Translations Of Balkan And Eastern European Languages In Uk

LILI NOVY - Slovene poetess (1885–1958) A Ship Life seems to carry you just like a ship across the seas with boundaries unknown. In fog all backgrounds fade, appear to slip, and veiled is all you will go through alone.
LADJA ... Lili Novy, pesnica (1885–1958) Življenje nosi te naprej kot ladja po morju, ki mejà mu ne poznaš. V meglì izginjajo ti vsa ozadja, zastrto je, kar pred seboj imaš.
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ALMA KARLIN - a traveler, writer, poet, collector, polyglot and theosophist (1889 – 1950), born in Celje, Slovenia Author of 'The Lonely Journey'
"How strange, when you look back on life. When you are going through something, it seems so big. But when you look back at it, it is all so small ..."
... “Kako nenavadno je, ko se ozreš nazaj na življenje. Ko neko stvar doživljaš, se ti zdi vse tako veliko, ko pa se ozreš nazaj, je vse tako majhno.
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AMONG THE THOUSANDS I WOULD KNOW YOU Mila Kačič (Slovene poet, 1912 - 2000)
Among the thousands I would recognize your walk in every kind of hurried pace, ... even in dreams I’d know your gentle breath among the thousands sleeping in peace.
With darkened eyes I’d find your face, with deafened ears I’d hear your sound. Even if the wind smoothed every trace I’d find your prints in the sandy ground.
Flee from me wherever you want; although you turn into a path most hidden, like a criminal, conscience ridden, you can never escape my thought.
----------------------------------------- ----------------------------- MED TISOČI BI TE SPOZNALA Mila Kačič (1912 - 2000)
Med tisoči spoznala tvoj korak bi v vseh mogočih ritmih nog hitečih; in v sanjah še spoznala mirni dih bi tvoj med tisoči spokojno spečih.
S temo v očeh bi tvoje lice našla, z ušesi mrtvimi tvoj čula smeh; če veter še tako bi pota zgladil, bi našla tvojo sled v peščenih tleh.
Le beži pred menoj, le, kamor koli. Čeprav na najbolj skrito pot zaviješ, se vendar - kakor grešnik pred vestjo - pred mojo mislijo nikjer ne skriješ.
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YOU MUST LOVE SOMEONE by Slovene poet Ivan Minatti (1924-2012)
You must love someone, even if only grass, a river, a tree or a stone,... on someone’s shoulder you must lay your hand, so that it gluts its hunger with nearness, there must, must be someone, -it is like bread, like a drink of water- to whom you must give your white clouds, your brave birds of dreams, your timid birds of despair - somewhere for them there must be a nest of peace and tenderness - you must love someone, even if only grass, a river, a tree or a stone, for trees and grass know of loneliness - for footsteps always pass by, even if for a moment they linger - for the river knows of sorrow - it need only brood over its depths -, for the stone knows of pain - how many heavy feet have already stumped over its mute heart -, you must love someone, you must love someone, walk side by side with someone on the same path - oh grass, river, stone, tree, silent companions of the strange and lonely, good, great beings, who begin to speak only when men have fallen silent.
NEKOGA MORAŠ IMETI RAD
Nekoga moraš imeti rad, pa čeprav trave, reko, drevo ali kamen, nekomu moraš nasloniti roko na ramo, da se, lačna, nasiti bližine, nekomu moraš, moraš, to je kot kruh, kot požirek vode, moraš dati svoje bele oblake, svoje drzne ptice sanj, svoje plašne ptice nemoči - nekje mora biti zanje gnezdo miru in nežnosti - nekoga moraš imeti rad, pa čeprav trave, reko, drevo ali kamen, ker drevesa in trave vedo za samoto - kajti koraki vselej odidejo dalje, pa čeprav se za hip ustavijo - , ker reka ve za žalost - če se le nagne nad svojo globino -, ker kamen pozna bolečino - koliko težkih nog je že šlo čez njegovo nemo srce -, nekoga moraš imeti rad, nekoga moraš imeti rad, z nekom moraš v korak, v isto sled - o trave, reka, kamen, drevo, molčeči spremljevalci samotnežev in čudakov, dobra in velika bitja, ki spregovore samo, kadar umolknejo ljudje.
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I Saw Her That Night, Drago Jančar, Slovene writer (b. 1948)
I saw her, that night, as if she was alive. She was coming down the aisle in the middle of the barrack, between the bunk beds, where my comrades breathed peacefully in their sleep. She stopped next to my bed, stared thoughtfully at me for a while, rather blankly, as always when she was unable to sleep and wandered around our apartment in Maribor, stood by the window, sat on the bed and went back to the window again.... What’s wrong, Stevo? she said, you can’t sleep either? Her voice was low, deep, almost manly, but muffled somehow, distant like her stare. I was surprised I even recognized it; it was so distinctly hers, this voice which, with the years, got lost somewhere in the distance. I could call her before my inner eyes anytime, her eyes, her hair, her lips, yes, even her body that, so many times before, had lain panting beside me, but I was unable to hear her voice; when you do not see someone for a long time, the voice is the first thing to go, its sound, its colour and power. I had not seen her for a long time, how long? I thought, at least seven years. ----------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- --- To noč sem jo videl
To noč sem jo videl, kakor da bi bila živa. Prihajala je po prehodu sredi barake, med pogradi, kjer so mirno v snu dihali moji tovariši. Ustavila se je ob moji postelji, nekaj časa me je zamišljeno gledala, nekako odsotno, kakor zmeraj, kadar ni mogla spati in je blodila po najinem mariborskem stanovanju, postala ob oknu. Kaj je Stevo?, je rekla, tudi ti ne moreš spati? Njen glas je bil tih, globok, skoraj moški, a nekako zastrt, odsoten kakor njen pogled. Bil sem presenečen, ker sem ga spoznal, tako razločno njen je bil, ta glas, ki se je z leti izgubil nekje v daljavi. Njeno podobo sem si lahko priklical pred notranje oči kadarkoli, njene oči, lase, ustnice, da, tudi telo, ki je tolikokrat zadihano obležalo ob meni, nisem pa mogel slišati njenega glasu; od osebe, ki je dolgo ne vidiš, najprej izgine glas, zvok, njegova barva in moč. Zelo dolgo je nisem videl, koliko? sem pomislil, najmanj sedem let.
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Bekim Sejranović (1972), contemporary Bosnian writer; from the novel "More Beautiful Ending" (Ljepši kraj)
“There is no hugging and kissing like in the Balkans. There you have to kiss even the people you see every other day. With girls I could somehow put up with it, but with men it really got on my nerves. The worst for me are the ones who take offence if, by their judgment, you didn’t kiss them passionately enough. And then you also have to be careful about which people you... should kiss two times or three times, and there were also those who were sensitive about which cheek you kissed first. Just because of this kissing, I lost a few people who I had thought could become real friends.” ----------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ---------- "Nema ljubljenja i grljenja kao na Balkanu. Tamo se moraš ljubiti s ljudima koje viđaš svaki drugi dan. S djevojkama bih to još nekako i podnio, ali s muškarcima bi mi zbilja išlo na živce. Najgori su oni koji se još i uvrijede ako ih, po njihovom sudu, ne izljubiš dovoljno strasno. Pa onda moraš paziti hoćeš li nekog poljubiti dva ili tri puta, a bilo je i onih koji su osjetjivi i na to u koju ćeš mu stranu dati prvi poljubac. Izgubio sam zbog tog ljubljenja nekoliko ljudi za koje sam mislio da bi mi mogli biti prijatelji."
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― Mehmed Meša Selimović (1910 -1982), one of the greatest Bosnian writers of the 20th century, author of the masterpiece Death and the Dervish
"A good person sees goodness in everyone, and a bad person sees evil in everything. Don't disturb your inner peace with thoughts about others' imperfections. If someone hurts you, get over it. Be like a Rose that shares its fragrance with everyone, not just the good people, or a Tree which gives shade even to that who wants to cut it... down." ----------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ------------------ “Dobar čovjek vidi dobrotu u svakome, a loš vidi u svemu zlo. Nemoj svoj duševni mir narušavati tako što ćeš razmišljati o nedostacima drugih. Ako te neko povrijedi, prijeđi preko toga. I budi kao Ruža koja daje miris svima, a ne samo dobrima, ili Drvo koje daje hlad i onome koji želi da ga sasiječe.”
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A FACE BY THE WINDOW Srečko Kosovel
I love you, the grey face in the grey window of the coffee house - the face... with expectations.- In the age of broken spears, ships, masts - the heart full of arrows - grey apathy in the eyes, you would know: It spills over us like a cascade of light from the sky.
We will be able to look at the swaying of the green seas and see terrifying whirlpools, sailors on masts, without nervousness.
----------------------------------------- -- OBRAZ V OKNU
Ljubim te, sivi obraz, v sivem oknu kavarne — pričakujoči obraz — V dobi zlomljenih osti, ladij, jamborov — v srcu šop puščic — v očeh siva brezvolja, ti že veš: Z neba se kot slap luči razlije na nas.
Lahko bomo gledali zibanje morij zelenih in videli strašne vrtince, mornarje na jamborih brez nervoznosti.
Slovenian poet Srečko Kosovel (1904 -1926) is one of the most praised representatives of the Slovenian "historical avant-garde". During his short life, especially in last four years of it, he created more than one thousand poems which were left in manuscript and a couple of hundred prose works consisting of lyrical prose and sketches, literary criticism and essays on cultural problems, notes, diaries and letters, and published only some poems in some literary review, but not a single book.
He was labeled an impressionistic poet of his native Karst region, a political poet resisting forced Italianization of the Slovene areas annexed by Italy, an expressionist, a dadaist, a satirist, and as a voice of international socialism, using avant-garde constructivist forms.
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"I loved to love more than it is usual. Therefore, my dreams had nowhere to go. So, I bowed to the ground. Leave the windows open at night. Leave them for the dreams to feel free to go.... To turn into the wind, feather, cloud, dust ... So they will never hurt …"
― Milena Pavlović Barili (1909-1945), Serbian poet and painter
“Volela sam da volim više nego što je uobičajeno. Zato moji snovi nisu imali kuda da odu. Pa sam se do zemlje savila. Ostavite noću prozore otvorene. Ostavite ih da snovi mogu slobodno da odu da se pretvore u vetar, pero, oblak, prah... Da vas nikada ne zabole..”
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My sister returned to Sarajevo after the war and worked there equipped with a Canadian passport. Because of the nature of her work as a political analyst, she encountered a lot of foreign and domestic politicians and officials. Brandishing a somewhat ethnically confusing name, speaking both Bosnian and English, she was hard to identify and was often asked, by both the locals and foreigners: "What are you?" Kristina is tough and cheeky (having survived an assassination attempt... early in her life) so she would immediately ask back: "And why do you ask?" They asked, of course, because they needed to know what her ethnicity was so they could know what she was thinking, so they could determine which ethnic group she was truly representing, what her real agenda was. To them, she was irrelevant as a person, even more so as a woman, while her education or ability to think for herself could never overcome or transcend her ethnically defined modes of thought. She was hopelessly entangled in her roots, as it were.
The question was, obviously, deeply racist, so some of the culturally sensitive foreigners would initially be embarrassed by her counterquestion, but after some hesitation they would press on, while the locals would just press on without hesitation—my sister's knowledge, her very existence was unknowable until she ethnically declared herself. Finally, she would say: "I'm Bosnian," which is not an ethnicity, but one of her two citizenships—a deeply unsatisfying answer to the international bureaucrats of Bosnia, bravely manning government desks and expensive restaurants.
From "The Book of my Lives" by Aleksandar Hemon, a Bosnian-born fiction writer, essayist, and critic
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“Better to do nothing than to engage in localized acts whose ultimate function is to make the system run more smoothly. The threat today is not passivity, but pseudo-activity, the urge to "be active", to "participate", to mask the Nothingness of what goes on. People intervene all the time, "doing something"; academics participate in meaningless "debates," etc.; but the truly difficult thing is to step back, to withdraw from it all. Those in power often prefer even "critical" ...participation or a critical dialogue to silence, since to engage us in such a "dialogue" ensures that our ominous passivity is broken.The "Bartlebian act" I propose is violent precisely insofar as it entails ceasing this obsessive activity-in it, violence and non-violence overlap (non-violence appears as the highest violence), likewise activity and inactivity (the most radical thing is to do nothing).”
- In Defense of Lost Causes Slavoj Žižek, Slovenian philosopher and cultural critic
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‘“I thank you again but I cannot roam, I simply prefer my own humble home” Fox grasps his small hand and begs him to stay But whispers and pleas will not see him sway"
... HEDGEHOG'S HOME (Ježeva kućica) by Branko Ćopić, Yugoslav writer
Hedgehog's Home (1951), is a story about caring for your natural habitat. Set in the unspoilt environment of the forest, we find the wild creatures arguing about what home means: is it simply a place we should take for granted or is it something to be cherished and protected? Despite the persuasions of charming Miss Fox and the jeers of the angry wolf, Hedgemond steadfastly proves that his home is his castle, reminding us all that we each need to care for the places we live.
Branko Ćopić (1915-1984) was one of a generation of great writers who truly considered themselves Yugoslav. During his lifetime, he wrote a number of books for adults and children, but arguably 'Hedgehog's Home' is the favourite of many generations. Despite its popularity, the translation to English by IstrosBook (http://istrosbooks.com) is the first English edition of the story.
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"I don't make plans anymore. I only live this life. Sometimes as I want, sometimes as I have to. Little things paint my life. Little things are luck. That's why I love the little things. And large bags. I carry them with me everywhere. It is because I owe myself a few more walks between the expected and unplanned. "
Ivo Andrić - Yugoslav and a Bosnian novelist, short story writer & Nobel prizewinner

Fatima was a remarkable woman in every respect. She knew a thousand wonderful things and never seemed to be at a loss. She knew a hundred riddles, and once she had revealed the answers to all of them, she came up with new ones day after day. She knew all of the songs that were sung from the far south of Arabia to Egypt and Syria and all the way to the north of Turkestan. But she also had other talents. In the midst of a grove the eunuchs had set up for her a longish building ...made of glass, inside of which, on branches broken off of the mulberry trees that grew at the river's edge like willows, she raised silkworms. She liked to say that their cocoons would provide enough silk to clothe every girl in the gardens.
The girls most enjoyed hearing her tell stories from the Thousand and One Nights and from Firdausi's Book of Kings. She was no less inventive than Scheherazade at telling these stories. Whatever the tooth of time had chipped away from her memory she compensated for out of her own imagination. Many stories were her own creation from start to finish ...
From a novel ALAMUT by Slovenian author Vladimir Bartol (1903 -1967), first published in 1938, dealing with the story of Hassan-i Sabbah and the Hashshashin, and named after their Alamut fortress
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We gathered that evening for coffee, and he brought a tape recorder from Ruža's house. I thought to myself, what's with you and tape recorder when machine guns are playing out there. But he said he'd like to record a message for his son in Zagreb and send it through that American; will not write because the little one will take him more seriously if he hears his voice.
He pulled a wallet out of his pocket, took out a picture and started: "Son, it was the bad people who did ...this to us. Neither your nor my friends are to be blamed, drunk Avdo who drilled my tires that year when I parked my car in front of his garage is not to be blamed either, nor the mullah from Turbe who was saying to people they should not handshake or kiss with Catholics in those days when they are slaughtering the pigs ... We only have to blame the evil people. I don't want to hear that you hate someone, dear God forbid I hear you are cursing somebody for what is happening to us, because I'll break both your legs. Whatever happens, remember what I said. Every bad word will return to you as a rock when you're most vulnerable. So much from me, study well, send us something when you can, but don't spend too much, don't drink, don't walk late in the city and protect your girlfriend. So much from me son, love from your father. ----------------------------------------- --------------------------------- Unknown places, new people, strange cities are interesting until you see how empty they are. Nobody knows, or should know, that you just wanted to return to a familiar world.
from Sarajevo Marlboro by Bosnian writer Miljenko Jergović
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"I cannot say: Be my friend. But I can say: I will be your friend. Friendship is not chosen, it happens for some reason, like love ... Nothing I have given to you, but to myself."
Meša Selimović

"We should invent a new language, pure, undefiled, which would have the clarity, depth and power, which would be able to express true feelings. Such language, precise and powerful, would represent the strongest defense against evil."
Kuća sećanja i zaborava (The house of memories and forgetfulness) by Serbian author Filip David