Up the Staircase Quarterly Presents:
an interview with Rosmarie Waldrop
by guest interviewer Serena Wilcox
To learn more about Rosmarie Waldrop, visit her pages on Poets.org and Wikipedia.
Serena Wilcox: In your book Lavish Absence, you speak of how you came to know Edmond Jabés through Claude Royet-Journoud, and this introduction was essential to your decision to complete the translation of The Book of Questions. How did your relationship with Jabés help you? How was he to work with?
Rosmarie Waldrop: I’ll start with the easier part: Edmond Jabès never gave a straight answer to my questions. If I asked: “this word can mean two things—which is more important to you here?” he invariably said: “both.” And if I insisted: “but if you have to choose one, which meaning would you choose?” he’d say: “you choose.”
But if my question was more involved he would look at the paragraph or the page and start to talk around it. At first I thought, “why doesn’t he just answer,” but quickly realized that though he didn’t answer my question he was giving me additional context and, one could even say, he let me see the way his mind moved, his way of looking at things before the sentences got honed and polished down to the form they took on the page. It was an enormous help for the translation as a whole.
As for my relationship with him: I cannot separate it from my relationship to his writing. Both have been enormously enriching—but I don’t think I can pin down exactly how. Except: he saw writing as questioning. This became crucial for me also. As did seeing him live this process of questioning language, questioning through language—all with warmth, perspective, and a great sense of humor.
SW: When you published your first book of poetry, you mentioned wanting to conceal the fact that you had a PhD because you did not want to be labeled an “academic poet.” Instead, you were labeled a "housewife poet.” Why do you think women are so marginalized in poetry? Was this thinking restricted to the West or did you find it prevalent in Europe as well?
RW: I’m amused you don’t consider Europe part of the West. It was/is certainly prevalent in Europe.
SW: You cite Josh Cohen and Joseph Kronick’s explanation of Jabés' use of white space as “whiteness is the mark of an erasure.” For me white space allows words to breathe. Do you lean more towards Mallarme’s usage and definition of white space? Do you feel that it is useful in regulating the “metabolism” of a work over punctuation?
RW: White space can be/do many things. I’m with you in seeing/feeling it as breathing space. I have trouble even reading texts that don’t have any. Mallarmé’s definition I don’t remember, but I remember his phrase, “the musicality of nothing.” The way he uses the white space in Un coup de dés is surely musical, rhythmical. But punctuation, too, is a tool for regulating the rhythm—or “metabolism”, I like your term, of a work. It depends on the particular situation which works better, white space or punctuation.
SW: Over the course of your life, you have had the privilege of becoming friends with some of literature’s heavyweights. Do you feel that living a life surrounded by writers who inspire you has added another dimension to who you are as a writer? If so, explain.
RW: Yes. Conversation, exchange of ideas with other writers—not just with “heavyweights”—has been very important to me. I think it is for all writers. If we only sit at our desks by ourselves we can easily get into a rut. Exposure to other people’s ideas helps avoid that.
SW: Jabés said, “One has to write out of that break, out of that unceasingly revived wound.” Can the wounded writer ever break free from functioning as a permanent scribe of one’s painful experiences?
RW: You ask difficult questions. Do you think we can? Freud would say no, but then…
SW: When did you begin to consider that your work was important? Did you go through an evolution as a writer where you realized that your work was important?
RW: I still don’t know if it is! –except for me. But it’s true, there was a slow process of realizing that this was what I really wanted to do and had to do, and a slow gaining of confidence. Getting published helped with the latter.
SW: Who would you cite as your major mentor(s)? Could you share something with our readers that you feel is important for writers and translators coming up today?
RW: Keith Waldrop, Edmond Jabès, Claude Royet-Journoud, and, though not in person obviously, Gertrude Stein. Everybody works differently, but I think I would say: work, question, keep your mind open—ears and eyes too.
SW: Does the poem itself and the love one has of the poem/poet stimulate and encourage the translation? Will to translate a desire to understand or to travel within a work rather than a craft?
RW: Absolutely. With just a couple of exceptions, I have had the good fortune to translate poems/poets I love, admire—and envy. I always wish I had written what I translate—and translating allows me to write it, to write texts I could never write on my own. I think translating is as much an art as writing. Not a craft: there are as few general rules as for writing.
SW: Living as we do in an increasingly illiterate world where the weight of digital technology weighs down more everyday and the vocation of the written word and language in general has been mutated to almost exclusively non-poetic ends, what legacy can Jabés have or Celan have now?
RW: I think poets keep the language alive and will continue to do so. And as we as human beings are defined by language, this is a big claim. It is perhaps rather an article of faith—not easy to prove.
SW: Is there a sense of safeguarding the patrimony of such poets today, of protecting their work and thought from the pillaging and brutality of an illiterate world? Does translation partake of this almost sacred exercise?
RW: “Pillaging and brutality???” The problem seems to be rather indifference. I don’t see the need to protect, but rather the need to spread, make available, share. And it’s simply human, nothing “sacred” about it!
SW: How can such an activity be undertaken outside institutions? More importantly perhaps, how can one write today within such a tradition without the winds of absence and indifference killing the poet and his or her vocation?
RW: It can be undertaken only outside institutions, by individuals. Institutions can be of help later, but they are not where it starts.
Poets are tough and stubborn, like weeds!
an interview with Rosmarie Waldrop
by guest interviewer Serena Wilcox
To learn more about Rosmarie Waldrop, visit her pages on Poets.org and Wikipedia.
Serena Wilcox: In your book Lavish Absence, you speak of how you came to know Edmond Jabés through Claude Royet-Journoud, and this introduction was essential to your decision to complete the translation of The Book of Questions. How did your relationship with Jabés help you? How was he to work with?
Rosmarie Waldrop: I’ll start with the easier part: Edmond Jabès never gave a straight answer to my questions. If I asked: “this word can mean two things—which is more important to you here?” he invariably said: “both.” And if I insisted: “but if you have to choose one, which meaning would you choose?” he’d say: “you choose.”
But if my question was more involved he would look at the paragraph or the page and start to talk around it. At first I thought, “why doesn’t he just answer,” but quickly realized that though he didn’t answer my question he was giving me additional context and, one could even say, he let me see the way his mind moved, his way of looking at things before the sentences got honed and polished down to the form they took on the page. It was an enormous help for the translation as a whole.
As for my relationship with him: I cannot separate it from my relationship to his writing. Both have been enormously enriching—but I don’t think I can pin down exactly how. Except: he saw writing as questioning. This became crucial for me also. As did seeing him live this process of questioning language, questioning through language—all with warmth, perspective, and a great sense of humor.
SW: When you published your first book of poetry, you mentioned wanting to conceal the fact that you had a PhD because you did not want to be labeled an “academic poet.” Instead, you were labeled a "housewife poet.” Why do you think women are so marginalized in poetry? Was this thinking restricted to the West or did you find it prevalent in Europe as well?
RW: I’m amused you don’t consider Europe part of the West. It was/is certainly prevalent in Europe.
SW: You cite Josh Cohen and Joseph Kronick’s explanation of Jabés' use of white space as “whiteness is the mark of an erasure.” For me white space allows words to breathe. Do you lean more towards Mallarme’s usage and definition of white space? Do you feel that it is useful in regulating the “metabolism” of a work over punctuation?
RW: White space can be/do many things. I’m with you in seeing/feeling it as breathing space. I have trouble even reading texts that don’t have any. Mallarmé’s definition I don’t remember, but I remember his phrase, “the musicality of nothing.” The way he uses the white space in Un coup de dés is surely musical, rhythmical. But punctuation, too, is a tool for regulating the rhythm—or “metabolism”, I like your term, of a work. It depends on the particular situation which works better, white space or punctuation.
SW: Over the course of your life, you have had the privilege of becoming friends with some of literature’s heavyweights. Do you feel that living a life surrounded by writers who inspire you has added another dimension to who you are as a writer? If so, explain.
RW: Yes. Conversation, exchange of ideas with other writers—not just with “heavyweights”—has been very important to me. I think it is for all writers. If we only sit at our desks by ourselves we can easily get into a rut. Exposure to other people’s ideas helps avoid that.
SW: Jabés said, “One has to write out of that break, out of that unceasingly revived wound.” Can the wounded writer ever break free from functioning as a permanent scribe of one’s painful experiences?
RW: You ask difficult questions. Do you think we can? Freud would say no, but then…
SW: When did you begin to consider that your work was important? Did you go through an evolution as a writer where you realized that your work was important?
RW: I still don’t know if it is! –except for me. But it’s true, there was a slow process of realizing that this was what I really wanted to do and had to do, and a slow gaining of confidence. Getting published helped with the latter.
SW: Who would you cite as your major mentor(s)? Could you share something with our readers that you feel is important for writers and translators coming up today?
RW: Keith Waldrop, Edmond Jabès, Claude Royet-Journoud, and, though not in person obviously, Gertrude Stein. Everybody works differently, but I think I would say: work, question, keep your mind open—ears and eyes too.
SW: Does the poem itself and the love one has of the poem/poet stimulate and encourage the translation? Will to translate a desire to understand or to travel within a work rather than a craft?
RW: Absolutely. With just a couple of exceptions, I have had the good fortune to translate poems/poets I love, admire—and envy. I always wish I had written what I translate—and translating allows me to write it, to write texts I could never write on my own. I think translating is as much an art as writing. Not a craft: there are as few general rules as for writing.
SW: Living as we do in an increasingly illiterate world where the weight of digital technology weighs down more everyday and the vocation of the written word and language in general has been mutated to almost exclusively non-poetic ends, what legacy can Jabés have or Celan have now?
RW: I think poets keep the language alive and will continue to do so. And as we as human beings are defined by language, this is a big claim. It is perhaps rather an article of faith—not easy to prove.
SW: Is there a sense of safeguarding the patrimony of such poets today, of protecting their work and thought from the pillaging and brutality of an illiterate world? Does translation partake of this almost sacred exercise?
RW: “Pillaging and brutality???” The problem seems to be rather indifference. I don’t see the need to protect, but rather the need to spread, make available, share. And it’s simply human, nothing “sacred” about it!
SW: How can such an activity be undertaken outside institutions? More importantly perhaps, how can one write today within such a tradition without the winds of absence and indifference killing the poet and his or her vocation?
RW: It can be undertaken only outside institutions, by individuals. Institutions can be of help later, but they are not where it starts.
Poets are tough and stubborn, like weeds!
