Precis de decomposition, my first book written in French, was published in 1949 by
Gallimard. Five works of mine had been published in Romanian. In 1937, I
arrived in Paris on a scholarship from the Bucharest Institut francais, and I
have never left. It was only in 1947, though, that I thought of giving up my
native language. It was a sudden decision. Switching languages at the age of
thirty-seven is not an easy undertaking. In truth, it is a martyrdom, but a fruitful
martyrdom, an adventure that lends meaning to being (for which it has great
need!). I recommend to anyone going through a major depression to take on the
conquest of a foreign idiom, to reenergize himself, altogether to renew
himself, through the Word. Without my drive to conquer French, I might have
committed suicide. A language is a continent, a universe, and the one who makes
it his is a conquistador. But let us get to the subject....
The German translation of the Precis proved difficult. Rowohlt, the
publisher, had engaged an unqualified woman, with disastrous results. Someone else had to be found. A Romanian writer, Virgil
lerunca, who, after the war, had edited a literary journal in Romania, in which
Celan's first poems were published, warmly recommended him. Celan, whom I knew
only by name, lived in the Latin quarter, as did I. Accepting my offer, Celan
set to work and managed it with stunning speed. I saw him often, and it was his
wish that I read closely along, chapter by chapter, as he progressed, offering
possible suggestions. The vertiginous problems involved in translation were at
that time foreign to me, and I was far from assessing the breadth of it. Even
the idea that one might have a committed interest in it seemed rather extravagant
to me. I was to experience a complete reversal, and, years later, would come to
regard translation as an exceptional undertaking, as an accomplishment almost
equal to that of the work of creation. I am sure, now, that the only
one to understand a book thoroughly is someone who has gone to the trouble of
translating it. As a general rule, a good translator sees more clearly than the
author, who, to the extent that he is in the grips of his work, cannot know its
secrets, thus its weaknesses and its limits. Perhaps Celan, for whom words were
life and death, would have shared this position on the art of translation.
In 1978, when Klett was reprinting Lehre vom Zerfall (the GermanPrecis), I was asked to correct any errors
that might exist. I was unable to do it myself, and refused to engage anyone
else. One does not correct Celan. A few months before he
died, he said to me that he would like to review the complete text.
Undoubtedly, he would have made numerous revisions, since, we must remember,
the translation of the Precis dates back to the beginning of his
career as a translator. It is really a wonder that a noninitiate in philosophy
dealt so extraordinarily well with the problems inherent in an excessive, even
provocative, use of paradox that characterizes my book.
Relations with this deeply torn being were not simple. He
clung to his biases against one person or another, he sustained his mistrust,
all the more so because of his pathological fear of being hurt, and everything
hurt him. The slightest indelicacy, even unintentional, affected him
irrevocably. Watchful, defensive against what might happen, he expected the
same attention from others, and abhorred the easygoing attitude so prevalent
among the Parisians, writers or not. One day, I ran into him in the street. He
was in a rage, in a state nearing despair, because X, whom he had invited to
have dinner with him, had not bothered to come. Take it easy, I said to him, X
is like that, he is known for his don't-give-a-damn attitude. The only mistake
was expecting him.
Celan, at that time, was living very simply and having no
luck at all finding a decent job. You can hardly picture him in an office.
Because of his morbidly sensitive nature, he nearly lost his one opportunity.
The very day that I was going to his home to lunch with him, I found out that
there was a position open for a German instructor at the Ecole normale
superieure, and that the appointment of a teacher would be imminent. I tried to
persuade Celan that it was of the utmost importance for him to appeal
vigorously to the German specialist in whose hands the matter resided. He
answered that he would not do anything about it, that the professor in question
gave him the cold shoulder, and that he would for no price leave himself open
to rejection, which, according to him, was certain. Insistence seemed useless.
Returning home, it occurred to me to send him by pneumatique, a message in which I pointed out
to him the folly of allowing such an opportunity to slip away. Finally he
called the professor, and the matter was settled in a few minutes. "I was
wrong about him," he told me later. I won't go so far as to propose that
he saw a potential enemy in every man; however, what was certain was that he
lived in fear of disappointment or outright betrayal. His
inability to be detached or cynical made his life a nightmare. I will never
forget the evening I spent with him when the widow of a poet had, out of
literary jealousy, launched an unspeakably vile campaign against him in France
and Germany, accusing him of having plagiarized her husband. "There isn't
anyone in the world more miserable than I am," Celan kept saying. Pride
doesn't soothe fury, even less despair.
Something within him must have been broken very early on,
even before the misfortunes which crashed down upon his people and himself. I
recall a summer afternoon spent at his wife's lovely country place, about forty
miles from Paris. It was a magnificent day. Everything invoked relaxation,
bliss, illusion. Celan, in a lounge chair, tried unsuccessfully to be
lighthearted. He seemed awkward, as if he didn't belong, as though that
brilliance was not for him. What can I be looking for here? he must have been
thinking. And, in fact, what was he seeking in the innocence of that garden,
this man who was guilty of being unhappy, and condemned not to find his place
anywhere? It would be wrong to say that I felt truly ill at ease; nevertheless,
the fact was that everything about my host, including his smile, was tinged
with a pained charm, and something like a sense of nonfuture.
Is it a privilege or a curse to be marked by misfortune? Both
at once. This double face defines tragedy. So Celan was a figure, a tragic being. And for that he is for us somewhat
more than a poet.
E. M. Cioran, "Encounters with Paul Celan," in Translating Tradition: Paul Celan in France, edited by Benjamin Hollander (San Francisco:ACTS 8/t), 1988): 757-52.
