulis?

Lynn Margulis

Every science needs its revolutionary thinkers, for today’s outlandish ideas become tomorrow’s textbook orthodoxy. There were few as revolutionary as Lynn Margulis, whose ideas about symbiogenesis, initially dismissed as crazy, are now the cornerstone of modern biological thought. Born to a large Jewish family in Chicago, the fiery and precocious Lynn entered the University of Chicago aged just 16, and her first academic paper, on the genetics of the protist Euglena, was published when she was 20. Her notoriety began in 1966 with a paper on the origin of eukaryotic cells, which she suggested had evolved from associations of bacteria. Sheproposed that the organelles of cells, such as chloroplasts and mitochondria, evolved as separate organisms but became assimilated into a new kind of organism, the eukaryotic cell. It was more than a decade before her ideas were substantiated by significant experimental evidence, and we now know that they are largely correct. It turns out that chloroplasts – small, green bodies in plant cells in which photosynthesis takes place – have their own DNA, revealing that they were once descended from cyanobacteria (once called blue-green algae). Mitochondria, for their part, are small bodies that generate much of the energy required by cells; they also have their own DNA, and are distantly related to bacteria called proteobacteria. Like many people with controversial ideas, Margulis did not stop there. With James Lovelock (born in 1919) she became a vocal proponent of the ‘Gaia’ hypothesis that the Earth is a single, self-regulating system, and, more controversially, she contended that the humanimmunodeficiency virus (HIV-1) was not a cause of AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome). She married and divorced twice, and later reportedly said that it was not humanly possible to be a first-class scientist, wife and mother all at the same time.

Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Sumati Shatakam - padyam and Commentary





After a long time let us once again peep into the wisdom of Sumati Shatakam.
Baddena the poet addresses the good mind the Sumati…
Word of advice to an imbecile is an effort wasted after all ...

పగ వలదెవ్వరితోడను
వగవంగావలదు లేమి వచ్చిన పిదపన్
తెగనాడవలదు సభలను
మగువకు మనసియ్యవలదు మహిలో సుమతీ

Paga valadevvari tODanu
vagavangA valadu lEmi vacchina pidapan
teganADa valadu saBhalanu
maguvaku manasiyyavaladu mahilO sumatI

పగ = animosity
వలదు = not required
ఎవ్వరితోడను = with anyone
వగవంగావలదు = don’t cry or feel sad
లేమి = poverty
వచ్చిన = having come
పిదపన్ - after
తెగనాడవలదు = don’t criticise
సభలను = courts or meetings
మగువకు = to a woman
మనసు = heart
ఇయ్యవలదు = don’t give
మహిలో = on the land
సుమతీ = Oh the good minded one…

Here poet proposes four things to be avoided.
Three of them for the mind. And may be one more for the tongue…
Or is that also for the mind also?

Make friends and not enemies is the good advice here. Hatred or bickering with none that too. It is easy to understand. Even if anyone harms you, it is to forgive the person and forget the incident. You can live happily. If one carries the ill will in the heart, life becomes miserable. One keeps thinking of somehow squaring up the matter. It makes one venomous. Bad in nature! Ghalib says

Kuch is tarah zindagi ko asaan kar liya mein nay
Kisiko baksh diya, kisise maafi maang liya mein ne…

I made my life easier this way… some I have forgiven and with others I have apologized…
No time to make friends and keep smiling… where do you find it to fume and blow your top off?

Poverty of money is no poverty at all. I have been living as happily as anyone without much money in the pocket. Forget about the bank! As long as you control your needs you live happily. There is enough in this world for my needs and not for my greed. Once you had money. Now it is gone, isn’t it? It is better. Life is giving you a chance to taste poverty too. Otherwise you never know what hunger is! In poverty what little comes to hand appears great, if you can imagine. So poverty is not for lamenting. It is for being one with majority of humanity…

Do you go to meetings and congregations? Do you really? Somehow I find myself in meetings very often. They pull me there per force even. Poet says not to critical at such assemblies. Good about it. Listen what is spoken by the others. If you have a point against one or all of them, simply say so, but not keep raving there only. Many people feel that critics are seen as special people. They think that they are noticed better. Not exactly so. Criticism is good but at the right place and time only. That is why poet asks you to behave when a lot of people are around. All of them need not react well to your ranting even if it has substance.

Bah… Baddena too warns men to keep away from fairer sex. He asks men never to lose heart to one of that class. Was he a broken heart? He must have been one surely. Is the Shatakam meant to be read only by menfolk and not women? Every once in a while I find this question staring me in the face. Earlier days writers and poets never too womenfolk into account while composing their works.

A Sumati could be a man and equally well a woman! But the last part of the verse cautions men against falling in love with females! That was how the society behaved. Male chauvinism at every step…
I do not really know what love is. I also feel all these songs and dances in the name of love too absurd to be devoted time. But the world looks like is going round and round along the wheel called love. Anyone who was successful and lived happily can say that love is divine, love is God and all that kitsch. One failed or seen other fail would suggest a la Baddena.

A little verse goes with a longish commentary perhaps. Tell me if you find this meaningful at all.


 Vijayagopal....

Monday, September 23, 2019

Erection

On a construction in our street....


Old House demolished
12th March 2019


New construction started
12th April 2019


Pillars for fifth floor!
22nd September...

Erection

He is stretching it 
Too deep
In to the sky...
Unmindful of all the norms
In the otherwise calm street
The haphazard bird nests
Are now defeated
What would happen further on....

వాడు దాన్ని
ఆకాశంలోకి
మరింత లోతుకు లాగుతున్నాడు...
అనుమతులను నిద్రపుచ్చుతున్నాడు...
ప్రశాంతమయిన వీధిలో
పిచ్చిగా పెరిగిన మా పిచ్చుకగూళ్లు
ఇప్పుడు ఓడిపోయినయ్....
ఇక 'రేపు' ఏమవుతుందో....

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Ode to Attentiveness and the Art of Listening

An Illustrated Ode to Attentiveness and the Art of Listening as a Wellspring of Self-Understanding, Empathy for Others, and Reverence for the Loveliness of Life

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“To see takes time, like to have a friend takes time,” Georgia O’Keeffe wrote as she contemplated the art of seeing. To listen takes time, too — to learn to hear and befriend the world within and the world without, to attend to the quiet voice of life and heart alike. “If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing,” Pablo Neruda wrote in his gorgeous ode to quietude, “perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves.”
This inspiriting, sanctifying power of listening is what writer Holly M. McGhee and illustrator Pascal Lemaître explore in the simply titled, sweetly unfolding Listen (public library) — a serenade to the heart-expanding, life-enriching, world-ennobling art of attentiveness as a wellspring of self-understanding, of empathy for others, of reverence for the loveliness of life, evocative of philosopher Simone Weil’s memorable assertion that “attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer.”
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Lemaître — who has previously illustrated the children’s book about kindness Toni Morrison co-wrote with her own son — brings McGhee’s buoyant words to life in his spare, infinitely tender lines and gentle washes of color.
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2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngListen
to the sound of your feet —
the sound of all of us
and the sound of me.
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2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngThe stars —
they are for you
and all of us.
They are for me.
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The simple verses beckon the attention to envelop the whole world, from the immediacy of one’s own sensorial surroundings — the ground, the Sun, the air, the stars — to the widening awareness of our shared belonging and our intertwined fates. Radiating from them is Einstein’s notion of “widening circles of compassion” and Dr. King’s immortal insistence that “we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality.”
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2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngBreathe.
Smell the air.
My air is yours and all of ours,
your air is mine.
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2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngYour heart can hold everything.
Including the world —
its darkness and its light.
Including your story,
including my story —
including the story
of all of us…
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Complement Listen with The Sound of Silence — a kindred serenade to the art of listening to your inner voice amid the ceaseless noise of modern life — and Goodnight Moon author Margaret Wise Brown’s forgotten vintage gem The Quiet Noisy Book, then revisit the great humanistic philosopher and psychologist Erich Fromm’s six rules of listening and unselfish understanding and composer Leonard Bernstein on why paying attention is a countercultural act of courage and resistance.

Chaos, Time, and the Origin of Everything: Stephen Fry on How Ancient Greek Mythology and Modern Science Meet to Illuminate the Cradle of Being

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“Time is the substance I am made of,” Borges wrote in his sublime meditation on the most elemental and paradoxical dimension of existence. But what was there before there was time, before there was substance? Before, in the lovely words of the poet Marie Howe, “the singularity we once were” — “when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was liquid and stars were space and space was not at all”?
Since the dawn of human consciousness, this question has gnawed at the insouciance of our species and animated the most restless recesses of our imagination. It is the foundation of our most ancient origin myths and the springboard for our most ambitious science. It is also — curiously, thrillingly — where these two seemingly irreconcilable strains of our hunger for truth and meaning entwine.
So argues Stephen Fry in the opening of Mythos (public library) — his gloriously imaginative, erudite, warmhearted, and subversively funny retelling of the classic Greek myths.
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“Chaos” by George Frederic Watts, circa 1875. (Tate Museum)
Millennia before James Gleick wrested chaos theory from the obscure annals of meteorology to make it a locus of magnetic allure for modern science and a fixture of the popular imagination, the ancient Greeks placed chaos at the center of their cosmogony. (So enduring and far-reaching is their civilizational sway that we owe even the word cosmogony to them, from kosmos, Greek for “world” or “order,” and their suffix -gonia, “-begetting.”) Fry writes:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngWas Chaos a god — a divine being — or simply a state of nothingness? Or was Chaos, just as we would use the word today, a kind of terrible mess, like a teenager’s bedroom only worse?
Think of Chaos perhaps as a kind of grand cosmic yawn.
As in a yawning chasm or a yawning void.
Whether Chaos brought life and substance out of nothing or whether Chaos yawned life up or dreamed it up, or conjured it up in some other way, I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Nor were you. And yet in a way we were, because all the bits that make us were there. It is enough to say that the Greeks thought it was Chaos who, with a massive heave, or a great shrug, or hiccup, vomit, or cough, began the long chain of creation that has ended with pelicans and penicillin and toadstools and toads, sea lions, seals, lions, human beings, and daffodils and murder and art and love and confusion and death and madness and biscuits.
Whatever the truth, science today agrees that everything is destined to return to Chaos. It calls this inevitable fate entropy: part of the great cycle from Chaos to order and back again to Chaos. Your trousers began as chaotic atoms that somehow coalesced into matter that ordered itself over eons into a living substance that slowly evolved into a cotton plant that was woven into the handsome stuff that sheathes your lovely legs. In time you will abandon your trousers — not now, I hope — and they will rot down in a landfill or be burned. In either case their matter will at length be set free to become part of the atmosphere of the planet. And when the sun explodes and takes every particle of this world with it, including the ingredients of your trousers, all the constituent atoms will return to cold Chaos. And what is true for your trousers is of course true for you.
So the Chaos that began everything is also the Chaos that will end everything.
There is, of course, the favorite question, that eternal fulcrum of human restlessness: What was there before the beginning? Before the Big Bang, before Chaos, before the everythingness of being? In consonance with Stephen Hawking’s wryly phrased and elegantly argued observation that “the universe is the ultimate free lunch,” Fry reminds us that before there was everything, there was, simply, nothing — not even the Borgesian substance we are made of:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngWe have to accept that there was no “before,” because there was no Time yet. No one had pressed the start button on Time. No one had shouted Now! And since Time had yet to be created, time words like “before,” “during,” “when,” “then,” “after lunch,” and “last Wednesday” had no possible meaning. It screws with the head, but there it is.
The Greek word for “everything that is the case,” what we could call “the universe,” is COSMOS. And at the moment — although “moment” is a time word and makes no sense just now (neither does the phrase “just now”) — at the moment, Cosmos is Chaos and only Chaos because Chaos is the only thing that is the case. A stretching, a tuning up of the orchestra…
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Art by Ben Newman from A Graphic Cosmogony.
Tracing how Chaos “spewed up the first forms of life, the primordial beings and the principles,” Fry once again draws a parallel between mythology and science, wresting a kind of evolutionary biology of the Greek mythological universe. In an inspired passage that calls to mind evolutionary biologist Lynn Margulis — known for advancing the Gaia hypothesis, named of course for the ancient Greek god-mother and mother-goddess — and her splendid reflection on the interconnectedness of life across time, space, and species, he writes:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngAs each generation developed and new entities were born and in turn reproduced, so complexity increased. Those old primordial and elemental principles were spun into lifeforms of ever greater diversity, variety, and richness. The beings that were born became endowed with nuanced and unique personalities and individuality. In computer language, it was as if life went from 2 bit to 4 bit to 8 bit to 16 bit to 32 bit to 64 bit and beyond. Each iteration represented millions and then billions of new permutations of size, form, and what you might call resolution. High definition character, such as we pride ourselves in having as modern humans, came into existence and there was an explosion of what biologists call speciation as new forms burst into being.
I like to picture the first stage of creation as an old-fashioned TV screen on which a monochrome game of Pong played. You remember Pong? It had two white rectangles for rackets and a square dot for a ball. Existence was a primitive, pixellated form of bouncing tennis. Some thirty-five to forty years later there had evolved ultra hi-res 3-D graphics with virtual and augmented reality. So it was for the Greek cosmos, a creation that began with clunky and elemental lo-res outlines now exploded into rich, varied life.
In the remainder of the thoroughly enchanting and elucidating Mythos, Fry goes on to trace the origins of so many of our present givens — the names of planets and constellations and chemical elements and diseases, the words “fraud” and “doom” and “enthusiasm,” our precepts of beauty, our taxonomies of love — to a complex, imaginative, and imperfect civilization that lived long ago, which imprinted cultures and civilizations to come with its layered legacy. Complement it with Jill Lepore on how the shift from mythology to science shaped the early dream of democracy, then revisit Italian artist Alessandro Sanna’s wordless existential cosmogony inspired by Pinocchio and this gorgeous 1974 Hungarian animated short film exploring the tragic heroism of hopefulness in the Greek myth of Sisyphus.


wordsinpain_olgajacoby.jpg?fit=319%2C500Uncommon Wisdom from a Forgotten Genius: Olga Jacoby’s Extraordinary Letters on Love, Life, Death, Moral Courage, and Spiritual Purpose Without Religion

Half a century before Frida Kahlo made her impassioned case for atheism as a supreme form of freedom and moral courage, before Robinson Jeffers insisted that the greatest spiritual calling lies in contributing to the world’s store of moral beauty, before Simone de Beauvoir looked back on her life to observe that “faith allows an evasion of those difficulties which the atheist confronts honestly [while] the believer derives a sense of great superiority from this very cowardice itself,” a German-Jewish Englishwoman by the name of Olga Jacoby (August 15, 1874–May 5, 1913) — the young mother of four adopted children — took up the subject of living and dying without religion, with moral courage, with kindness, with radiant receptivity to beauty, in stunning letters to her pious physician, who had just given her a terminal diagnosis. These are more than letters — they are symphonies of thought, miniature manifestos for reason and humanism, poetic odes to the glory of living and the dignity of dying in full assent to reality.
First published anonymously by her husband in 1919 and hurled out of print by wartime want, the letters were discovered a century after their composition by the scholar Trevor Moore, who was so taken with them that he set about identifying their author. Drawing on the family dynamics unfolding in the letters and poring over the British census, he eventually uncovered Jacoby’s identity, tracked down her descendants, and teamed up with her great-granddaughter, Jocelyn Catty, to publish these forgotten treasures of thought and feeling as Words in Pain: Letters on Life and Death (public library).
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Art by the English artist Margaret C. Cook from a rare edition of Whitman’s poems, published in the final year of Jacoby’s life. (Available as a print)
In 1909, at age thirty-five, Jacoby was diagnosed with a terminal illness she never names in her letters. Perhaps she was never told — it was customary at the time, and would be for generations to come, for doctors to treat female patients as children and to withhold the reality of their own bodies from them. But she refers to it in her characteristic good-natured humor as a disease of having loved so hard as to have strained her heart.
With their extraordinary intellectual elegance and generosity of spirit, her letters constellate into a masterwork of reason argued with a literary artist’s splendor of expression. Early into the correspondence with her doctor, Jacoby lays out her existential credo:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngWe always fear the unknown. I am not a coward and do not fear death, which to me means nothing more than sleep, but I cannot become resigned to leave this beautiful world with all the treasures it holds for me and for everyone who knows how to understand and appreciate them… To leave a good example to those I love [is] my only understanding of immortality.
A year into her diagnosis, she magnifies the sentiment with feeling:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngWhatever we cannot know let us simply and truthfully agree not to know, but no one must be expected to take for granted what reason refuses to admit. More and more to me this simplest of thoughts seems right: Live, live keenly, live fully; make ample use of every power that has been given us to use, to use for the good end. Blind yourself to nothing; look straight at sadness, loss, evil; but at the same time look with such intense delight at all that is good and noble that quite naturally the heart’s longing will be to help the glory to triumph, and that to have been a strong fighter in that cause will appear the only end worth achieving. The length of life does not depend on us, but as long as we can look back to no waste of time we can face the end with a clear conscience, with cheerful if somewhat tired eyes and ready for the deserved rest with no hope or anxiety for what may come. To me all the effort of man seems vain, and his ideal thrown ruthlessly to the ground by himself, when, after a life of free and joyful effort, he stoops to pick up a reward he does not deserve for having simply done his duty.
Emanating from her letters is evidence of how Jacoby lived her values — her reverence for beauty, her devotion to generosity — in the minutest details of her life. One day, perturbed by the fact that her doctor didn’t have his own volume of Shelley’s poems, she spent two hours hunting the West End of London for the perfect copy that “can be put in your pocket when you go on a lonely ramble amongst the mountains.” Triumphant, with the perfect edition in tow, she told her doctor: “I don’t think any man or woman who has once been happy can read some of his small pieces without feeling all aglow with the beauty of them.” A dying woman, fully alive by the braided life-strands of beauty, generosity, and poetry.
Without the forceful self-righteousness with which fundamentalists impose their views on others, she came to see the fear of death as “only a misunderstanding of Nature.” She writes:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngNot to be afraid when you are all alone is the only true way of being not afraid. Where does your courage come in, when you cannot find it in your own self but always have to grasp God morally?
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Art by Margaret C. Cook from a the 1913 edition of Leaves of Grass. (Available as a print.)
When her doctor insists that she must turn to “God” for salvation, Jacoby responds with an exquisite manifesto for what can best be described as the secular spirituality of humanism and the reverence of nature:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngMy Dear Doctor,
Like you I believe in a higher power, but, unlike yours, mine is not a kind fatherly one. It is Nature, who with all its forces, beauties and necessary evils, rules our destinies according to its own irrevocable laws. I can love that power for the beauty it has brought into the world, and admire it for the strength that makes us understand how futile and useless it would be to appeal to it in prayer. But towards a kind and fatherly God, who, being almighty, prefers to leave us in misery, when by his mere wish he could obtain the same end without so much suffering, I feel a great revolt and bitterness. Nature makes us know that it cannot take into individual consideration the atoms we are, and for her I have no blame; no more than I could think of blaming you for having during your walks stepped on and killed many a worm (it was a pity the worm happened to be under your foot); but if during these walks your eyes were resting on the beauties of skies and trees, or your mind was solving some difficult problem, was that not a nobler occupation than had you walked eyes downwards, intent only on not killing. I think that Nature is striving towards perfection and that each human being has the duty to help towards it by making his life a fit example for others and by awaking ideals which will be more nearly approached by coming generations. In this way life itself offers enough explanation for living; and believing our existence to finish with death, we naturally make the most of our opportunities… Unable to appeal to a God for help, we find ourselves dependent only on our own strong will — not to overcome misfortune, but to try to bear it as bravely as possible. Religion having for an end the more perfect and moral condition of humanity, I truly think that these ideas are as religious as any dogmatic ones.
With a parent- or teacher-like magnanimity, Jacoby extends extraordinary patience to her doctor. To his self-righteous and patronizing remark that he pities her children on account of her atheism, she responds with a humble, generous reflection on how she hopes her nonreligious morality and spirituality would sculpt her children’s character:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngI always feel that we, who are better off, are responsible for having let the poor get so low, and that it is duty, not charity, to help. Charles [her young son], the farmer that is to be, has promised always to keep a cow, to call it by my name, and let the milk of that cow go to the poor around his farm. Should he choose another profession, he will find that the idea of the cow can be worked differently. I hope he will follow my lead in living happy and dying content.
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Art by Olivier Tallec from What If… — a child’s vision for a kinder and more equitable world
Jacoby takes particular issue with the idea of original sin, with which young minds are so ruthlessly branded and scarred under Christian dogma:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngWhy start an infant’s life with ideas of fear and sin? Let love be their only religion — a love they can understand and handle. With so many people hungering for love, why give so great a part up to Deity? Acknowledge, Doctor, if you had not had your good share of human love, a mother’s, a wife’s, and your children’s, you would not so well understand the other. A child, I think, is taught untruthfulness when you make him say that he loves God.
[…]
Have you ever come across a baby whose eyes were not all innocence and inquiry? And from the first you crush that innocence with those terrible biblical words. Mind you, they are words only. A sincere man will never agree to them when it comes to his own children, and a generous heart must repel them as strongly when they apply to others.
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One of William Blake’s rare illustrations for Paradise Lost
She turns to another damaging aspect of religious dogma — its stunting of children’s natural curiosity about how the world works by keeping certain scientific truths from them or deliberately displacing those truths with mythic fictions:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngAs to children’s inquiries, they are often wrongly answered, and the higher the subject, the more you think yourself justified in lying to them. From these same children you expect in return truly felt love, good acts, truthfulness and a desire to learn… You absolutely cripple a child by not allowing him to think clearly on all subjects — and no dogmatic religion will stand thinking.
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Illustration from Flashlight by Lizi Boyd
Jacoby proceeds to offer a lucid and luminous vision for what our moral and spiritual life could look like without religious delusion:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngMy idea is not a life without religion; it is a nobler religion I want. Of course, very good men have lived and are living, to whom your religion has been a help, but science is progressing daily, and in harmony with it our moral standard should be higher — high enough to do right simply because it is right. A religion that has helped mankind to get somewhat better should be resigned to let a still better one take its place. Like a growing child, humanity must outgrow its infancy, must stand alone one day and be able to stand straight without support.
In a sentiment our modern spiritual elder Parker Palmer would echo a century later in his lovely insistence that “wholeness does not mean perfection: it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life,” she adds:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngTo me a good man with his failings seems a better ideal than a perfect God. We feel nearer to him and nearer to the possibility of attaining his standard. This kind of ideal actually helps people to improve, and is therefore of more value to the world.
I do believe strongly in universal good, but not in individual good. As I ask for no help from God, I ask for no explanation from him of my sufferings. I just try to suffer the least possible, and still get a fair part of my aim in life — happiness. You see, I am not ashamed to say that to be happy seems to me a reason for living — as long as you don’t make others unhappy.
When her doctor condemns and insults her credo as a weakness, she responds with a passionate defense of what the trailblazing astronomer Maria Mitchell termed our native “hunger of the mind,” which is the supreme strength of our species:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngIt is knowledge we want, the better and better understanding of magnificent Nature with its powerful laws that forces our soul to love, admire and submit. That is religion! My religion! How can you call it a weak and godless one?
[…]
Science is turning on the light, but at every step forward dogmatic religion attempts to turn it out, and as it cannot succeed it puts blinkers on its followers, and tries to make them believe that to remove them would be sin. This is the only way in which I can understand their continual warning against knowledge.
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Illustration from Flashlight by Lizi Boyd
Four years after her terminal diagnosis, as two world wars staked on religious ideology lay in wait for her children, after four savaging surgeries and a heart attack had left her in constant acute pain, the 38-year-old Olga Jacoby died by self-induced euthanasia, intent to “go to sleep with a good conscience,” a pioneer of what we today call the right-to-die movement — another fundamental human right stymied only by the legal residue of religiosity. Inscribed into her letters is the beautiful source-code of a moral and spiritual alternative to religion — a courageous case for the right to live by truth, beauty, and altruism rather than by dogma and delusion, the heart of which beats in a passage from a letter she penned in the dead of winter two years into her diagnosis:
2e292385-dc1c-4cfe-b95e-845f6f98c2ec.pngCharles may have to suffer from too tender a heart, but the world will be the richer for it, and because of that for his life.
[…]
Love, like strength and courage, is a strange thing; the more we give the more we find we have to give. Once given out love is set rolling for ever to amass more, resembling an avalanche by the irresistible force with which it sweeps aside all obstacles, but utterly unlike in its effect, for it brings happiness wherever it passes and lands destruction nowhere.
Complement the thoroughly inspiriting Words in Pain with Jacoby’s contemporary Alice James — William and Henry James’s brilliant younger sister — on how to live fully while dying, then revisit Tolstoy and Gandhi’s forgotten correspondence from the same era about love as humanity’s only real spiritual foundation.

Thanks to the source of interesting reading.....