It was always a mystery to me why the churches of Ireland were filled with women, and empty of men. I looked up at the crucifix and thought it was a bizarre thing for women to worship a man in a church run by men. As far as I was concerned being a Catholic was silly, and being a Jew meant so much more washing-up. What all religions do, however, is what most political systems fail to do — they prize and praise the figure of the mother.
She is the machine, the hidden power. She is the ideal, the revered one, the truly loved. Which makes up, in a way, for being skipped in shop queues and looking like a heap.
And more. On the third night of my child’s life I looked into her eyes and realised that nothing I believed could explain this. It was an embarrassing moment. I think I saw her soul. I suffered from the conviction that a part of her was ancient; and that part chose to be there with me at the beginning of something new. I had a wise child.
Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night, and at the beginning of the night, and at dawn — so precious — I found myself shrinking in the face of her vast and unknowable future. How would she turn out? What would she do? When would she die? Not for many, many years, I hoped; not for the longest time. The mechanisms of fate, the grinding of her days that would lead to one end or another, became urgently opaque to me. There were a thousand things that could hurt this child, or even estrange her from me. What could I do? Nothing. My best.
These are all feelings that religion understands.
I had, I thought, become human in a different and perhaps more radical way. I had let something slip into the stream of time. What else can you do, but trust the river — put it all into the hands of a higher power?
Oh, all right.
And who else, but the suffering Christ, could know the suffering that motherhood brings?
Actually, I will resist the tug of it, if you don’t mind. Still, I will resist.
Anne Enright, ‘God’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 111-12.
***
Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult. Think about it. When you join a cult you are undernourished, you are denied sleep, you are forced to do repetitive and pointless tasks at random hours of the day and night, then you stare deep into your despotic leader’s eyes, repeating meaningless phrases, or mantras, like Ooh da gorgeous. Yes, you are! Cult members, like parents, are overwhelmed by spiritual feelings and often burst into tears. Cult members, like parents, spout nonsense with a happy, blank look in their eyes. They know they’re sort of mad, but they can’t help it. They call it love.
From ‘Baby-Talk’ in Anne Enright, Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 138.
Vedno se mi je zdelo skrivnostno, zakaj je v cerkvah na Irskem polno žensk, moških pa ni. Ozrla sem se k razpelu in pomislila, kako bizarno je, da ženske častijo moškega v cerkvi, ki jo vodijo moški. Katolištvo se mi je zdelo trapasto, judovstvo pa je zahtevalo še toliko več pomivanja. Vsem veram pa je skupno to, da delajo, kar večini političnih sistemov spodleti – cenijo in slavijo lik matere.
Mati je stroj, skrita sila. Mati je ideal, tista, ki jo častijo in ki jo resnično ljubijo. Kar na nek način odtehta to, da jo v vrsti pred blagajno preskočijo in da je videti kot strašilo.
In ne samo to. Tretjo noč hčerinega življenja sem se ji zazrla v oči in ugotovila, da tega ne more pojasniti nič, v kar verjamem. Nerodno mi je postalo. Mislim, da sem videla njeno dušo. Mučilo me je prepričanje, da je del nje starodaven; in ta del se je odločil, da bo tukaj z mano na začetku nečesa novega. Imela sem modrega otroka.
Ko sem jo iz bolnišnice nosila v hrup prometa; ko sem jo domov peljala v drugi prestavi; ko sem jo hranila sredi noči in na začetku noči in ob zori – neprecenljivo –, sem postajala vse manjša pred njeno prostrano in nedoumljivo prihodnostjo. Kakšna bo postala? Kaj bo počela? Kdaj bo umrla? Še mnogo, mnogo let ne, sem upala; še zelo dolgo ne. Mehanizmi usode, premlevanje dni, ki bodo vodili k temu ali onemu koncu, so zame postali nepogrešljivo megleni. Obstajalo je tisoč stvari, ki bi lahko ranile tega otroka ali mi ga celo odtujile. Kaj pa bi lahko naredila? Nič. Lahko dam samo vse od sebe.
Vse to so občutki, ki jih vera razume.
Mislila sem, da sem postala človek na drugačen, morda na skrajnejši način. Pustila sem, da nekaj zdrsne v tok časa. Kaj drugega pa lahko storiš, kot da zaupaš reki – vse prepustiš rokam višje sile?
No, prav.
In kdo drug, razen trpečega Kristusa, bi lahko poznal trpljenje, ki ga prinese materinstvo?
Pravzaprav se bom uprla toku, če nimate nič proti. Še vedno se bom upirala.
***
Otroci so v bistvu neke vrste pranje možganov. So kult, popolnoma zakonit kult. Samo pomislite. Ko se pridružiš kultu, te ne hranijo dovolj, odrekajo ti spanje, silijo te, da ponavljaš nesmiselne naloge ob naključnem času dneva in noči, potem pa zreš globoko v oči despotskega vodje in ponavljaš stavke brez pomena ali mantre, kot Ja, ti lepotička mala. Ja, tako je! Člane kulta, tako kot starše, prevzamejo duhovna čustva in pogosto planejo v jok. Člani kulta, tako kot starši, blebetajo neumnosti s srečnim, praznim pogledom v očeh. Vedo, da so na nek način nori, ampak ne morejo nič proti temu. Temu pravijo ljubezen.
It was always a mystery to me why the churches of Ireland were filled with women, and empty of men. I looked up at the crucifix and thought it was a bizarre thing for women to worship a man in a church run by men. As far as I was concerned being a Catholic was silly, and being a Jew meant so much more washing-up. What all religions do, however, is what most political systems fail to do — they prize and praise the figure of the mother.
She is the machine, the hidden power. She is the ideal, the revered one, the truly loved. Which makes up, in a way, for being skipped in shop queues and looking like a heap.
And more. On the third night of my child’s life I looked into her eyes and realised that nothing I believed could explain this. It was an embarrassing moment. I think I saw her soul. I suffered from the conviction that a part of her was ancient; and that part chose to be there with me at the beginning of something new. I had a wise child.
Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night, and at the beginning of the night, and at dawn — so precious — I found myself shrinking in the face of her vast and unknowable future. How would she turn out? What would she do? When would she die? Not for many, many years, I hoped; not for the longest time. The mechanisms of fate, the grinding of her days that would lead to one end or another, became urgently opaque to me. There were a thousand things that could hurt this child, or even estrange her from me. What could I do? Nothing. My best.
These are all feelings that religion understands.
I had, I thought, become human in a different and perhaps more radical way. I had let something slip into the stream of time. What else can you do, but trust the river — put it all into the hands of a higher power?
Oh, all right.
And who else, but the suffering Christ, could know the suffering that motherhood brings?
Actually, I will resist the tug of it, if you don’t mind. Still, I will resist.
Anne Enright, ‘God’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 111-12.
***
Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult. Think about it. When you join a cult you are undernourished, you are denied sleep, you are forced to do repetitive and pointless tasks at random hours of the day and night, then you stare deep into your despotic leader’s eyes, repeating meaningless phrases, or mantras, like Ooh da gorgeous. Yes, you are! Cult members, like parents, are overwhelmed by spiritual feelings and often burst into tears. Cult members, like parents, spout nonsense with a happy, blank look in their eyes. They know they’re sort of mad, but they can’t help it. They call it love.
From ‘Baby-Talk’ in Anne Enright, Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 138.
Vedno se mi je zdelo skrivnostno, zakaj je v cerkvah na Irskem polno žensk, moških pa ni. Ozrla sem se k razpelu in pomislila, kako bizarno je, da ženske častijo moškega v cerkvi, ki jo vodijo moški. Katolištvo se mi je zdelo trapasto, judovstvo pa je zahtevalo še toliko več pomivanja. Vsem veram pa je skupno to, da delajo, kar večini političnih sistemov spodleti – cenijo in slavijo lik matere.
Mati je stroj, skrita sila. Mati je ideal, tista, ki jo častijo in ki jo resnično ljubijo. Kar na nek način odtehta to, da jo v vrsti pred blagajno preskočijo in da je videti kot strašilo.
In ne samo to. Tretjo noč hčerinega življenja sem se ji zazrla v oči in ugotovila, da tega ne more pojasniti nič, v kar verjamem. Nerodno mi je postalo. Mislim, da sem videla njeno dušo. Mučilo me je prepričanje, da je del nje starodaven; in ta del se je odločil, da bo tukaj z mano na začetku nečesa novega. Imela sem modrega otroka.
Ko sem jo iz bolnišnice nosila v hrup prometa; ko sem jo domov peljala v drugi prestavi; ko sem jo hranila sredi noči in na začetku noči in ob zori – neprecenljivo –, sem postajala vse manjša pred njeno prostrano in nedoumljivo prihodnostjo. Kakšna bo postala? Kaj bo počela? Kdaj bo umrla? Še mnogo, mnogo let ne, sem upala; še zelo dolgo ne. Mehanizmi usode, premlevanje dni, ki bodo vodili k temu ali onemu koncu, so zame postali nepogrešljivo megleni. Obstajalo je tisoč stvari, ki bi lahko ranile tega otroka ali mi ga celo odtujile. Kaj pa bi lahko naredila? Nič. Lahko dam samo vse od sebe.
Vse to so občutki, ki jih vera razume.
Mislila sem, da sem postala človek na drugačen, morda na skrajnejši način. Pustila sem, da nekaj zdrsne v tok časa. Kaj drugega pa lahko storiš, kot da zaupaš reki – vse prepustiš rokam višje sile?
No, prav.
In kdo drug, razen trpečega Kristusa, bi lahko poznal trpljenje, ki ga prinese materinstvo?
Pravzaprav se bom uprla toku, če nimate nič proti. Še vedno se bom upirala.
***
Otroci so v bistvu neke vrste pranje možganov. So kult, popolnoma zakonit kult. Samo pomislite. Ko se pridružiš kultu, te ne hranijo dovolj, odrekajo ti spanje, silijo te, da ponavljaš nesmiselne naloge ob naključnem času dneva in noči, potem pa zreš globoko v oči despotskega vodje in ponavljaš stavke brez pomena ali mantre, kot Ja, ti lepotička mala. Ja, tako je! Člane kulta, tako kot starše, prevzamejo duhovna čustva in pogosto planejo v jok. Člani kulta, tako kot starši, blebetajo neumnosti s srečnim, praznim pogledom v očeh. Vedo, da so na nek način nori, ampak ne morejo nič proti temu. Temu pravijo ljubezen.
Translation commentary
Zarja Lampret Prešeren
'God' is a very intriguing piece of writing that draws a parallel between religion and motherhood. Being a mother and a part of a religious community would make it easier to understand all aspects of the essay by providing a more detailed context. For me, being none of those meant having to research the topic of religion and motherhood more carefully. It was not easy to take the mother’s point of view and fully comprehend and capture her thoughts, feelings, and concerns.
The main challenge, just like with any other literary translation, was to find the balance between preserving the style and conveying the message faithful to the one in the source language, while respecting the conventions of the target language.
The style and the register throughout the better part of the narrative are elevated and poetic. In a way, they are mimicking the register and the stylistic features of the religious texts, therefore it was necessary to pay attention to the different rhetorical figures that are abundantly present in the essay. There are several examples of parallelisms, antitheses, rhetorical questions, rich metaphorical language, and many other elements. I tried to retain as many rhetorical figures as I could, and I tried my best to express the metaphorical language by using phrasing that would be closer and more understandable to the target reader (looking like a heap – videti kot strašilo “to look like a scarecrow”).
On the other hand, there are a few points in the text where the register is slightly lower. In those parts, it seems as if the author’s thoughts slipped out and became directly exposed to the reader. These thoughts are bare, without any stylistic decorations, almost as if they were a part of a conversation with the reader, therefore they are expressed in a more casual way (being a Catholic was silly; looking like a heap; oh, all right).
Especially in the last part of the text, the author uses the neutral you to describe what happens to a person when they enter a cult. Since this sequence is preceded by Think about it, a phrase that gives the impression of a conversation between the author and the reader by addressing the reader directly and inviting them to perform an action of thinking, I chose to translate the neutral you as a more informal second person singular in Slovene, so it really looks like there is a conversation taking place.
Another challenge was transforming the English sentence structure. That was especially evident when translating a sequence of gerunds (Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night …). Here, it would be very unusual to use gerunds in Slovene, so I changed them to finite verb forms in subordinate time clauses.
The last problem I encountered was how to translate Ooh da gorgeous, a sentence that imitates talking to babies. In the original text, the baby talk was expressed using simplified spelling, meanwhile in Slovene translation I opted for regular, correct spelling, but I slightly modified the phrase, so that it would fit into the situational context.
Throughout the whole translation process, I received many helpful comments from the mentor and from one of my student colleagues. They suggested additional solutions and drew my attention to some parts of the texts that could be interpreted differently.