{"id":411892,"date":"2019-01-11T13:00:19","date_gmt":"2019-01-11T18:00:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/?p=411892"},"modified":"2019-01-10T12:19:02","modified_gmt":"2019-01-10T17:19:02","slug":"bardo-or-not-bardo-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/2019\/01\/11\/bardo-or-not-bardo-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"Bardo or Not Bardo [Excerpt]"},"content":{"rendered":"

In support of Antoine Volodine as our featured “Author of the Month,” throughout the day we’ll be posting excerpts from the three books of his Open Letter has already published. (Next week we’ll run excerpts from forthcoming ones . . . )\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Next up is\u00a0<\/em>Bardo or Not Bardo<\/a>,\u00a0translated from the French by J.T. Mahany.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Remember, if you use the code VOLODINE at checkout<\/a>, you can get 30% off of all Volodine books. (Offer valid until midnight 1\/31\/2019.)<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

from “Glouchenko”<\/strong><\/p>\n

B<\/span>rass horns. They can send a very deep note over an enormous distance, across the valley when there are mountains and a valley, when there is a rocky landscape, full of abrupt fractures and sparse grasses. That\u2019s what we hear first. Lamaist, Tibetan horns. That\u2019s how the book begins. It\u2019s an unusual sound, but one heeded without reserve. Straightaway we know that this vibration is a part of ordinary life and death. We like it immediately. It invades the world, the body\u2019s bones, flesh and images and even the dead mired in the body\u2019s folds, and it is soothing. That is what the first, the very first, sound is like. Soon after, a collective murmur arises. It spreads nearby, as if it were taking place within an assembly more interested in long prayers than anecdotes or pointless narrations. The voices are indecipherable. A ceremony is underway, in a language that does not seem to be our own. In any case, we understand it a bit less than our own.<\/p>\n

Then comes a silence.<\/p>\n

This happens several times: horns thunder, voices blend into an incomprehensible address, then comes a silence.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s beautiful.<\/p>\n

I then hear the voice of the soldier Glouchenko, and this music, these noises, diminish. Soon they stop entirely.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs someone there?\u201d Glouchenko asks. \u201cDid someone say something?\u201d (Silence.) \u201cWhat are those . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

He gropes around, an iron cup scrapes on a shelf and topples over into the void. It clatters violently against the ground.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019ve cut off the power, the bastards.\u201d (Silence.) \u201cHey! Is anyone there?\u201d<\/p>\n

No answer. Absolute darkness surrounds Glouchenko. So thick, so black, it feels like ink running through your fingers. Glouchenko doesn\u2019t dare move. He\u2019s never felt at ease in the dark, he\u2019s a little potbellied, not very skilled with his body, he\u2019s afraid of causing a disaster. He wipes his moist hands on his pants.<\/p>\n

The chorus of murmurs picks back up. It\u2019d be difficult to determine its point of origin, where in space. It is simply there, in the background to the dark. One voice is now detaching itself from the rest, becoming more distinct. The language hasn\u2019t changed: still more foreign than our own.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t think I can say I recognize this voice, since it has been depersonalized by the demands of the ritual, and flattened by its journey through the dark space. Despite all that, some of its inflections might remind me of something. A long time ago, I met a man who wished to dedicate himself to the exploration of magical universes. That man\u2019s name was Schmunck, like mine, with a different first name than my own, Baabar. My first name is Mario, but that\u2019s not important. Let\u2019s say that the voice I\u2019m identifying here is Schmunck\u2019s. So as not to complicate the story, we\u2019ll say that I recognize it. It\u2019s a solemn, controlled voice, like those that frequently resonate in monastery meditation rooms.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh noble son,\u201d the officiant says, \u201cyou who are named Glouchenko, the time has come for you to find the Way into the Light. Your breathing has just ceased, your body has already begun to cool. In the life you have left behind, you received a military education, since you were an artilleryman, but you also received a religious education, long ago when you were infatuated with Buddhism. You spent several months in an ashram and were told many times about the Clear Light. Now that you are currently neither living nor dead, wandering through the Bardo, which is to say the world that serves as a link between life and rebirth, you will come into contact with the Clear Light.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome to your senses, noble son, you who are named Glouchenko. Remember the lessons the priests passed on to you. Prepare yourself. I am here to help you. I am the monk speaking into your cadaver\u2019s ear. I am going to guide you to your confrontation with the Clear Light. You are now going to find yourself with a choice: turn to enlightenment and become Buddha, like many brave souls before you, or pursue the foolish and painful wandering of the living, who travel ceaselessly from birth to death, then from death to rebirth, without consolation or respite . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the . . .\u201d Glouchenko says.<\/p>\n

In the established silence, he cautiously advances two or three steps. He has no landmarks, save for the iron cup that fell in front of him earlier. The cup bumps against his foot. It gives him some small confidence. He pushes it as he moves.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s a guy talking somewhere in the dark,\u201d he states.<\/p>\n

The cup rolls. It slips out of his reach. He shuffles carefully right and left, but can\u2019t find it. He\u2019s lost the cup. He stops walking.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, talking guy!\u201d he shouts. \u201cShow yourself! Did you turn off the dorm lights? Well? I can\u2019t see a thing, it\u2019s darker than night in here . . .\u201d (Silence.) \u201cAnd what\u2019s this cadaver business you keep talking about? I heard you mention a cadaver. I\u2019m not deaf. What\u2019s with this cadaver and Clear Light business, huh?\u201d (Silence.) \u201cHey, boys! Where\u2019d you all go? Hey! Where\u2019d you all go, you lousy . . .\u201d (Silence.)<\/p>\n

Glouchenko has come to a halt. He is not normally a cowardly sort, but he is disoriented, and afraid of bumping into an obstacle, or being swallowed by a hole again. By an ordinary hole or an abyss.<\/p>\n

\u201cOr maybe,\u201d he mutters, \u201cthere\u2019s been a short circuit, and the lazy slobs are pretending to sleep so they won\u2019t have to go down to the basement. Hey, guy who was talking a minute ago, would it kill you to go change the fuses? Are you pretending to be asleep now too?\u201d (Silence.) \u201cFine. I get it. Glouchenko has to take care of it himself.\u201d<\/p>\n

He starts walking again. If we listen, we can recreate his slow exploration of the dark. He collides with an obstacle. He lets out an exclamation of pain. He mutters.<\/p>\n

\u201cDammit,\u201d he says. \u201cYou really can\u2019t see anything. Finding the meter\u2019s not going to be easy. There must be an electric meter near a door or in the basements. A circuit breaker. Gotta find a door, to start. A door or some stairs.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the distance, the splendid lamaist horns sound out. The officiant\u2019s voice follows. It is suddenly clear and distinct, going straight into the skull as if it sprung directly from memory.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh noble son, Glouchenko,\u201d says Schmunck. \u201cI repeat this into your cadaver\u2019s ear, I will not stop repeating it over the next few days, before a photograph of you, or your clothes once your body has been taken away, or a chair in which you used to sit: the time has come for you to find the Way into the Light.\u201d<\/p>\n

Schmunck\u2019s profound bass begins to grow weaker.<\/p>\n

The speech is becoming an unintelligible rumination.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t find a thing,\u201d Glouchenko complains. \u201cNo doors, no stairs . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

I suppose Glouchenko advances by groping at the space in front of him. That doesn\u2019t stop collisions. He bumps into things standing in his way that had gone undetected by his hands. Low pieces of furniture, stools-turned-nightstands. Sometimes he snags objects by accident. The objects fall and break.These incidents exasperate him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is this place?\u201d he grumbles. \u201cThe walls don\u2019t have windows. Those jerks must\u2019ve moved me while I was sleeping. They took me out of the hospital dormitory, they moved me here, to this . . . I can\u2019t figure out what this place is . . . They must have waited for me to start snoring, I mean I am a pretty heavy sleeper . . . Good job, boys! That\u2019s a smart prank!\u201d (Silence.) \u201cUnbelievable how dark it is!\u201d (Silence.) \u201cThey\u2019ve been hiding somewhere the whole time . . . They\u2019re watching me, laughing quietly, those idiots . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

He shouts.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you think this is funny?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In support of Antoine Volodine as our featured “Author of the Month,” throughout the day we’ll be posting excerpts from the three books of his Open Letter has already published. (Next week we’ll run excerpts from forthcoming ones . . . )\u00a0 Next up is\u00a0Bardo or Not Bardo,\u00a0translated from the French by J.T. Mahany.\u00a0 Remember, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":292,"featured_media":411812,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[67486],"tags":[49366,68252],"class_list":["post-411892","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-articles","tag-antoine-volodine","tag-author-of-the-month"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/411892","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/292"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=411892"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/411892\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":411912,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/411892\/revisions\/411912"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/411812"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=411892"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=411892"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=411892"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}