About Parties
When we started TWO LINES ten
years ago, we could only dream of something
as remote as the arrival of our tenth
anniversary. And yet here it is. Not
only has TWO LINES survived
and thrived, but it has spawned its
own parent organization, the Center
for the Art of Translation, a bustling
non-profit that promotes the craft
of translation through several innovative
programs. CAT's extensive Bilingual
Readings Series and vibrant education
program, Poetry Inside Out, together
with its continued promotion and expansion
of TWO LINES (watch for two issues
next year) have touched thousands of
lives and garnered great reviews in
both the local and national press,
giving our tenth anniversary festivities
an added glow.
But anniversaries and parties don't
always come along at the most opportune
moments. It can be difficult to celebrate
at a time in history when being a member
of a party can mark you as a conspirator
or accomplice, can condemn you to oppression
and even death; when the happenstance
of your place of birth can make you
party to actions or policies you may
deeply oppose--and yet may feel responsible
for.
Still, the beauty of anniversaries
is that they come along anyway, reminding
us that even in dark moments we must
take time to celebrate life. It is
particularly appropriate that this
tenth anniversary issue of TWO
LINES should come along just
now, because it both reminds us of
the myriad ways in which we celebrate
and congregate the world over, and
cautions us that many parties--whether
deliberately chosen, stumbled upon,
or joined haphazardly--can be sources
of anxiety and alienation, of destruction,
and even death.
What amazes us about this issue is
that the translations seem to interact
with one another like strangers thrown
together at a party, some managing
to find common ground, others breaking
into heated argument. Thus we find
the Uruguayan poet of one translation
(a joyful reverie written from a dugout
canoe) paddling the same rivers as
the Colombian novelist who has trapped
his characters in a drug-infused nightmare
straight from the heart of darkness.
We see two Chinese poets reflecting
on traditional festivals--the 12th-century
poet looking longingly to the past,
the 20th-century poet looking ahead
with cautious optimism, even in the
shadow of Tiananmen Square. We watch
three Polish workers in Vienna using
pastries as bribes to ensure their
survival, while in another piece an
Armenian in a Russian prison survives
by transforming a little moldy bread
into a party. We follow both a poor
Chinese girl as she runs around her
city preparing for New Year's Eve,
becoming enchanted by cheap paper greetings,
and a sensitive boy strolling through
his Polish town finding magic in every
shop, in the fragrances of spices and
the workings of clocks. We see parties
twist and turn upon themselves--two
Russian poets show parties becoming
dangerous, a Norwegian poet watches
American TV with dread for the new
year. We encounter a poet in London
writing in German about a slain American
hero and the shadow of the Holocaust;
a Senegalese girl painfully coming
of age; the residents of an Argentine
town on an unforgettable journey.
And, of course, we find parties and
celebrations:
among Uzbek women poets of the 19th
century, the Berbers of Morocco, the
irreverent attendees of a Baja California
wake, guests at a Swedish ball, an
Italian poet in the dead of winter
and another in the trenches of World
War I, a troubadour at court in Provence,
a Bulgarian man who spends his life
trying to buy some cheese, a Finnish
poet visiting Bosnia, a Spanish painter
writing in France.
And now we welcome you here: please,
join the party.
