La caza del Snark, el largo poema de Lewis Carroll, en versión de Leopoldo María Panero, que subí en partes en otro blog. Las ilustraciones que acompañan la entrada corresponden a las que acompañaron a la edición original, de Henry Holiday.
Traducción (o como el la llama, “antitraducción”) del poema “Horrors” de Lewis Carroll, realizada por Leopoldo María Panero, acompañada de su comentario crítico, que ya publiqué en otro blog.
“Oh, please! There are some scented rushes!” Alice cried in a sudden transport of delight. “There really are——and such beauties!”
“You needn’t say ‘please’ to me about ‘em,” the Sheep said, without looking up from her knitting: “I didn’t put ‘em there, and I’m not going to take ‘em away.”
“No, but I meant——please, may we wait and pick some?” Alice pleaded. “If you don’t mind stopping the boat for a minute.”
“How am I to stop it?” said the Sheep. “If you leave off rowing, it’ll stop of itself.”
So the boat was left to drift down the stream as it would, till it glided gently in among the waving rushes. And then the little sleeves were carefully rolled up, and the little arms were plunged in elbow-deep, to get hold of the rushes a good long way down before breaking them off——and for a while Alice forgot all about the Sheep and the knitting, as she bent over the side of the boat, with just the ends of her tangled hair dipping into the water——while with bright eager eyes she caught at one bunch after another of the darling scented rushes.
“I only hope the boat won’t tipple over!” she said to herself. “Oh, what a lovely one! Only I couldn’t quite reach it.” And it certainly did seem a little provoking (“almost as if it happened on purpose,” she thought) that, though she managed to pick plenty of beautiful rushes as the boat glided by, there was always a more lovely one that she couldn’t reach.
“The prettiest are always further!” she said at last, with a sigh at the obstinacy of the rushes in growing so far off, as, with flushed cheeks and dripping hair and hands, she scrambled back into her place, and began to arrange her new-found treasures.
What mattered it to her just then that the rushes had begun to fade, and to lose all their scent and beauty, from the very moment that she picked them? Even real scented rushes, you know, last only a very little while——and these, being dream-rushes, melted away almost like snow, as they lay in heaps at her feet——but Alice hardly noticed this, there were so many other curious things to think about.
Fragmento del capítulo quinto de Through the Looking–Glass, and What Alice Found There, de Lewis Carroll.
[Traducción de Jaime de Ojeda]