At the end of Year 2020

The Fate of Fausto: Oliver Jeffers’s Lovely Painted Fable About the Absurdity of Greed and the Existential Triumph of Enoughness, Inspired by Vonnegut

A soulful meditation on the eternal battle between the human animal and its ego, played out on the primordial arena of elemental truth.

BY MARIA POPOVA

In his short and lovely poem penned at the end of his life, Kurt Vonnegut located the wellspring of happiness in a source so simple yet so countercultural in capitalist society: “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.”

A generation later, artist and author Oliver Jeffers — one of the most beloved and thoughtful storytellers of our time — picks up the message with uncommon simplicity of expression and profundity of sentiment in The Fate of Fausto (public library) — a “painted fable,” in that classic sense of moral admonition conveyed on the wings of enchantment, about how very little we and all of our striving matter in the grand scheme of time and being, and therefore how very much it matters to live with kindness, with generosity, in openhearted consanguinity with everything else that shares our cosmic blink of existence.

Inspired by Vonnegut’s poem, which appears on the final page of the book, the story follows a greedy suited man named Fausto, who decides he wants to own the whole world — from the littlest flower to the vastest ocean.

Building on Jeffers’s earlier illustrated meditation on the absurdity of ownership, the story is evocative of The Little Prince (which I continue to consider one of the greatest works of philosophy) and its archetypal characters, through whom Saint-Exupéry conveys his soulful existential admonition — the king who tries to make the Sun his subject; the businessman who, blind to the beauty of the stars, is busy tallying them in order to own them.

Perhaps Jeffers is paying deliberate homage to the beloved classic — the first two objects of Fausto’s hunger for ownership are a flower and a sheep.

One by one, he demands the surrender of sovereignty from all that he comes upon. The flower, being delicate and choiceless, assents to being owned by Fausto. The sheep, being sheepish, puts up no objection. Threatened, the tree bows down before him. (Oh how William Blake would have winced.)

When the lake questions Fausto’s self-appointed authority, he throws a tantrum to show the lake “who’s boss,” and the lake surrenders.

But when the mountain, grounded in her autonomy, refuses to move, Fausto flies into a fit of fury so menacing that even the mountain breaks down and submits to being owned.

Restless with not-enoughness, not content to own the flower and the sheep and the tree and the lake and the mountain, Fausto usurps a boat and heads for the open sea.

Alone amid the blue expanse, he bellows his claim of ownership. But the sea is silent. Fausto yells louder still, unsure quite where to aim his fury, for the sea stretches in all directions.

Finally, the sea responds, calmly questioning how Fausto can wish to own her if he doesn’t even love her. Oh but he does, he does, the riled Fausto insists. The sea, in consonance with the great humanistic philosopher and psychologist Erich Fromm’s observation that “understanding and loving are inseparable,” tells Fausto that he couldn’t possibly love her if he doesn’t understand her.

Anxious to stake his claim, Fausto scolds the sea for being wrong, barks that he understands her deeply, then swiftly demands that she submit to his ownership or he will show her who’s boss.

“And how will you do that?” asks the sea. By making a fist and stamping his foot, Fausto replies. With her primordial wisdom, having witnessed human folly since the dawn of humanity, the sea invites Fausto to show her just how he plans to stamp his foot, so she can understand. And Fausto, “in order to show his anger and omnipotence,” perches overboard and aims his foot at the sea.

Swiftly, inevitably, the laws of physics and human hubris take hold of Fausto, who disappears into the fathomless sea — a sinking testament to Ursula K. Le Guin’s cautionary charge that unbridled anger “feeds off itself, destroying its host in the process.” (How fitting, too, that Jeffers should choose the world of water — one of his supreme fixations as an artist, subject of some of his most haunting conceptual paintings — as the arena on which this final existential battle between the human animal and its ego plays out.)

Jeffers’s subtle, powerful message emerges with the tidal force of elemental truth: When all is said and done and sunk and swallowed, there is only the realization at which Dostoyevsky arrived in his stark brush with death: that “life is a gift, life is happiness, each moment could have been an eternity of happiness,” had it been lived with a sympathetic love of the world.

The sea, Jeffers tells us, feels sorry for Fausto, but goes on being a sea, as the mountain does being a mountain.

And the lake and the forest,
the field and the tree,
the sheep and the flower,
carried on as before.

For the fate of Fausto
did not matter to them.

We are dropped safely ashore to contemplate the fundamental fact that our lives — along with all of our yearnings and fears, our most small-spirited grudges and most largehearted loves, our greatest achievements and deepest losses — will pass like the lives and loves and losses of everyone who has come before us and everyone who will come after. Temporary constellations of matter in an impartial universe of constant flux, we will come and go as living-dying testaments to Rachel Carson’s lyrical observation that “against this cosmic background the lifespan of a particular plant or animal appears, not as drama complete in itself, but only as a brief interlude in a panorama of endless change.” The measure of our lives — the worthiness or worthlessness of them — resides in the quality of being with which we inhabit the interlude.

Complexity

Do we understand?

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కవిత

వసంతం వచ్చింది
మల్లెలు రాలి పడ్డయి
ఏరుకోవడం చేతగాలేేదు
వసంతం ఎళ్ళిపోయింది
మల్లెలు వాడి పోయినయి

విమానం కరెంటుతీగెల్లో చిక్కుకున్నది
వసంతం వచ్చేందుకు ఇంకా చాలా రోజులున్నయి
వానలు పాతపాటలు రాక దగ్గుతున్నయి
నిమ్మకాయల వాడు పుచ్చుకొనమంటున్నడు
క్యాలెండర్ లో కళ్ళు ఎందుకు తెల్లబడినయి
ఖోకం, శ్లోకం, శ్లోకం, లోకం.. అన్ని పుల్లగున్నాయి

వసంతం వస్తుందా

Science for People

Science for People

Think for a while....

What do you make of it?
Does it make you think?
Does it scare you?
Is theer something ebhind this simple cartoon?

Some Photographs....

Spiti, India....

I feel bad that there is no time for photography....

One of these days I get back to it.

And make some good photos liek these above....

Mind you they are not made by me.....

Cartune....

Bapu, the inimitable....

A Telugu Cartoon translated by me.

With sincere apologies to Bapu....

No cheating meant please...

Just to share pleasure....

Science for People 1

Maa babu - Viswanatha

Viswanatha Satyanarayana is not an ordinary writer.
I hold him next to God, if there is any....
Otherwise he is god.....
Such an erudtion is not possible in a normal human being.

I read his novel 'Maa Babu' recently.
I am stuck the way he picked up a non Brahmin low class boy as the protagonist.
The way he imagined the story is mind blowing.

I remeber I cried after raeding Subbanna, a short novel of masti Venkatesha Iyengar.
I felt the same after redaing Ma a Babu.
A man can be good. But to be so good like people in theses two novels si impossible.

I wanted to translate novel for the benefit of non Telugu readers.
People do not react well to proposals these days.

Here is just a page from the novel.
Read it and decide what the total novel sounds like.

My sleep broke sometime in the night. Sheep were grazing in the field next. Shepherds dog was sleeping at my feet. Shepherd himself was asleep on the other side of the flock with his kambal around him. That was a dark night. Apart bleating of sheep now and then there was not much noise around. I could not sleep anymore. I started contemplating about my situation.

But for the shepherd, I would have died today! Why did that man take so much pity on me? It is common that people are kind towards others. But then why is it my brother’s uncle so cut up with me? May not be all of them but people are naturally kind hearted. They are naïve too. Shepherds are too very naïve. Not just that, but a large part of the kindness, the shepherd showed towards me was because our Babu’s name. That great man has helped, god knows to how many like this. I am one among them. This shepherd is another. Because of giving a big measure of paddy and a cloth to cover self with, this shepherd is unable to forget the gesture of our Babu. Would I forget the help our Babu rendered me by keeping me in his home for two or three years and treating me as the elder son handing over all the responsibilities? Would not forgetting amount to a virtue? What more could I do? No food to eat. No shelter to keep the head protected. I cannot avoid getting back early tomorrow morning. Wherever should I go? Could I narrate my tale to this shepherd? A man eking out life with ten sheep, what favor could he do  to me?  Could I tell him? No use telling. God is there above for everything.

Our Babu used to recite one poem. “God who arranges food for the frog in the stone, why would he abstain from doing the same to humans?” it meant. He is there above. I could give flesh from my body for the support our Babu gave me! Whom should I give now? He died and is there in the heaven. “Take care of children” he cautioned while dying. I deserted those kids and came away. That uncle would not allow me to be there. What else could I do apart coming away? What about the kids? There is enough agriculture. Four thousand cash is there. There is no need of my service to them. Their uncle is there to look after the matters. I am wandering like a bird sans direction. I don’t have father or mother. If I want to go to my uncle’s home, to my luck, he is also dead and gone. Going to my aunt’s house is a thing of dreams. I want to do something to pay back to our Babu.

On Microbes...

My article in Namaste Telangana Today.

Click on the image to see it big and read

Photos at Hrishikesh

( Click on the images to see them bigger)

Prof T R Subramanyam - RTP - Shanmukhapriya

Shravanam of RTP

The master of Pallavis sings a rare combination.

Prof T R Subramanyam

Ragam-Tanam-Pallavi in Shanmukhapriya -Khandatriputa

Enjoy music, don't store it!

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.

• By Harsimran Gill

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.