Occupy 'Switch to Summer Time'!

"Ever since summer time had been inaugurated a few years before, it had been one of the chronic dispensions of Tilling. Miss Mapp, Diva and the Padre flatly refused to recognize it, except when they were going by train or tram, when principle must necessarily go to the wall, or they would never have succeeded in getting anywhere, while Miss Mapp, with the halo of martyrdom round her head, had once arrived at a summer-time party an hour late, in order to bear witness to the truth, and in consequence, had got only dregs of tea and the last faint strawberries. But the Major and Captain Puffin used the tram so often, that they had fallen into the degrading habit of dislocating their clocks and watches on the first of May, and dislocating them again in the autumn, when they were forced into uniformity with properly-minded people. Irene was flippant on the subject, and said that any old time would do for her. The Poppits followed convention, and Mrs. Poppit, in naming the hour for a party to the stalwarts, wrote "4:30 (your 3.30)." The King, after all, had invited her to be decorated at a particular hour, summer time, and what was good enough for the King was good enough for Mrs. Poppit.
The sermon was quite uncompromising. There was summer and winter, by Divine ordinance, but there was nothing said about summer time and winter time. There was but one Time, (...)
The doctrine was so much to her mind that Miss Mapp gave a shilling to the offectory instead of her usual sixpence, (...) The Padre, it is true, had changed the hour of services to suit the heresy of the majority, and this for a moment made her hand falter. But the hope, after this convincing sermon, that next year morning service would be at the hour falsely called twelve decided her not to withdraw this handsome contribution.

E.F.Benson  Miss Mapp

Lost in Translation

I saw this film together with my son in London – and though I was well entertained I have forgotten the whole story. But the title fascinates me, because it is such a wonderful description of what can happens by translation.

And I am NOT speaking of the hilarious grotesque translations by Google or other ‘computer translation’ machines (when son was younger we gave in a long part of “Freude, schöner Götterfunken” – the machine translated it into a sort of English-muddle – funny! – then we let it be translated back by the machine to a sort of – er – German? Viking language? – hilarious!! – and then we put it into the ‘translator’ again – after that you could not identify a single word!

I am not able to read Swedish, so I let the Google translator ‘translate’ one blog for me – it is almost unreadable! (I will give you a piece of that nonsense on a rainy day - to amuse you).

That’s why I translate my own texts myself – knowing well that I stumble through your vocabulary and grammar like a fool – and no translator in his/her right mind will translate into another language than his mother tongue. I only do it here quite unprofessionally because I hope you will wipe the tears of laughter away and understand what I wanted to say – at least and hopefully better than Google would babble it for me.

But this time I want to show you something else.

Susan from’Prufrock’s Dilemma’ showed us the wonderful poems of Wislawa Szymborska – and off went Yours Truly to buy a German book of Szymborska’s poems.

When I read them, I was shocked. The melody, the poetic tenderness, even a bit of the content of Czeslaw Milosz’ great translation seemed to be gone or distorted in the German translation. Lost in translation.

I will do something now that I hope will not be misunderstood.

I translate the German version of a poem one by one – to show you how a BAD translation can destroy a poem. A bad translator even might use a correct German word for a Polish word - but a good translator must be able to be a poet himself, not a robot.

I want to be very clear about that: my translation is only there to show you how bad the official German translation is!

First Czeslaw Milosz's wonderful translation: 

(...)

In a drop of ink there are quite a few 

hunters squinting one eye, 

ready to rush down a vertical pen, 

to encicle the deer, to take aim. 

They forget that this is not life here. 

Other laws rule here, in black and white. 

An instant will last as I desire 

(...)

The German translator wrote: 

(...)

Der Tropfen Tinte hat einen ziemlichen Vorrat 

an Jägern mit Späheraugen, 

bereit, die steile Feder hinabzustürzen, 

in Anschlag zu gehen, das Reh zu stellen. 

Sie vergessen, hier gibt es kein Leben. 

Hier herrschen andre Gesetze, schwarz auf weiß. 

Hier dauert jeder Moment so lange, wie ich es will, 

(...)

  which is, one to one, translated back: 

(...)

The drop of ink has (!!, not even holds!!) a fairly stock

Of hunters with scouts’ eyes,

Ready to come rushing down the steeply pen,

To go into weapon at the ready, to catch the deer,

They forget: here is no life. (literally!!)

Here other laws rule, in black and white,

Here each moment lasts as long as I want, 

(...) 

Q.e.d. 

Where We Live

Now spring is coming! Overnight 20° C, and we can sit outside a café at the Viktoria-Luise-Platz, drink cappuccino and watch people. 

The cranes flew over our house – and I am reassured. They do that every year, in Hildesheim, in Hamburg, and now in Berlin: always directly over our house, and when I hear their strange cries early in the morning I run outside or on the balcony and try to take a picture of them – mostly a row of tiny dots on their way north.

A further indicator for spring: the gardeners at the Viktoria-Luise-Platz, which is just around the corner, plant the curved beds with pansies – no ‘love-in-the-idleness’ but a lot of hard work, because the ‘Ornamental Square’, as they were called then, is huge. 

Georg Haberland, who planned the Bavarian Quarter (where we live) in one draft, put out for tender a competition for the design of the square, which the Royal Horticultaral Director, Fritz Encke (1861 – 1931) won.

The square – rather uncommon – is an elongated hexagonal, where six small streets flow in, but by the planting you get the impression that it is oval. In the middle a big fountain, at the west side arcade-like colonnades (nowadays they put a large sandbox in the middle of it)

and on the other side the entry of the U4. This underground was hotly discussed even at its opening in 1910: it serves only four stations from Innsbrucker Platz to Nollendorf Platz – a subway only for the Rich? 

At least the square offered a compensation: different from others at that time it was not only for representation, but had many benches for recreation – and today even the lawns are well used. Yesterday at lunchtime a lot of young people lay on the grass (and in the back of my head my mother started to warn that one should never lay on grass in months with an “R” inside – not MaRch, not ApRil – earliest: May :-).

The initiation of the Viktoria Luise Platz in 1900 was a big social event and Haverland splurged several thousand electric bulbs (in the rest of Berlin they still sat in dim gaslight), and in the evening the fountain shone in splendour as “fountaine lumineuse.” Haberland wrote:

“Till this day I see old Mr. Ludwig Pietsch before my inner eye, on each knee a laughing young girl. Half an hour after midnight I ordered to shut off the lights so that the atmosphere wouldn’t become too jolly.”

But that is what I wish for us all: a very jolly spring!

'To Live Like a Crown Prince in Prussia' or: Friedrich II - a case for CPS?

Nowadays we can assume with certainty that a social worker from the Child Protective Services would stand on the steps of Castle King’s Wusterhausen, where Frederic II grew up. Accusingly she would hold up a letter in which the father, King Friedrich Wilhelm, himself had written down the daily routine for his nine year old son, and she might threaten to take away the child.
Which would have been better, anyhow.

The ‚Soldier King‘ was really delighted when at the 24^th January 1712 Friedrich was born: finally a heir to the throne, (both sons born before died as babies).

But very soon he finds out that his son was not, as the King himself had said, „a sort of human dough which can be moulded as one wants.” 

The father loves discipline, frugality, military and hunting – his artistically inclined, delicate son soon is hated by the authoritarian, choleric and iracible absolutistic despot, who tries to exorcise Friedrich’s „effeminate conduct“ by all means. Sleep, he is convinced, makes children stupid, that’s why the night rest is shortened.

Here – cited but abridged – an original letter by the King dictating the daily routine for the nine year old crown prince:

Regulations, how my oldest son Friedrich should do his studies in Wusterhausen. Wusterhausen, 3rd September 1721

 (…) On Monday He should be waked and (…) should be admonished so that He, instead of resting or turning around again in bed, quickly and instantly gets up, and then He must kneel down and give a little prayer (about 20 minutes, Britta) as on Sunday morning. As soon as he has done that He should get into his clothes as quick as possible, also wash his face and hands, but not with soap, further He should dress, comb his hair and put it into a plait, but not let it be powdered. While he lets himself get combed (…) he should at the same time drink his tea and eat breakfast so that it is One work at once, and He has to be ready with all that before half past six.”

Then he was taught in Bible reading, History, Christendom, Map, Moral, and German letters.

„At five o’clock p.m. He should wash his hands and go to the King, ride out, diverting himself in fresh air and not in the chamber and do what He wants, so long as it is not against God.”

On Tuesday fencing is added to the curriculum, also letter writing and arithmetics, Wednesday only history „to strengthen memory“, Thursday as Monday, but instead of German letter writing French and arithmetic, Saturday “everything will be repeated what He has learned in the whole week (…) to see if He has profited, then the afternoon is for Fritzen, but if He has not profited, He should repeat everything He had forgotten between two to six o’clock.

You should get him used to dress as quickly as a human being can. You should also teach him that he does the dressing himself and that He becomes proper and tidy, and not so dirty.”

On Sunday poor little Fritz is allowed to rise at 7 a.m. – but has to hurry to dress, wash, comb, powder and pray in a quarter of an hour.

“Then He should breakfast in seven minutes time.”

Well, you could say, that is a tough curriculum – but why the CPS?

Friedrich is often beaten, when twelve years old the father gives his son slaps in the face in public; often he gets confinement to his room with bread and water, and Friedrich writes, how his father e.g. gets berserk about a lesson in Latin („Papa, I decline mensa, ae“)and yelled at the teacher:

“Oh, you villain, Latin for my son! Get out of my sight!” and he gave him a beating and kicks (…) Scared by the blows and by the furious look on my father’s face, I hid under the table, stiff with fright, (…). I saw my father after the accomplished throw-out come after me – I shake even more, he grips me at my hair, pulls me from under the table, drags me into the middle of the room and finally gives me some boxes on the ears: “Come again with your mensa and you will see how I’ll set your head straight!”

                “Books, flute, documents – when he caught them they were thrown into the fireplace, and always the burning of my books was accompanied by strokes or very insistent rebukes.”

But it should get even worse.  

(all quotes from „Allergnädigster Vater“, editor Frank Schumann, Berlin 1968, translated by me)

Spring Cleaning

A few days before I got a call: an interview by a press agency. The wanted some advice about spring cleaning and similar household questions.

You might know that I have written a book HomeBasics, which is in the fourth edition now and sells well. So I am an “expert”. But what shall I say to spring cleaning?

If you follow a certain routine, it just isn’t necessary any more, I think. It was very valuable when they heated with coal and the walls were covered with a film of soot – but nowadays?

Of course one can do a few things like getting the upholstered furniture cleaned or rummaging through your wardrobe (the journalist liked my tip to take a picture from your clothes before putting them away - after you have washed them or fetched them from the dry-cleaner, and before putting some mothproofing inside the containers). I have those pictures on my computer now, because last year – errm – I bought 3 (three!) white jackets in spring – and then came Husband and brought me the boxes I stored in our house in Hildesheim – and inside I found – errm – some more white jackets – I had forgotten that I owned them… That will never happen again!

(Now I look into my computer, let’s say in February – and discover that I have ONLY 4 white jackets, so I hurry to the KaDeWe J No, of course that is nonsense: at the moment I try to manage my wardrobe so that I wear most  items often.)

I am really interested: do you do any special spring cleaning?