Review: Transparent Body & Other Texts by Max Blecher

Author	Max Blecher
Translated By	Gabi Reigh
Genre	Fiction, Poetry, Letters
Language(s)	Romanian
Format	174 Pages
Publisher	Twisted Spoon Press
ISBN	9788088628033

Reviewed by  Amanda L. Andrei

The only thing more magical than receiving a letter from a friend is reading the letters of a writer you admire, and feeling as if they were sent to you. Translated from Romanian by Gabi Reigh, Transparent Body and & Other Texts collects poems, short prose, aphorisms, doodles, interviews—and best of all, letters—by the Romanian Jewish interwar writer Max Blecher. Reading Blecher’s work 80 years after his death feels as intimate and resonant as catching up with an old friend who has suffered and cared deeply. 

Transparent Body was first published as a limited-edition release in 1934 when Blecher was 25 years old. By that time, he had been suffering from spinal tuberculosis for over 6 years, shuffling between various sanatoria before returning to his hometown in Botoșani, Romania. Despite his illness, he continued to write and publish texts that vibrate with urgency, intensity, and surrealism.

In the short triptych story “IX – MIX – FIX,” the narrator relates a bizarre scenario with emotional distance yet keen attention to the nightmarish physics that dissolves corporal and spiritual experiences into one. During one scene, he writes:

“I flew through chaotic chambers walled by bulbous, diseased clouds. I was hanging by the belly of a flying half-dog, my fingers digging into its flesh. But my legs were too long and, as they manically raced on the metal floor, metre-high sparks burst under my feet. Solitude chased me, flying towards me with a keener, sharper melancholy: I could no longer tell whether the rush of speed raced through my body or my soul.”

Blecher’s aphorisms also reflect cynical Romanian humor: 

“Some people make others miserable by oppressing them, while others, conversely, by supporting them.” 

Others, poetic despair: 

“It is the magnetism of the abyss that looms over every conversation.”  

Reading the list of aphorisms in one sitting feels a touch overwhelming: each maxim is a finely-cut gem of philosophy that deserves its own moment of contemplation.

The collection also has {dozens, a sprinkling, 13, etc.} letters that reveal a different side of Blecher, more emotional and intimate, with humor that is less heavy and more sparkling.

In a letter dated May 16, 1930, to the French avant-garde poet Pierre Minet, he writes in response to a missed phone call from Minet about accidentally leaving a map in his carriage. The letter meanders to the 20-year-old Blecher describing his feelings of exasperated loneliness as he convalesces in the northern French commune of Bereck-sur-Mer. Some of his humor and frustration bursts out, provoking sympathy in the reader for this young artist who is deeply held back by his ill health and circumstances: “Of course, I am reliably informed that ordinary life is desperately idiotic, but I haven’t experienced it for myself!” 

Other correspondence includes Blecher’s letters to other European literati such as Valerie Ionescu (editor of magazine Viața literatură), Alexandru Binder (editor of unu, which published works by other seminal Romanian modernist writers), and Geo Bogza (Romanian interwar avant-garde poet and early Surrealist). Blecher muses on his projects and artistic process, his family members and health, and his wishes and affection. Reigh’s translation beautifully portrays his vulnerability and shifting emotions, and an ample amount of footnotes in the correspondence provides more historical context for Blecher and his colleagues. 

Although he passed away in 1938 at the age of 28, Blecher produced a stunning body of work in a short time. Transparent Body & Other Texts gives Anglophone literature an insight into a lesser-known avant-garde author—and not only through his surrealist fiction and prose, but to his struggles, doubts, and hopes. 

Max Blecher’s novel Scarred Hearts was made into a film by one of the top Romanian filmmakers, Radu Jude.

Review: Night truck driver

Night truck driver, By Marcin Świetlicki

Translated from Polish by Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese

Poetry

ISBN 9781938890802

128 pages 

Bilingual: Polish and English on facing pages

Zephyr Press

Reviewed by Amanda L. Andrei

 

“Everything drips” follows immediately with an imperative, or maybe even a plea: “Don’t come into my dreams, don’t. In one dream / drown for good and don’t show up in any other.” To whom is the speaker addressing? A relative, a lover, a stranger, a monster? The ambiguity of other people’s presences in this poem and others compounds the sense of unease, giving you the sense of a faintly remembered nightmare just out of reach, or a stranger passing by your unlit house. Later on, in “Saturday, an impulse” the speaker announces, “Evil has come to my dream,” after which a female presence instructs them to undress and return to bed where they embrace. Other poems suggest the speaker is themself a dream, conjured by a stone or a stone moon, or a person falls asleep in broad daylight, searching for a missive in the world of sleep. The space between dreamer and reverie is not simply porous or overlapping: it is all-encompassing, cavernous, dissolving into the ache of the unknown.

The female presence in the dreams, waking life, and spaces in between appears to be a lover, the mother of the speaker’s child—or perhaps many lovers, or many mothers—but also an anonymous, distant figure(s) who seems to be on a parallel yet displaced wavelength from the speaker. The speaker seems to be in constant dialogue with this presence and others like it, and even when those energies are absent from the poem’s scene, the speaker continues evoking, recalling, and defying them. Herein is the brilliance of Wójcik-Leese’s translation that melds this shadowy feminine presence with that eternal, ever-present mystery: Death. 

One poem in particular showcases the paradox of having a relationship with that mystery. “Posthumous correspondence” (Korespondencja pośmiertna) takes the shape of a stage or screenplay script in which a Man dialogues with Death. Glancing on the left side of the page at the Polish, I observed that the poem followed a different structure, without the character/dialogue formatting.

Curious about this choice, I reached out to Wójcik-Leese, who explained that in Polish, death is grammatically feminine, and so verb endings signifying grammatic gender reveal which passages are spoken by Death and which passages are uttered by the other person. In their translation collaboration, Świetlicki suggested pointing out the different speakers in the exchange, which resulted in a fascinating version of the original poem in English. Both correspondents seem to be speaking aloud (as if in a script), but the framework of the text is as a letter. The reader feels the conflict and contradictions of their communication—not merely between speakers and what they speak of, but how they speak to each other and the plaintive rhythm of their exchange. 

Towards the end of the collection, the poems become sparser, more like jottings and diary entries. It’s as if the narrator is integrating the past, musing over the present and future, where “Plastic soldiers utter their war cries” in the ironically titled, “First poem” which is the third to last in the volume. Maybe this is the first poem for a new world or worlds, a transition point for more. It’s significant that Świetlicki has written thirteen books of poetry and that Night truck driver is the first English language collection in his work, which Wójcik-Leese notes in the translator’s afterword “follows the chronology of his poetic life and the lives of his individual volumes.” One hopes that more translations will come, as Świetlicki and Wójcik-Leese capture so hauntingly and precisely the cold ache of being called—and caught—among many worlds.

Radio Interview with Trafika Europe where you can hear Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese read the poems in Polish and English.

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