UPDATE: I heard back from Isabel Allende's assistant. Here's what he said:
Isabel works closely with her English translators. Usually as they translate sections they would send them to Isabel for her to review and then there is a final review of the entire book.
Striving to match the captivating allure of this prompt:
In the quiet decay of the mansion, Elizabeth and Jean found their sanctuary, the echoes of its past grandiosity still lingering in the air. The scent of old mahogany, the sight of faded tapestries portraying battles long forgotten, and the touch of delicate, time-worn lace curtains crafted an ambience of a bygone opulence.
But the walls, veined with ivy, could not contain the vibrant connection that sparked between them. Their affection, once dormant, now bloomed defiantly, a stark contrast to the subdued whispers of the house's aged spirits. With every lingering glance and soft-spoken word, they infused the air with a warmth that the cool stone corridors had not felt in years.
The mansion, as if recognizing the change, seemed to play a different tune, the floorboards creaking in rhythm to the new pulse of life within its chambers. In the midst of relics whispering of mortality, they discovered an immortal tenderness, crafting a living testament within the manor's silent walls. What unfolded was a dance of light and shadow, the interplay of life asserting itself amidst the trappings of time, creating a harmony that resonated through the old southern air.
Beautiful! The opening sentence surprises because of the unexpected reaction that Elizabeth and Jean have to the "quiet decay." They find it a sanctuary. Your use of series ushers in rhythm and lush details.
In the second paragraph, I'd clarify the "them." I think, after rereading it, that the "them" is Elizabeth and Jean, that they are infusing the mansion with a new energy: "could not contain the vibrant connection that sparked between Elizabeth and Jean." Right?
I'm a fan of personification and love how the house comes alive in the third paragraph, playing a new tune, and then the details that specify how the house is playing the new song.
I don't know why I've never taken a writing class, but just between us, I jump into crafting sentences with the same gusto I use for my abstract paintings and sculptures.
Such a good question! I'm going to see if I can find anything on the Internet about the translator. Some authors (like Haruki Murakami) work closely with the translator.
Your examples and sentence deconstructions leave me a bit breathless, like I've spent my reading life with the concert turned down so low I never noticed it. Did Allende know what she was doing? Could that level of writing be deliberate ... surely, it's the result of being touched by the gods. I am anxious to try ... but the day calls ... or is that fear rising?
Thank you! Try, I urge you to try. It's part of the writing practice, and writers like Allende have fine-tuned their ear and their writing to such a high degree that at this point, it might be "unconsciously competent," or in her case, "unconsciously brilliant."
Thanks. That makes complete sense and I love understanding more about what I'm shooting for. I don't know if it's unconscious or not, but you seem to have a brilliant gift for pointing out patterns that can lift our own writings.
Words come easy, like kittens in a garden, or rain in spring, fog offshore, but the music plays hard to get, falls flat and fades into dark, dead silence.
I love the swerve in this sentence and the contrast between ease and the difficulty. You have wonderful images coming in via the simile that make us see and feel the ease. The alliteration at the end is lovely, and then you bring in "plosives" or hard sounds at the end with "dark/dead" which is appropriate for the content.
I hung out in the corners of the great hall, often buried amidst grand tapestries woven with our glorious history, gregarious ewes, corgi guards giving me terrible haircuts, and a half-brother stealing all the best moments, but I never left even if the brown marking on my hind leg suggests in every way that I’m a special ewe, because it always felt harder to be unique than to hide behind my powerful mother, copying her every move.
Nov 13, 2023·edited Nov 13, 2023Liked by Nina Schuyler
Hi Nina (and All)! I'm missing your Stanford class so am joining Xiaoyan in giving these weekly prompts a try. Here goes nothing . . .
I traipse through ashes under an amber sky, and absentmindedly stroke the skeleton of a smoldering doghouse, the singed hair of a half-melted doll, charred family photos withering to dust, but with the wind I’m cleansed as tears fall down my face over sadness for the owner’s loss and relief it wasn’t my own.
The series of three is so vivid and sad - and with contrast within each phrase. "Absentmindedly stroke the skelenton of a smoldering doghouse" so well describes the numbing effect of a disaster. "But" introduces a complicated turn - the protagonist is cleansed partly because the loss wasn't their own...
Kara! I'm glad you're here! I've missed you in class. Your sentence makes me feel again the beauty and rhythm of the series and how much suspense/tension is created. You also haul in imagery that makes the sentence more vivid--the skeleton of a smoldering doghouse. I can smell the singed hair of the half-melted doll. See the charred family photos withering to dust. Then you come to the turn and it's surprising and honest--it's not the narrator's loss and the narrator is relieved.
Thank you, Nina! I continue to look at your Stanford class offerings hoping a future one will work (sadly, the winter novel one won't). Until then, I'm glad Xiaoyan reminded me of this. How did we ever do 3, 4 sometimes 5 sentences a week?! I'm a little rusty but appreciate you working my sentence-structuring muscles!
Thank you for this. You always seem to open little doors I hadn't even noticed were there. So I wander in and the writing is even better from inside. Quite wonderful.
I had the same question as Yuezhong. Was Allende's translator so good that s/he mananged to "translate" the beauty and power of the sentence from Spanish into English?
He grew up in a damp, dirt-floored room, a dim bulb, a rickety desk, a wooden bunk behind a bedsheet curtain, but none of those things made him humble because he was born with the ink of calligraphy masters pulsing in his veins.
The D alliteration--damp, dirt, dim, desk--pound through the opening, staccato-like, strengthening the extended series. Excellent job of shifting mood after "but," with the use of a long, flowing sentence. It's as if the calligraphy master were writing it with his pen--I can see it--the construct of the sentence reinforcing the imagery. And then "ink"--a short, hard word--breaking it up and drawing attention to this stunning visual. I loved "rickety." All the words play so beautifully together.
I was born behind a rubbish bin, and grew up amidst flea-ridden stray dogs and beggars in patch-worked robes and a gutter for a river flowing between my mother’s hovel and the sprawling city in the smog-filled distance. But my surroundings didn’t define me – I came into the world with the fresh spray of the ocean in my soul.
UPDATE: I heard back from Isabel Allende's assistant. Here's what he said:
Isabel works closely with her English translators. Usually as they translate sections they would send them to Isabel for her to review and then there is a final review of the entire book.
Best regards,
Nicolas
Striving to match the captivating allure of this prompt:
In the quiet decay of the mansion, Elizabeth and Jean found their sanctuary, the echoes of its past grandiosity still lingering in the air. The scent of old mahogany, the sight of faded tapestries portraying battles long forgotten, and the touch of delicate, time-worn lace curtains crafted an ambience of a bygone opulence.
But the walls, veined with ivy, could not contain the vibrant connection that sparked between them. Their affection, once dormant, now bloomed defiantly, a stark contrast to the subdued whispers of the house's aged spirits. With every lingering glance and soft-spoken word, they infused the air with a warmth that the cool stone corridors had not felt in years.
The mansion, as if recognizing the change, seemed to play a different tune, the floorboards creaking in rhythm to the new pulse of life within its chambers. In the midst of relics whispering of mortality, they discovered an immortal tenderness, crafting a living testament within the manor's silent walls. What unfolded was a dance of light and shadow, the interplay of life asserting itself amidst the trappings of time, creating a harmony that resonated through the old southern air.
Beautiful! The opening sentence surprises because of the unexpected reaction that Elizabeth and Jean have to the "quiet decay." They find it a sanctuary. Your use of series ushers in rhythm and lush details.
In the second paragraph, I'd clarify the "them." I think, after rereading it, that the "them" is Elizabeth and Jean, that they are infusing the mansion with a new energy: "could not contain the vibrant connection that sparked between Elizabeth and Jean." Right?
I'm a fan of personification and love how the house comes alive in the third paragraph, playing a new tune, and then the details that specify how the house is playing the new song.
I don't know why I've never taken a writing class, but just between us, I jump into crafting sentences with the same gusto I use for my abstract paintings and sculptures.
Yes! Thank you for the clarification.
Passion is a roaring fire!
Beware. Every single phrase is a haiku in my head.
Passion is a roar,
A fire igniting dawn’s sky—
Daybreak’s first fierce cry.
Midday’s zenith blaze,
Passion is a roaring fire!
Heart’s unbridled maze.
Evening’s gentle sigh,
Passion still a roaring fire,
’Neath the starlit sky.
Lovely!!
I've reached out to Isabel Allende's assistant to see if we can learn about the role of the translator.
Thank you. 🙏
Is the alliteration the result of translation (the artwork of the translator) or was it written similarly in Spanish by Allende?
Such a good question! I'm going to see if I can find anything on the Internet about the translator. Some authors (like Haruki Murakami) work closely with the translator.
Your examples and sentence deconstructions leave me a bit breathless, like I've spent my reading life with the concert turned down so low I never noticed it. Did Allende know what she was doing? Could that level of writing be deliberate ... surely, it's the result of being touched by the gods. I am anxious to try ... but the day calls ... or is that fear rising?
Thank you! Try, I urge you to try. It's part of the writing practice, and writers like Allende have fine-tuned their ear and their writing to such a high degree that at this point, it might be "unconsciously competent," or in her case, "unconsciously brilliant."
Thanks. That makes complete sense and I love understanding more about what I'm shooting for. I don't know if it's unconscious or not, but you seem to have a brilliant gift for pointing out patterns that can lift our own writings.
Unconsciously brilliant is the sentence, and the author. Thank you Nina for encouraging us to put aside fear and "just do it."
Teaching for me is a relationship. Your work inspires me!
Words come easy, like kittens in a garden, or rain in spring, fog offshore, but the music plays hard to get, falls flat and fades into dark, dead silence.
I love the swerve in this sentence and the contrast between ease and the difficulty. You have wonderful images coming in via the simile that make us see and feel the ease. The alliteration at the end is lovely, and then you bring in "plosives" or hard sounds at the end with "dark/dead" which is appropriate for the content.
OOF I love this. Devastating. The ease and the lightness of the first sentence and the harsh end of the second!
I hung out in the corners of the great hall, often buried amidst grand tapestries woven with our glorious history, gregarious ewes, corgi guards giving me terrible haircuts, and a half-brother stealing all the best moments, but I never left even if the brown marking on my hind leg suggests in every way that I’m a special ewe, because it always felt harder to be unique than to hide behind my powerful mother, copying her every move.
Kusco the Ewe
[translated by human writer Odele]
I'm admiring sheep on a whole other level thanks to this touching and beautiful sentence! Thank you!
Brilliant.
Hi Nina (and All)! I'm missing your Stanford class so am joining Xiaoyan in giving these weekly prompts a try. Here goes nothing . . .
I traipse through ashes under an amber sky, and absentmindedly stroke the skeleton of a smoldering doghouse, the singed hair of a half-melted doll, charred family photos withering to dust, but with the wind I’m cleansed as tears fall down my face over sadness for the owner’s loss and relief it wasn’t my own.
The series of three is so vivid and sad - and with contrast within each phrase. "Absentmindedly stroke the skelenton of a smoldering doghouse" so well describes the numbing effect of a disaster. "But" introduces a complicated turn - the protagonist is cleansed partly because the loss wasn't their own...
Kara! I'm glad you're here! I've missed you in class. Your sentence makes me feel again the beauty and rhythm of the series and how much suspense/tension is created. You also haul in imagery that makes the sentence more vivid--the skeleton of a smoldering doghouse. I can smell the singed hair of the half-melted doll. See the charred family photos withering to dust. Then you come to the turn and it's surprising and honest--it's not the narrator's loss and the narrator is relieved.
Thank you, Nina! I continue to look at your Stanford class offerings hoping a future one will work (sadly, the winter novel one won't). Until then, I'm glad Xiaoyan reminded me of this. How did we ever do 3, 4 sometimes 5 sentences a week?! I'm a little rusty but appreciate you working my sentence-structuring muscles!
Thank you for this. You always seem to open little doors I hadn't even noticed were there. So I wander in and the writing is even better from inside. Quite wonderful.
Thank you! Each time, I am first stunned at the stunningness of the sentence, and then I want to understand it.
I had the same question as Yuezhong. Was Allende's translator so good that s/he mananged to "translate" the beauty and power of the sentence from Spanish into English?
I believe some Goddess from on high did the translation.
I think that's true.
Wow. Am going to incorporate this, somehow.
It would work well in your work-in-progress novel!
Love this. Thank you. 💕
He grew up in a damp, dirt-floored room, a dim bulb, a rickety desk, a wooden bunk behind a bedsheet curtain, but none of those things made him humble because he was born with the ink of calligraphy masters pulsing in his veins.
The D alliteration--damp, dirt, dim, desk--pound through the opening, staccato-like, strengthening the extended series. Excellent job of shifting mood after "but," with the use of a long, flowing sentence. It's as if the calligraphy master were writing it with his pen--I can see it--the construct of the sentence reinforcing the imagery. And then "ink"--a short, hard word--breaking it up and drawing attention to this stunning visual. I loved "rickety." All the words play so beautifully together.
Thank you, Kara!
Oh my this awakened something inside of me. Brilliant.
Already done. Thank you!
I was born behind a rubbish bin, and grew up amidst flea-ridden stray dogs and beggars in patch-worked robes and a gutter for a river flowing between my mother’s hovel and the sprawling city in the smog-filled distance. But my surroundings didn’t define me – I came into the world with the fresh spray of the ocean in my soul.