« Qui suis-je? Si par exception je m’en rapportais à un adage : en effet pourquoi tout ne reviendrait-il pas à savoir qui je « hante »? Je dois avouer que ce dernier mot m’égare, tendant à établir entre certains êtres et moi des rapports plus singuliers, moins évitables, plus troublants que je ne pensais. Il dit beaucoup plus qu’il ne veut dire, il me fait jouer de mon vivant le rôle d’un fantôme, évidemment il fait allusion à ce qu’il a fallu que je cessasse d’être, pour être qui je suis. Pris d’une manière à peine abusive dans cette acception, il me donne à entendre que ce que je tiens pour les manifestations objectives de mon existence, manifestations plus ou moins délibérées, n’est que ce qui passe, dans les limites de cette vie, d’une activité dont le champ véritable m’est tout à fait inconnu. La représentation que j’ai du « fantôme » avec ce qu’il offre de conventionnel aussi bien dans son aspect que dans son aveugle soumission à certaines contingences d’heure et de lieu, vaut avant tout, pour moi, comme image finie d’un tourment qui peut être éternel. Il se peut que ma vie ne soit qu’une image de ce genre, et que je sois condamné à revenir sur mes pas tout en croyant que j’explore, à essayer de connaître ce que je devrais fort bien reconnaître, à apprendre une faible partie de ce que j’ai oublié. Cette vue sur moi-même ne me paraît fausse qu’autant qu’elle me presuppose à moi-même, qu’elle situe arbitrairement sur un plan d’antériorité une figure achevée de ma pensée qui n’a aucune raison de composer avec le temps, qu’elle implique dans ce même temps une idée de perte irréparable, de pénitence ou de chute dont le manque de fondement moral ne saurait, à mon sens, souffrir aucune discussion. L’important est que les aptitudes particulières que je me découvre lentement ici-bas ne me distraient en rien de la recherche d’une aptitude générale, qui me serait propre et ne m’est pas donnée. Par-delà toutes sortes de goûts que je me connais, d’affinités que je me sens, d’attirances que je subis, d’événements qui m’arrivent et n’arrivent qu’à moi, par-delà quantité de mouvements que je me vois faire, d’émotions que je suis seul à éprouver, je m’efforce, par rapport aux autres hommes, de savoir en quoi consiste, sinon à quoi tient, ma différenciation. N’est-ce pas dans la mesure exacte où je prendrai conscience de cette différenciation que je me révélerai ce qu’entre tous les autres je suis venu faire en ce monde et de quel message unique je suis porteur pour ne pouvoir répondre de son sort que sur ma tête? »
Amazing. I’m comparing the translations by going back and forth, but I keep finding myself absorbed in the tones of whichever one I am reading. Translations are worlds unto themselves.
Ah, you give me too much credit. I peeked at the end, as the story demanded of me, but I am still making my way slowly through Massive Massive Oil Slick (which really just means I am enjoying it).
You also seem to have just the right degree of confidence/non-confidence in my French!
For those who desire the English (from the link you so generously offered):
"Who am I? If this once I were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I "haunt." I must admit that this last word is misleading, tending to establish between certain beings and myself relations that are stranger, more inescapable, more disturbing than I intended. Such a word means much more than it says, makes, me, still alive, play a ghostly part, evidently referring to what I must have ceased to be in order to be who I am. Hardly distorted in this sense, the word suggests that what I regard as the objective, more or less deliberate manifestations of my existence are merely the premises, within the limits of this existence, of an activity whose true extent is quite unknown to me. My image of the "ghost," including everything conventional about its appearance as well as its blind submission to certain contingencies of time and place, is particularly significant for me as the finite representation of a torment that may be eternal. Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten. This sense of myself seems inadequate only insofar as it presupposes myself, arbitrarily preferring a completed image of my mind as it imples Within this same time—an idea of irreparable loss, of punishment, of a fall whose lack of moral basis is, as I see it, indisputable. What matters is that the particular aptitudes my day-to-day life gradually reveals should not distract me from my search for a general aptitude which would be peculiar to me and which is not innate. Over and above the various prejudices I acknowledge, the affinities I feel, the attractions I succumb to, the events which occur to me and to me alone—over and above a sum of movements I am conscious of making, of emotions I alone experience-I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them. Is it not precisely to the degree I become conscious of this difference that I shall recognize what I alone have been put on this earth to do, what unique message I alone may bear, so that I alone can answer for its fate?" — André Breton, from the opening passage of Nadja, translated by Richard Howard.
Meanwhile, I've been thinking about translation and this only excites those questions.
Well, here's another interesting thing then: a new translation of /Nadja/ has just been published, including an amount of recently surfaced information about who she actually was. You can read the full introduction and some pages on Google Books:
Concerning the translation, Mark Polizzotti writes:
The previous English translation of /Nadja/, by Richard Howard, was first published in English in 1960 and has been in print ever since. So why another one? Howard was a poet above all, and his translation contains many beautiful wordings, some of which I’ve retained when I didn’t feel they could be bettered. Still, despite my great respect for his work, I find that his version of /Nadja/ contains a surprising number of mistranslations and misreadings. On top of which, his language often strikes me as more convoluted that necessary. Breton was a complex stylist—the term he used for his sentences and thinking was “serpentine”—but he also had a message to convey. While endeavoring to preserve the sinuosity of Breton’s phrasings, I’ve also labored to make them, and his overall intention in /Nadja/, more comprehensible in English than has been the case.
(Mark Polizzotti, in the introduction to his translation of Nadja, NYRB 2025)
And here is his rendering of the opening section:
WHO AM I? If for once I were to fall back on a proverb—then why shouldn’t everything come down to knowing whom I “haunt”? I admit that this last word baffles me, as it seems to establish between certain individuals and myself relations that are more singular, inevitable, and disturbing than I’d realized. It says much more than it intends, makes me play the part of a ghost while I’m still alive; it naturally alludes to what I had to stop being, in order to become /who/ I am. Taken in an only slightly aberrant sense, it makes me understand that what I consider the objective, and more or less deliberate, manifestations of my existence in fact derive—within the confines of this life—from an activity whose true scope is utterly unknown to me. My conception of “ghosts,” its conventionality in both appearance and blind submission to certain contingencies of time and place is, to my mind, mainly worthwhile as the finite image of a potentially eternal torment. It’s possible that my life is but an image of this type, and that I am doomed to retrace my steps, all the while believing I’m moving forward; doomed to try to know what I should already recognize, to relearn a tiny portion of what I’ve forgotten. This view of myself seems false only insofar as it /presupposes/ me, arbitrarily placing in the past a former way of thinking that shouldn’t be subject to time and implying—in this same time—a sense of irreparable loss, of penitence or fall, whose lack of moral validity I consider beyond question. What matters most is that the specific aptitudes I’ve gradually discovered in myself should not distract me from seeking a more general aptitude, one that would be mine alone and is not inherent. Beyond any preferences I recognize I have, affinities I feel, attractions I suffer, events that happen to me and only to me; beyond any number of actions I see myself committing, emotions I’m alone in experiencing—beyond these, I endeavor to know what my difference vis-à-vis others consists of, if not what it stems from. Isn’t it precisely to the degree that I realize this difference that I will discover what I, and I alone, have come into this world to accomplish, what unique message I’m bearing, for whose fate I am solely responsible?
Hey Sal, I see you've finished MMOS! :-)
« Qui suis-je? Si par exception je m’en rapportais à un adage : en effet pourquoi tout ne reviendrait-il pas à savoir qui je « hante »? Je dois avouer que ce dernier mot m’égare, tendant à établir entre certains êtres et moi des rapports plus singuliers, moins évitables, plus troublants que je ne pensais. Il dit beaucoup plus qu’il ne veut dire, il me fait jouer de mon vivant le rôle d’un fantôme, évidemment il fait allusion à ce qu’il a fallu que je cessasse d’être, pour être qui je suis. Pris d’une manière à peine abusive dans cette acception, il me donne à entendre que ce que je tiens pour les manifestations objectives de mon existence, manifestations plus ou moins délibérées, n’est que ce qui passe, dans les limites de cette vie, d’une activité dont le champ véritable m’est tout à fait inconnu. La représentation que j’ai du « fantôme » avec ce qu’il offre de conventionnel aussi bien dans son aspect que dans son aveugle soumission à certaines contingences d’heure et de lieu, vaut avant tout, pour moi, comme image finie d’un tourment qui peut être éternel. Il se peut que ma vie ne soit qu’une image de ce genre, et que je sois condamné à revenir sur mes pas tout en croyant que j’explore, à essayer de connaître ce que je devrais fort bien reconnaître, à apprendre une faible partie de ce que j’ai oublié. Cette vue sur moi-même ne me paraît fausse qu’autant qu’elle me presuppose à moi-même, qu’elle situe arbitrairement sur un plan d’antériorité une figure achevée de ma pensée qui n’a aucune raison de composer avec le temps, qu’elle implique dans ce même temps une idée de perte irréparable, de pénitence ou de chute dont le manque de fondement moral ne saurait, à mon sens, souffrir aucune discussion. L’important est que les aptitudes particulières que je me découvre lentement ici-bas ne me distraient en rien de la recherche d’une aptitude générale, qui me serait propre et ne m’est pas donnée. Par-delà toutes sortes de goûts que je me connais, d’affinités que je me sens, d’attirances que je subis, d’événements qui m’arrivent et n’arrivent qu’à moi, par-delà quantité de mouvements que je me vois faire, d’émotions que je suis seul à éprouver, je m’efforce, par rapport aux autres hommes, de savoir en quoi consiste, sinon à quoi tient, ma différenciation. N’est-ce pas dans la mesure exacte où je prendrai conscience de cette différenciation que je me révélerai ce qu’entre tous les autres je suis venu faire en ce monde et de quel message unique je suis porteur pour ne pouvoir répondre de son sort que sur ma tête? »
https://monoskop.org/images/2/2e/Breton_Andre_Nadja_1960_EN.pdf
Amazing. I’m comparing the translations by going back and forth, but I keep finding myself absorbed in the tones of whichever one I am reading. Translations are worlds unto themselves.
Ah, you give me too much credit. I peeked at the end, as the story demanded of me, but I am still making my way slowly through Massive Massive Oil Slick (which really just means I am enjoying it).
You also seem to have just the right degree of confidence/non-confidence in my French!
For those who desire the English (from the link you so generously offered):
"Who am I? If this once I were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I "haunt." I must admit that this last word is misleading, tending to establish between certain beings and myself relations that are stranger, more inescapable, more disturbing than I intended. Such a word means much more than it says, makes, me, still alive, play a ghostly part, evidently referring to what I must have ceased to be in order to be who I am. Hardly distorted in this sense, the word suggests that what I regard as the objective, more or less deliberate manifestations of my existence are merely the premises, within the limits of this existence, of an activity whose true extent is quite unknown to me. My image of the "ghost," including everything conventional about its appearance as well as its blind submission to certain contingencies of time and place, is particularly significant for me as the finite representation of a torment that may be eternal. Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten. This sense of myself seems inadequate only insofar as it presupposes myself, arbitrarily preferring a completed image of my mind as it imples Within this same time—an idea of irreparable loss, of punishment, of a fall whose lack of moral basis is, as I see it, indisputable. What matters is that the particular aptitudes my day-to-day life gradually reveals should not distract me from my search for a general aptitude which would be peculiar to me and which is not innate. Over and above the various prejudices I acknowledge, the affinities I feel, the attractions I succumb to, the events which occur to me and to me alone—over and above a sum of movements I am conscious of making, of emotions I alone experience-I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them. Is it not precisely to the degree I become conscious of this difference that I shall recognize what I alone have been put on this earth to do, what unique message I alone may bear, so that I alone can answer for its fate?" — André Breton, from the opening passage of Nadja, translated by Richard Howard.
Meanwhile, I've been thinking about translation and this only excites those questions.
Well, here's another interesting thing then: a new translation of /Nadja/ has just been published, including an amount of recently surfaced information about who she actually was. You can read the full introduction and some pages on Google Books:
https://books.google.de/books?id=czwyEQAAQBAJ
Concerning the translation, Mark Polizzotti writes:
The previous English translation of /Nadja/, by Richard Howard, was first published in English in 1960 and has been in print ever since. So why another one? Howard was a poet above all, and his translation contains many beautiful wordings, some of which I’ve retained when I didn’t feel they could be bettered. Still, despite my great respect for his work, I find that his version of /Nadja/ contains a surprising number of mistranslations and misreadings. On top of which, his language often strikes me as more convoluted that necessary. Breton was a complex stylist—the term he used for his sentences and thinking was “serpentine”—but he also had a message to convey. While endeavoring to preserve the sinuosity of Breton’s phrasings, I’ve also labored to make them, and his overall intention in /Nadja/, more comprehensible in English than has been the case.
(Mark Polizzotti, in the introduction to his translation of Nadja, NYRB 2025)
And here is his rendering of the opening section:
WHO AM I? If for once I were to fall back on a proverb—then why shouldn’t everything come down to knowing whom I “haunt”? I admit that this last word baffles me, as it seems to establish between certain individuals and myself relations that are more singular, inevitable, and disturbing than I’d realized. It says much more than it intends, makes me play the part of a ghost while I’m still alive; it naturally alludes to what I had to stop being, in order to become /who/ I am. Taken in an only slightly aberrant sense, it makes me understand that what I consider the objective, and more or less deliberate, manifestations of my existence in fact derive—within the confines of this life—from an activity whose true scope is utterly unknown to me. My conception of “ghosts,” its conventionality in both appearance and blind submission to certain contingencies of time and place is, to my mind, mainly worthwhile as the finite image of a potentially eternal torment. It’s possible that my life is but an image of this type, and that I am doomed to retrace my steps, all the while believing I’m moving forward; doomed to try to know what I should already recognize, to relearn a tiny portion of what I’ve forgotten. This view of myself seems false only insofar as it /presupposes/ me, arbitrarily placing in the past a former way of thinking that shouldn’t be subject to time and implying—in this same time—a sense of irreparable loss, of penitence or fall, whose lack of moral validity I consider beyond question. What matters most is that the specific aptitudes I’ve gradually discovered in myself should not distract me from seeking a more general aptitude, one that would be mine alone and is not inherent. Beyond any preferences I recognize I have, affinities I feel, attractions I suffer, events that happen to me and only to me; beyond any number of actions I see myself committing, emotions I’m alone in experiencing—beyond these, I endeavor to know what my difference vis-à-vis others consists of, if not what it stems from. Isn’t it precisely to the degree that I realize this difference that I will discover what I, and I alone, have come into this world to accomplish, what unique message I’m bearing, for whose fate I am solely responsible?