Abstract: Translator's note: The following passage, about the young narrator's love of the writer Bergotte, occurs about one hundred pages into The Way by Swann's (pp.92-95 in the Pleiade edition of Du cote de chez Swann). The character Bergotte, and his style of writing, are said to have been modeled at least in part by Proust on a writer much admired by him, John Ruskin, the nineteenth-century master stylist who wrote on art, architecture, and economic and social issues, and two of whose best known works are Modern Painters and The Stones of Venice. Proust himself, working with his mother, Jeanne Proust, and a young English artist, Marie Nordlinger, translated Ruskin's The Bible of Amiens and Sesame and Lilies into French. My procedure in translating Proust was to follow the original very closely, even word byword when possible, to reproduce the shape of its sentences, even including their punctuation when possible, and to avoid adding to the text, subtracting from it, or substituting my interpretations for the original. In my second and third drafts I compared my work closely with the major existing translation, C.K. Scott Moncrieff's Swann's Way. Despite the many good qualities of this translation, which has been the standard for decades, and despite the often positive effects of the revisions carried out on it by Terence Kilmartin and D.J. Enright, a close examination--which is what I gave it as I worked with it--reveals several features that point to the need for a new translation. There is a natural tendency, in translation, to inflate and overwrite, for a simple reason: you want to make a rhythmically pleasing sentence in English; often an easy way to improve the rhythm in English is by adding to or subtracting from the original; you will usually decide to add because a worse crime would be to subtract material from the original; and then if you add, you will usually choose to double or reinforce the meaning of the original rather than add new material of your own. Thus does your translation become redundant or repetitious--"his own" instead of "his' "he himself" instead of "he," "strange and haunting" instead of simply "strange." Although on its own terms, the Scott Moncrieff translation is quite successful and, because of the sheer size of the book, an astounding achievement, it does suffer consistently from over-interpretation and inflation. In the following passage, for instance, where Proust describes the narrator's remarks as "uninteresting," Moncrieff translates this more emphatically as "quite without interest": "without interest" is a good exact equivalent for sans interet, but here Moncrieff intensifies it by "quite?' In a more significant amplification, where Proust has "the writer's page" Moncrieff adds a concrete image, producing "his printed page?' Adding again, Moncrieff turns "confidence" into "newfound confidence": here he is taking what he has learned from the context (that the narrator was not confident before but is now confident) and adding it to the unadorned word that Proust actually wrote. French readers of the original will add their own understanding to the word; readers of the translation will be "helped?' Lastly, this time substituting, Moncrieff replaces pre retrouve--"father found again"--by "long-lost father?' Moncrieff is inferring that the father was lost from what Proust says--that the father was found again. This is legitimate enough if it is done silently by the reader--it is what readers do. But he is going farther when, as translator, he substitutes what he inferred for what Proust actually said. The replacement of Proust's choice, "lost:' by Moncrieff's, "found," is a significant one. (Think of the titles of the books: the general title, In Search of Lost Time, and the title of the last volume, Time Found Again.) And then he is also adding "long," a less justifiable inference. Most likely the father was "long-lost" but Proust chose not to specify. …

Abstract: Yes Yes No     • Provide rights, resources, immediate actions, and interim measures and remedies information. • Investigate if complainant consents. If not‐ send nonparticipation letter & conduct gatekeeper assessment, Investigate if warranted by gatekeeper assessment; notify complainant if investigating. • Prevent from reoccurring by imposing restrictions such as campus trespass, or other actions as appropriate.

Abstract: The Irish poet Trevor Joyce is a distant cousin of his novelist namesake, as I learned when a glazier repairing a window of Joyce's house, broken in a fit of rage by a mainstream poetry critic at the party that concluded an avant-garde poetry festival held in Cork, said that if he'd known of the relationship he'd have done the work for half-price. That's the work reputation can do in Ireland, and, though the tensions that led to that incident of the broken window were not exclusively literary, it does provide a fitting image for the knockabout absurdities of distinctions between "mainstream" and "avant-garde" that readers expect to hear when one reviews a poet like Trevor Joyce. Yes, they take these matters seriously in Ireland, as elsewhere--which is a pity, as such divisions are surely as slippery and unhelpful in the Irish context as they are, to my mind, in North America or the U.K. By rights there ought to be a community of interest between readers of challenging "mainstream" poets like Thomas Kinsella, Paul Muldoon, Medbh McGuckian, and Ciaran Carson, and readers of challenging "avant-garde" poets such as Joyce, Maurice Scully, Catherine Walsh, and Randolph Healy. The obstacles in the way of bridging such audiences are persistent but (I think in my more optimistic moments) not likely to be permanent in the long run, despite resistance from various quarters. (1) But I'm moving too fast, or letting my hopes distract me from the text at hand, the collected poems of an author who has now been writing for almost four decades but can still expect the response "Who's Trevor Joyce?" from even that sliver of the public that follows contemporary poetry. Trevor Joyce was born in Dublin in 1947. While still in his teens he met the poet Michael Smith, who, five years his senior, became an important friend and mentor. In 1967 they cofounded New Writers' Press in order to do something about what they pugnaciously diagnosed as "the stagnancy of the Irish poetry scene relative to what had happened in the U.S. and Europe," with its emphasis on "a provincial literature, unambitious in its concerns, formally conservative, and rural in its outlook." (2) It was an auspicious time for such a venture: NWP and its associated journal The Lace Curtain formed part of the remarkable wave of little presses and journals that changed English-language poetry in the 1960s and 1970s. NWP published a wide variety of contemporary Irish poets, including Thomas Kinsella, Pearse Hutchinson, Anthony Cronin, Paul Durcan, and Eilean Ni Chuilleanain, and a major program of international authors--Borges, Vallejo, Spicer, Neruda. The sheer diversity and ambition of NWP's activities should not be forgotten, even though it is now most closely identified with its most significant achievement: the rediscovery and republication of the 1930s generation of Irish modernists (Brian Coffey, Thomas MacGreevy, Denis Devlin, et al), of whom only Samuel Beckett was visible on canonical literary maps. NWP's period of greatest activity ended with the 1970s (by which point it had produced over forty titles), though the imprint continues to exist, revived on an occasional basis for special projects such as the 1990 edition of Brian Coffey's Mallarme translations or the present edition of Joyce's collected poems. Joyce's first phase as a writer climaxed with the full-length collection Pentahedron (NWP 1972). In his early poetry (presented in a generous selection under the tide "Pentahedron & others" in with the first dream), Joyce demonstrates a strikingly complete absorption of nineteenth-century and modernist influences. The poems' city- or townscapes are registered through the sensibilities of a late-modernist skeptical observer, as a series of objects, part-objects, and living creatures at once oppressively plentiful and yet failing to add up to anything like a full and living world. The poems' fragmented observations are bounded on all sides by streets, walls, cobblestones, public monuments, bridges, canals, and churches, an environment neither natural nor sufficiently human. …

Abstract: Back to the coast. In Odenthal again, in the neighborhood of a quotation that reached from Rome to Guatemala. Or you repeat the story of mere moments, the last of which stretches out between Richthofen's flight logbook and the pictures of Irmgard Keun in exile. Showing us in a hotel again, and to the east the land getting lost again. Only the early trains were rolling further into the subjunctively possible: one might leave Ostend in the morning, by the next day be in Warsaw perhaps. How many tickets, how many faces of conductors and customs officials (some caused anxiety, others brought you hope), how many stamps in your passport...it is not a journey. You arrived a long time ago. You made the choice between the sea and the ranges of hills, over which the sky holds the invisible flight paths open. Anyway it is still going, in a game that moves places and regions through times, which are suddenly standing outside the windows in the yard light, or surface behind the fence and join in a conversation with the neighbors, of whom the one is dead and the other has not yet come home. You can interrupt and re-define the borders between afternoons in the cherry tree, telephone interviews, queues to pay, between dawn, early shift, and the untriability of guilt...it is happening anyway, the computer erases the data without prompting. So go out into the meadow; the snow is not coming back today. The woodpecker is drumming up in the peartree. It is more a rattling. Now knocking, hesitantly, it is a sound like reflection, coming before a silence. Then follows the dive, caught by suddenly spanned wings, the flight in a long curve into the nearest branches where the woods begin. Variant description. A course through the air, and how a flying body behaves as the measure of the situation says, to his knowledge, like this or like that. Outside, high above the house, a draft of soft cries, the acoustic image of a flying wedge, which instinct, drive, experience have formed for a move to the north; that repeats itself from one spring to another, (or from one autumn to another southwards), and preserves the conditions in which cranes survive, in the pattern of adaptation that prescribes the restlessly rolling chain no matter who is faster, who weaker, who an outsider, a laggard. In the distance the chain grows thinner and thinner, until it disappears in another life. It is always making signals that are too little noticed; you close the windows, you have not seen anything. Only sometimes contacts can be felt, and a tremor runs through the most insignificant things, constructed around you by habit. Nothing stirs from its place, but that is not all that counts in a movement that brings the draft from outside together with the air in the rooms. Perhaps the equation remains unclear; one so often does not know what the terms mean, especially when the context is only apparent afterwards. Here you know the area, and you see how in the morning a deeply receding landscape begins between the branches of the pear tree. A few things seem to be quite clear, at least on this evening, which suddenly sets out the relationship between alcove bench and organ music, a pen drawing and a chair. A Prelude by Nicolaus Bruhns out of the parish church in the village; church and village in the drawing by Erich Schuchardt that hangs over the alcove bench opposite the chair of Alma Schuchardt, and you are sitting in the middle of a family novel, in the chapter about the Forties, which is a tale about grandmother's kitchen, who looks from her chair at a drawing by her son, who continues to be missed as late as this evening of simultaneity, and you know you are still here, like someone who is going through the dead and empty house touching the objects one last time before it is cleared, someone who after this touch will forever recognise everything lost, in this wide, never-ending space, into which only memory is granted entry. …