Worlding Sei Shônagon: The Pillow Book in Translation

Miroslav Novák (1984) Czech

Miroslav Novák “Důvěrné sešity” Zápisky z volných chvil: starojaponské literární zápisníky paní Sei Šónagon, Kamo no Čómeiho, Jošidy Kenkóa. Translated by Petr Geisler, Helena Honcoopová, and Miroslav Novák. 9–199. Praha: Odeon, Stráz, 1984 This Czech translation is found in an attractive volume devoted to the three major examples of the Japanese zuihitsu: Notes made in moments of leisure: Old Japanese literary notebooks of Madam Sei Shonagon, Kamo no Chómei, Joshida Kenko (for a brief discussion of this genre and these other authors, see my Introduction). Sei Shônagon’s work is here titled “Confidential Notebooks.” The translation of the Tsurezuregusa is done by Geisler, with Honcoopová credited with the lovely illustrations. Novák (1924–1982) had previously published Fairy Tales from Japan, which also appeared in French as Contes japonais. One oddity of this version of the haru wa akebono passage is the word “šírání” in the final paragraph. My sources state that the term generally means “getting darker” or “twilight,” although in certain dialects it may also be a synonym for “dawn,” as suggested in the text here. In the close translation into English, we have chosen in fact to render it as “dawn,” despite the awkward repetition this creates with the initial paragraph. Miroslav Novák (1984) 176 Jaro—svítání. Když se pomalu bělá kolem obrysů hor, hory se trochu rozjasní a nad nimi se táhnou štíhlé pruhy oblak zalité purpurem. Léto—noc. Zvlášť za svitu měsíce, ale i když je temná a plná poletujících světlušek. Také je pěkné, když jen jedna nebo dvě zasvítí v letu. A také když třeba prší. Podzim—soumrak. Když zapadající slunce je docela nízko nad horami, jsou dojemné i vrány, jak po třech a po čtyřech nebo po dvou a po třech honem ulétají do svých hnízd. Ještě hezčí je, když třeba divoké husy letí v řadě a vypadají docela maličké. Nemluvě už vůbec o šumĕní větru a bzukotu cvrčka po západu slunce. Zima—sírání. Samozřejmě když napadne sníh. Ale i když leží bělostné jíní nebo také když je jen hodně zima a honem se zatopí a roznáší uhlí, je to pěkné. Jak se přes den otepluje, uhlíky v ohřívadle se pokrývají bílým popelem a už to není to pravé. (p. 12) Czech 177 Springtime—dawn. As the outline of the mountains slowly whitens, the mountains get a bit brighter. Slender crimson strips of clouds flow above. Summer—night. Especially in moonlight, but even when the night is dark and full of fireflies. It is also pretty where there is only one or two, lit up as they fly by. Or even when it rains. Autumn—dusk. When the setting sun is quite low over the mountains, even crows can touch your heart as they fly by in groups of three or four, or two or three, hurrying to get to their nests. It is even prettier when wild geese fly above in an orderly line. They look quite small. Not to mention the whisper of the wind and chirping of the cricket after sunset. Winter—dawn. After fresh snowfall, of course. But even when there is just a light white frost and also when it is only very cold and we put the heat on, it is pretty. As it gets warmer during the day, the coals in the warming pan get white with ashes, and it is no longer the same. [B. S./B. H.] ...