Links between Brazil & Ireland

 

 

 

Translation of James Joyce into Guarani

 

By Sérgio Medeiros

 

 

 

In 2000 Brazil commemorated its 500 years of “Discovery” by the Portuguese - in reality, an encounter of cultures, so to commemorate that date, a translation follows of a fragment of Finnegans Wake by James Joyce in the Guarani language – one of the original language of Brazil.

 

 

            Guarani

 

 

Husamenta: So’o ne retûnha, itakuapegua pyahu, ohekáva mba’e vai ñe´ê porã apytépe, nde, rekéva ore pay jave ha rekaru´yva rovy´a aja, nde ndekuaarekópe, hesakuaitépe eréva´ekue hosue jekuaaraê ne pore´yetépe, hesapyso, yváicha rehykuavova nde ytaku pupu ´ari.  Tyryrukue ha mba´e kaigue, ai péu ha péu rape, amo aria yryvu oiótáre ne ã ha ha´ûvo chiã oúvagrajasgui, mano sarambipa, mbokapu guasu javeguakuéra rehe téra ryrúgui iokópa tanimbu, opa teko ombokusugue tata rendy atyra marangatúva ojevy yvy timbo vevére.  Oikopa tepoti ramo  aga araka´eve oike´yva ne andai apyra´y yvytúre. (Ha aña retâ, Ha ja oúma ña ne re´ôngue ñoty!  Ha mba´asy, asaîmba, ajavy che ñeha´â)  reikyty kytyv´rô zanahoria, rembo´i mbo´ivérô nabo, reipiro pirovérô papas, nembyesay sayvérô sevói rejuka jukayerõ guéi remyangu´i ngh´ivérõ cancros, rejoso josovérô ka´avo, rehapy hetavérô jepe´a, ipukuve ne kuimbe.  Ha hetave ty´ái ne rembi´u rykuépe, heta hetave tata nde aópe, iñandyve ha imbareteve, otimbo rory kyre´yve nde japepo pyahu irlandapegua.

 

 

 

English

 

 

Sniffer of carrion, premature gravedigger, seeker of the nest of evil in the bosom of a good word, you, who sleep at our vigil and fast for our feast, you with your dislocated reason, have cutely foretold, a jophet in your own absence, by blind poring upon your many scalds and burns and blisters, impetiginous sore and pustules, by the auspices of that raven cloud, your shade, and by the auguries of rooks in parliament, death with every disaster, the dynamitisation of colleagues, the reducing of records of a lot of sweetempered gunpowdered didst unto dudst but it never stphruck your mudhead´s obtundity (O hell, here comes our funeral!  O pest, I’ll miss the post!) that the more carrots you chop, the more turnips you slit, the more murphies you peel, the more onions you cry over, the more bullbeef you butch, the more mutton you crackerhack, the more potherb you pound, the fiercer the fire and the longer your spoon and the harder you gruel with more grease to your elbow the merrier fumes your new Irish stew. 

 

(FW, 189/190)

 

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