Some Borges translations of mine

For some reason, I thought I had ported this over a year or so ago, but apparently I hadn't. This too was originally posted in July 2007 on my other blog, Vaguely Borgesian. Just a couple of poems and passages by Jorge Luis Borges that I enjoyed, especially the last poem. Any errors in translation are mine.

Been meaning to post these for a while now (I did the translations on the 16th), but better late than never. The first is from the Epilogue to El Hacedor(1960), while the second and third are from La Rosa Profunda (1975). I’ll provide the Spanish, followed by my very rough translations:

Un hombre se propone la tarea de dibujar el mundo. A lo largo de los años puebla un espacio con imágenes de provincias, de reinos, de montañas, de bahías, de naves, de islas, de peces, de habitaciones, de instrumentos, de astros, de caballos y de personas. Poco antes de morir, descrube que ese paciente laberinto de lineas traza la imagen de su cara.

(A man proposes to himself the task of drawing the world. Over many years he peoples a space with images of provinces, kindgoms, and mountains; of bays, ships, islands, and fish; of habitations, instruments, stars, horses, and people. Little before dying, he discovers that that patient labyrinth of lines traces the image of his face.)

“Mis Libros”

Mis libros (que no saben que yo existo)
son tan parte de mí como este rostro
de sienes grises y grises ojos
que vanamente busco en los cristales
y que recorro con la mano cóncava.
No sin alguna lógica amargura
pienso que las palabras esenciales
que me expresan están en esas hojas
que no saben quién soy, no en las que he escrito.
Mejor así. Las voces de los muertos
me dirán para siempre.

(”My Books”

My books (which do not know that I exist)
are as much a part of me as this face
of gray temples and gray eyes
that vainly I search in the crystals
and which go over with the concave hand.
Not without some bitter logic
I think that the essential words
which they express to me are in those pages
that do not know who I am, not in them which I have written.
It is best so. The voices of the dead
will speak to me forever.)

“El suicida”

No quedará en la noche una estrella.
No quedará la noche.
Moriré y conmigo la suma
del intolerable universo.
Borraré las pirámides, la medallas,
los continentes y las caras.
Borraré la acumulación del pasado.
Haré polvo la historia, polvo el polvo.
Estoy mirando el último poniente.
Oigo el ültimo pájaro.
Lego la nada a nadie.

(”Suicide”

There will not remain in night a star.
Night will not remain.
I will die and with me the sum
of the intolerable universe.
I will erase the pyramids, the medals,
the continents and the faces.
I will erase the accumulation of the past.
I will make dust of history, dust of dust.
I am facing the last west wind.
I hear the last bird.
I bequeath nothing to nobody.)