Whether lucky or unlucky...

and the year's farewells

Hello,

As you’re reading this, I am probably away from the Internet, somewhere in the country, hopefully snowy, with my wife, surrounded by our friends and their dogs. As I’m writing this, however, I am still connected to the eldritch ether and, as such, a slave to trends and traditions.

One of those is recounting the results of the year and aspirations for the next one. They are mixed, to say the least. There were some losses in the family, some tragedies, some unpleasant political realizations, some moments of disappointment. Mundane stuff, but the type that stays with you. I am not optimistic about the next one—not even cautiously. Good things will happen, but let them remain unexpected.

But we need to carry on, and the best way to carry on is just to carry on, and so we carry on. Keeping calm helps.

I am very happy to be on Substack, though. It is different from the others, and it brings more comfort than one could have thought. This is also a great opportunity to thank and welcome the new subscribers—thank you and hello! We are usually more fun here, I promise.

Another tradition that I am trying to implement is finishing a year with a translation of a Russian poem. I did do several good ones (I think), by Mandelstam and Brodsky, but when I pasted them into the Substack new post form, I realized that they are incredibly bleak. Really depressing. So, maybe not today.

Instead, I tried to remember another poem I liked, and this one, by Gennadiy Shpalikov, came to mind. He is most famous for his films (he was a prominent screenwriter and director), but he also wrote poetry, and some of his simple, short verses stay with you forever. This one in particular is close to my heart. You can hear its reading (in Russian) in this short clip from the movie “Wounded Game” (1976). English text and my own reading below.

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Whether lucky or unlucky

Whether lucky or unlucky,
Simple fact is true:
Never spend a minute back in
Places you once knew.

Even if it seems, old ruin’s
Better than it ought,
It will never be a shoo-in
For what we have sought.

Travelling back there, brother,
I’d forbid at all,
And I ask you, do not bother
My nostalgic soul.

Otherwise, I’m gone, I’m chasing—
Who will bring me back?—
Nineteen-forty-five embracing,
Felt-boots and rucksack.

I am there—and by golly!
Back in forty-five,
Mama still is young and jolly,
And my dad alive.

Gennady Shpalikov, 1970s

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Unfortunately, this one is sad as well. But I think this is constructive sadness, a sadness of letting go. It is a feeling we have when we understand that our desire to go back in time and touch something—or someone—from there is and always will be beyond our grasp. Our only time machine is our vaning memory.

And so we carry on.

Happy New Year,

Ꙝ

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Last year’s translation of Brodsky’s “Letters to the Roman Friend”: