Note
7 October 2008
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(Bemerkung: Auf den Anfang einer deutschen Übersetzung des Romans, nur als eine Art Sprachübung durchgeführt, kann man unten rechts zugreifen. Das Kapitel, das zur Zeit übersetzte wird, befindet sich unten.)
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(Note: The beginning of a German translation of the novel, done purely as a kind of language exercise, is available by selecting the appropriate link to the right. The chapter that is currently being translated is below. The first chapter of the English version follows, and the entire English version is available through the links on the right side of this page.)
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Teil 1, Kapitel 8
„Auch habe ich viel geträumt von dem Modell, wovon ich so lange rede, woran ich so gern anschaulich machen möchte, was in meinem Innern herumzieht….“
–Goethe
Italienische Reise
Das Studentenwohnheim, wo David wohnte, wurde Thayer Hall genannt, und es war eins der neueren Gebäude in Harvard Yard, dem ursprünglichen Zentrum des Hochschulgeländes, da Thayer im neunzehnten Jahrhundert gebaut wurde. Ihm wurde eine Suite von zwei Zimmern zugewiesen, die er mit einem Zimmergenossen teilte. Diese Zimmer waren spartanisch: ein Sofa mit ein paar Schreibtischen, Betten, und Stühlen; die Wände waren teils verputzt, teils holzgetäfelt, und teils aus freigelegtem Backstein gebaut.
Während der ersten paar Wochen teilte David diese Zimmer mit einem Harvard-Studenten, der — unter all den Studenten, die er in vier Jahren an der Uni traf — am bestürzendsten war. Sein Name war Bowers, und er und David hätten nicht verschiedener sein können, wenn sie versucht hätten, das zu sein. Bowers schien – fast durch seine Existenz allein – alles zu verleugnen, an das David glaubte, alles, was David war. Vielleicht war das der Grund dazu, dass David und Bowers dieselben Zimmer zugewiesen wurden. So etwas passiert oft in Harvard. Oder vielleicht waren David und Bowers alle beide so seltsam – obwohl auf unterschiedliche Arten – dass niemand wusste, wo sonst noch sie unterzubringen. Egal aber der Grund zu dieser Entscheidung, die Idee, dass zwei Menschen wie David und Bowers eigentlich zusammenleben könnten, war zum Scheitern verurteilt, von Anfang an, genau von dem Moment, wo sie im Gehirn eines namenlosen Universitätsbürokraten gestaltet wurde.
(Fortsetzung folgt.)
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“My dear friend,” he said, “there is no reason to be surprised, or to feel deceived. It often happens that the autobiographical element in a novel is not the narrator at all, but the character the narrator is describing.”
— Nils Sondergaard, In an Unknown Country
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The first chapter of the novel is printed below. Links to the other chapters are listed at the right.
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Part 1, Chapter 1
Forsitan et haec olim meminisse juvabit….
–Vergilius
Aeneidos
One day even these things may be pleasant to remember….
–Virgil
Aeneid
He wouldn’t expect you to believe a story like this could really happen. Sometimes he couldn’t believe it himself. Much of it he had to force himself to remember; much of it he wasn’t very proud of. The thing is, though, he felt his life would really have no meaning if he didn’t at least try to leave some record of it, no matter how clumsy and awkward that record might be. And no matter how frightened he might be at the telling of it.
The story is about a boy, a young man at Harvard, one who had the face of an innocent — bright, open, but sometimes puzzled and hurt. He was full of energy and ideals and an adolescent love for everything he had learned about the life of the mind. Of course he thought he knew a little about the pain and ugliness of life too, but he was almost convinced all that was relatively unimportant. He believed he only had to push it out of his mind. Evil existed in the world — he knew that. But as far as he was concerned, evil was just something he could avoid, something he didn’t really have to worry about, something that would never affect him.
When he was first at Harvard, what he was most aware of was the kind of professor whose lectures seemed to resonate with greatness — at least for him. Those same professors, though, could cause him a strange kind of pain and embarrassment, because of the self-important, mocking, and condescending way some of them spoke about the great writers and poets of English literature. When they did that, they aroused in him an odd sense of humiliation on behalf of those long dead, those who were being so elegantly ridiculed.
So this young man, because he had a great deal of adolescent pride, swore to himself, at some deep level of his mind and without really understanding what he was doing, that no one would ever scrutinize his writings with that unsympathetic air of superiority. There would be, he promised himself, no writings to scrutinize.
Later, though, he came to understand that he had to write at least his own story, and hope that others would read it with as much sympathy and understanding as possible. He hoped they would be able to overlook the way he expressed himself, the only way he could express himself, with everything encoded in dullness and stupidity. He thought these qualities would protect him from the notice of anyone who might laugh at what he had to say. He was always so proud that he never stopped worrying about things like that.
He hoped that some would try to see beyond the code, that they would feel it was worth the trouble. If once in a while they couldn’t help laughing at him, though, he would understand. He was still proud, but he could at least laugh at himself.
