These are the things for which children (eventually) forgive their fathers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
These are the things for which children never, ever, ever forgive their mothers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
When I was in my teens and twenties, it was fashionable among girls to complain about your mother — despite the fact that these women had given their lives over to rear us. It was never fashionable to complain about your father, unless they were very drunk, all the time. At worst, fathers provoked a shrugging silence — presumably because this was what they gave.
So what about New Men? Will we need a new psychology in twenty years for children, now grown up, whose fathers were there half the time, who changed the nappies and sang the lullabies, half the time, or more? Is it possible that in twenty years or so we will find it is the caring father, and not the caring mother, who is ultimately to blame?
I doubt it.
I have met some of these maligned mothers since and it is great fun having a look at them. Some of them, to my surprise, really do seem wretchedly ungiving. But most of them are quite nice. Or ordinary. Or even dull.
A dull mother? There is no such thing. It is odd that, as a group, mothers are seen as a lardy wodge of nothing much; of worry and love and fret and banality. As individuals we are everything. Between these two extremes, where does the person lie?
In my thirties and forties, many of the daughters who gave out about their mothers started going shopping with them, talking about kitchen units, doing all the things that friends might do and more, while the mothers — I don’t know what the mothers did, exactly, but they shifted too. They let their children be. The battle was over. As though each side had fought its way into the light of day and looked at each other to find . . .
Now that I have become a mother myself, it is a great comfort to me to see how most of us come to an accommodation between the ‘MOTHER!’ in our heads and the woman who reared us. The whole process reaches a sort of glorious conclusion if and when the daughter has children herself. ‘Now you understand,’ says the (grand)mother. ‘Now you see.’ This is what they yearn for — as much as any adolescent, they need to be understood. They need an end to blame.
I take the baby home, and watch my parents with different eyes. My father likes looking at small children — just that. He hates disturbing them, or telling them to do anything, or scaring them in any way; he does not seem to believe in it. My mother loves babies — some women don’t but she does — even when they are very new; all raw and whimpering and scarcely yet human. Her love is more passionate than his; I think, she can be almost hurt by it. At any rate I know that this is where my current happiness comes from, that the better part of my mothering is compounded of my mother’s passion and of my father’s benign attention.
A woman asks me, ‘Are you going to have a typical mother-daughter relationship?’ You can tell that she thinks this would be a nice comeuppance. The world loves to remind parents that soon it will all go awry.
I think about this when the baby is eighteen months and every hug contains the idea of squirming away. She will stay on my lap if I sing to her, and she will stroke my face, but if all this loving becomes too damn lovely, she will push or pinch or kick her way out of it, and I think, with some trepidation, of the day she turns fourteen.
She also has a neat line in accident-on-purpose elbow jabs, and great aim.
What about sons. Are they the same?
Anne Enright, ‘Unforgiven’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 152-54.
Ovo su stvari koje djeca (s vremenom) oproste svojim očevima:
izlaske,
kasna vraćanja kući,
zaudaranje po alkoholu,
čitanje novina,
gledanje televizije,
zurenje u ljude na televiziji sa čudnim seksualnim zanimanjem,
to što se ne zamaraju, barem ne puno
i što imaju važnijeg posla.
Ovo su stvari koje djeca nikad, ali baš nikad ne oproste svojim majkama:
izlaske,
kasna vraćanja kući,
zaudaranje po alkoholu,
čitanje novina,
gledanje televizije,
zurenje u ljude na televiziji sa čudnim seksualnim zanimanjem,
to što se ne zamaraju, barem ne puno
i što imaju važnijeg posla.
U tinejdžerskim godinama i kasnije, u dvadesetima, među djevojkama je bilo popularno žaliti se na majke – unatoč činjenici da su te žene dale svoje živote da nas odgajaju. Nikad nije bilo moderno žaliti se na očeve, osim ako nisu bili vrlo pijani, i to cijelo vrijeme. U najgorem slučaju izazivali bi šutnju sliježući ramenima – vjerojatno jer je to bilo ono što su dali.
Pa što je onda s Novim muškarcem? Hoće li nam za dvadeset godina trebati nova psihologija za djecu, sada već odrasle ljude čiji su očevi bili prisutni samo polovicu vremena, koji su mijenjali pelene i pjevali uspavanke pola vremena ili ipak nešto više? Je li moguće da ćemo za dvadesetak godina otkriti da je u konačnici kriv brižni otac, a ne brižna majka?
Sumnjam.
Upoznala sam neke od ovih ozloglašenih majki i jako je zabavno gledati ih. Na moje iznenađenje, neke od njih doista djeluju stravično okrutno. Ali većina njih djeluje prilično simpatično. Ili obično. Ili čak dosadno.
Dosadna majka? Takvo nešto ne postoji. Čudno je da se na majke, kao na grupu, gleda kao na veliku hrpu ničega; brige i ljubavi i strepnje i banalnosti. Kao pojedinci mi smo sve. Gdje se nalazi osoba, između ovih dviju krajnosti?
U tridesetima i četrdesetima mnoge kćerke koje su se bunile na svoje majke počele su s njima ići u kupovinu, razgovarati o kuhinjskim elementima, raditi sve što bi prijateljice mogle raditi i više, dok su majke – ne znam što su majke radile, ali i one su se promijenile. Pustile su svoju djecu. Bitka je bila završena. Kao da je svaka strana probila svoj put da bi ugledala svjetlo dana, pogledale se i shvatile da …
Sada kad sam i sama postala majka, velika mi je utjeha vidjeti da većina nas u glavama postigne sporazum između „MAJKE“ i žene koja nas je odgojila. Cijeli proces dolazi do svojevrsnog veličanstvenog zaključka ako i kad sama kći ima djecu. „Sada razumiješ“, kaže majka (a i njezina majka). „Sada vidiš.“ To je ono za čime žude – kao i svakog adolescenta, treba ih razumjeti. Treba im kraj krivnje.
Vodim dijete kući i svoje roditelje gledam drugim očima. Moj otac voli gledati malu djecu – samo to. Mrzi ih uznemiravati ili im govoriti što da rade ili ih plašiti na bilo koji način. Moja majka voli bebe – neke žene ne, ali ona ih voli – čak i kad su vrlo nove; potpuno neiskusne, kada cvile jedva da su ljudska bića. Njezina je ljubav strastvenija od njegove; mislim da je to gotovo može povrijediti. U svakom slučaju znam da odavde dolazi moja trenutna sreća, da je bolji dio mog majčinstva tvoren od majčine strasti i dobroćudne pažnje moga oca.
Žena me pita, „Hoćeš li imati tipičnu vezu majke i kćeri?“ Vidi se da misli da bi ovo bila lijepa nagrada. Svijet voli podsjećati da će uskoro sve krenuti po zlu.
O ovome razmišljam dok beba ima osamnaest mjeseci i svakim se zagrljajem pokušava izmigoljiti. Bit će mi u krilu dok joj pjevam i pomilovat će me po licu, ali ako sva ta ljubav postane previše prokleto lijepa, gurat će ili štipati ili se odgurivati nogom i sa strepnjom razmišljam o danu kada će napuniti četrnaest.
Također ima dobre namjerne udarce laktom i dobro gađa.
A što je sa sinovima. Vrijedi li isto i za njih?
These are the things for which children (eventually) forgive their fathers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
These are the things for which children never, ever, ever forgive their mothers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
When I was in my teens and twenties, it was fashionable among girls to complain about your mother — despite the fact that these women had given their lives over to rear us. It was never fashionable to complain about your father, unless they were very drunk, all the time. At worst, fathers provoked a shrugging silence — presumably because this was what they gave.
So what about New Men? Will we need a new psychology in twenty years for children, now grown up, whose fathers were there half the time, who changed the nappies and sang the lullabies, half the time, or more? Is it possible that in twenty years or so we will find it is the caring father, and not the caring mother, who is ultimately to blame?
I doubt it.
I have met some of these maligned mothers since and it is great fun having a look at them. Some of them, to my surprise, really do seem wretchedly ungiving. But most of them are quite nice. Or ordinary. Or even dull.
A dull mother? There is no such thing. It is odd that, as a group, mothers are seen as a lardy wodge of nothing much; of worry and love and fret and banality. As individuals we are everything. Between these two extremes, where does the person lie?
In my thirties and forties, many of the daughters who gave out about their mothers started going shopping with them, talking about kitchen units, doing all the things that friends might do and more, while the mothers — I don’t know what the mothers did, exactly, but they shifted too. They let their children be. The battle was over. As though each side had fought its way into the light of day and looked at each other to find . . .
Now that I have become a mother myself, it is a great comfort to me to see how most of us come to an accommodation between the ‘MOTHER!’ in our heads and the woman who reared us. The whole process reaches a sort of glorious conclusion if and when the daughter has children herself. ‘Now you understand,’ says the (grand)mother. ‘Now you see.’ This is what they yearn for — as much as any adolescent, they need to be understood. They need an end to blame.
I take the baby home, and watch my parents with different eyes. My father likes looking at small children — just that. He hates disturbing them, or telling them to do anything, or scaring them in any way; he does not seem to believe in it. My mother loves babies — some women don’t but she does — even when they are very new; all raw and whimpering and scarcely yet human. Her love is more passionate than his; I think, she can be almost hurt by it. At any rate I know that this is where my current happiness comes from, that the better part of my mothering is compounded of my mother’s passion and of my father’s benign attention.
A woman asks me, ‘Are you going to have a typical mother-daughter relationship?’ You can tell that she thinks this would be a nice comeuppance. The world loves to remind parents that soon it will all go awry.
I think about this when the baby is eighteen months and every hug contains the idea of squirming away. She will stay on my lap if I sing to her, and she will stroke my face, but if all this loving becomes too damn lovely, she will push or pinch or kick her way out of it, and I think, with some trepidation, of the day she turns fourteen.
She also has a neat line in accident-on-purpose elbow jabs, and great aim.
What about sons. Are they the same?
Anne Enright, ‘Unforgiven’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 152-54.
Ovo su stvari koje djeca (s vremenom) oproste svojim očevima:
izlaske,
kasna vraćanja kući,
zaudaranje po alkoholu,
čitanje novina,
gledanje televizije,
zurenje u ljude na televiziji sa čudnim seksualnim zanimanjem,
to što se ne zamaraju, barem ne puno
i što imaju važnijeg posla.
Ovo su stvari koje djeca nikad, ali baš nikad ne oproste svojim majkama:
izlaske,
kasna vraćanja kući,
zaudaranje po alkoholu,
čitanje novina,
gledanje televizije,
zurenje u ljude na televiziji sa čudnim seksualnim zanimanjem,
to što se ne zamaraju, barem ne puno
i što imaju važnijeg posla.
U tinejdžerskim godinama i kasnije, u dvadesetima, među djevojkama je bilo popularno žaliti se na majke – unatoč činjenici da su te žene dale svoje živote da nas odgajaju. Nikad nije bilo moderno žaliti se na očeve, osim ako nisu bili vrlo pijani, i to cijelo vrijeme. U najgorem slučaju izazivali bi šutnju sliježući ramenima – vjerojatno jer je to bilo ono što su dali.
Pa što je onda s Novim muškarcem? Hoće li nam za dvadeset godina trebati nova psihologija za djecu, sada već odrasle ljude čiji su očevi bili prisutni samo polovicu vremena, koji su mijenjali pelene i pjevali uspavanke pola vremena ili ipak nešto više? Je li moguće da ćemo za dvadesetak godina otkriti da je u konačnici kriv brižni otac, a ne brižna majka?
Sumnjam.
Upoznala sam neke od ovih ozloglašenih majki i jako je zabavno gledati ih. Na moje iznenađenje, neke od njih doista djeluju stravično okrutno. Ali većina njih djeluje prilično simpatično. Ili obično. Ili čak dosadno.
Dosadna majka? Takvo nešto ne postoji. Čudno je da se na majke, kao na grupu, gleda kao na veliku hrpu ničega; brige i ljubavi i strepnje i banalnosti. Kao pojedinci mi smo sve. Gdje se nalazi osoba, između ovih dviju krajnosti?
U tridesetima i četrdesetima mnoge kćerke koje su se bunile na svoje majke počele su s njima ići u kupovinu, razgovarati o kuhinjskim elementima, raditi sve što bi prijateljice mogle raditi i više, dok su majke – ne znam što su majke radile, ali i one su se promijenile. Pustile su svoju djecu. Bitka je bila završena. Kao da je svaka strana probila svoj put da bi ugledala svjetlo dana, pogledale se i shvatile da …
Sada kad sam i sama postala majka, velika mi je utjeha vidjeti da većina nas u glavama postigne sporazum između „MAJKE“ i žene koja nas je odgojila. Cijeli proces dolazi do svojevrsnog veličanstvenog zaključka ako i kad sama kći ima djecu. „Sada razumiješ“, kaže majka (a i njezina majka). „Sada vidiš.“ To je ono za čime žude – kao i svakog adolescenta, treba ih razumjeti. Treba im kraj krivnje.
Vodim dijete kući i svoje roditelje gledam drugim očima. Moj otac voli gledati malu djecu – samo to. Mrzi ih uznemiravati ili im govoriti što da rade ili ih plašiti na bilo koji način. Moja majka voli bebe – neke žene ne, ali ona ih voli – čak i kad su vrlo nove; potpuno neiskusne, kada cvile jedva da su ljudska bića. Njezina je ljubav strastvenija od njegove; mislim da je to gotovo može povrijediti. U svakom slučaju znam da odavde dolazi moja trenutna sreća, da je bolji dio mog majčinstva tvoren od majčine strasti i dobroćudne pažnje moga oca.
Žena me pita, „Hoćeš li imati tipičnu vezu majke i kćeri?“ Vidi se da misli da bi ovo bila lijepa nagrada. Svijet voli podsjećati da će uskoro sve krenuti po zlu.
O ovome razmišljam dok beba ima osamnaest mjeseci i svakim se zagrljajem pokušava izmigoljiti. Bit će mi u krilu dok joj pjevam i pomilovat će me po licu, ali ako sva ta ljubav postane previše prokleto lijepa, gurat će ili štipati ili se odgurivati nogom i sa strepnjom razmišljam o danu kada će napuniti četrnaest.
Također ima dobre namjerne udarce laktom i dobro gađa.
A što je sa sinovima. Vrijedi li isto i za njih?
Translation commentary
Katarina Miloloža
The short story “Unforgiven“ is both simple and complex. When taking into consideration the language used, it is clear that the author is using simple everyday language and informal register. On the other hand, this fact contributes to the complexity of the translation since it incorporates multiple meanings and a number of possible choices. The complexity of this story, and consequently of its translating lays in its reading.
In the process of translation, multiple drafts and rereading play an important role because in that way different options are examined and the best possible choices, filling the problematic parts in the text were chosen. By doing so, the tone appropriate for the short story was adopted and it contributed to the overall narrative flow and rhythm of the short story. These factors are particularly crucial because they contribute to the literal value of both, the original and translation. Furthermore, the author’s tone and attitude are very important as well.
In this short story the narrator is addressing the reader. By doing so the short story has a form of a dialogue and it seems to be closer to the reader because there are even direct questions for the reader and it is important to achieve that in translation as well. Moreover, questions keep coming and there are no answers, which creates a special type of atmosphere, which is somewhat difficult to achieve in the Croatian language. For example, “So what about New Men?”, “A dull mother?”, or “Are they the same?”, which is in Croatian „Pa što je onda s Novim muškarcem?”, „Dosadna majka?”, and „Vrijedi li isto i za njih?”. The author is writing in the first person as well, so the story has a deep personal touch. As it is with “When I was in my teens and twenties (…)”, that is “u dvadesetima”. All these aspects were taken into consideration during the process of translation. For the questionable cases multiple translation solutions were provided in order to find the best one for each circumstance.