César Vallejo, the Man and the Poet
(For Spanish translation click here)

HOW DID I COME TO TRANSLATE the poetry of César Vallejo in 1969? First, having only a peripheral knowledge of Spanish, I never professed to be “translating” his verse in the literal sense, but to be transubstantiating them from one language to another. Initially, Cassell’s Spanish Dictionary, the 1959 edition, was my constant companion.

I first became acquainted with Vallejo’s poetry through the pioneer translations of his work by Thomas Merton, Donald Devenish Walsh, Muna Lee de Muñoz Marín, H. R. Hays, James Wright, and Robert Bly. I was not out to improve what they had accomplished. I loved what they’d done.

Having read about his life—consumed by the burden of poverty and malnutrition—I felt he was a kindred spirit; and through his verse, I came to understand the bleakness, the loneliness, the deprivation of what he had expressed in his daily living. Life was not kind to him.

I experienced what he experienced. It’s no fun being poor in Paris, especially during his sojourn there in those late 1930s, I can imagine. Sixty years later I, too, have walked those same Paris streets of gloom and rain and bitter cold. I, too, peered hungrily through those curtained windows at the privileged in some warm and cozy bistro. I, too, walked away with a growling stomach. I, too, had unfulfilled desires glancing in shop windows, even at something as simple as a folded linen handkerchief. I, too, wore through the soles of my only pair of shoes until my feet ached from the dampness. They don’t give you grants or shower you with prizes for being poor. Poverty doesn’t support vision, and counts for nothing in the end.

Vallejo’s experiences became my experiences—not by choice, mind you, but by the mere fact of our spiritual brotherhood through poetry. It’s as if I fully understood the spirituality of what he was expressing on a universal plane. He was talking to me directly. His soul touched mine through his verse. In this moment, we became spiritual brothers.

But I had no one with whom I could share those experiences discovered through his verse. Dare I reach out to Vallejo’s widow, Madame Georgette de Vallejo?

One early translator had demonized her. I was forewarned that she was difficult to deal with. But this warning didn’t discourage me in the slightest. I wanted to touch the one person still alive who was closest to the man whose works touched me. One problem: she was living in Lima, Peru, nearly four thousand miles away.

So I took a chance, a long shot, to be sure. I sent her a couple dozen of my translations. Remarkably, within a month, she wrote back with glowing remarks and helpful hints and even concrete examples of what to do and what not to do, so that I could make my versions better. She bestowed upon me the gift of her generosity and the knowledge she had gained being César Vallejo’s lifetime companion. She shared her knowledge with me because she clearly believed in my work.

It was never my intention to make a career out of translating César Vallejo. There were plenty others in the horse race; and we know what Béla Bartók had to say about horse races (“Competition is for horses, not for artists”). Any other choice not to translate would have betrayed the spiritual connection I felt for the man and his work.

I did what I did because of the spiritual connection, and nothing more. No great expectations. No accolades sought. No subterfuge. No hidden agendas. I felt bonded to the man through time and space. This is what counted most for me, in the end.

It’s now been nearly forty-five years since I embarked on this long voyage through uncharted waters with many an electrical storm coming my way. For most of that time, I would return to my working drafts and make revisions and read them aloud to myself. My efforts are a testament to the spiritual kinship I’ve felt for César Vallejo all along. I was steadfast. I was focused. I was dedicated. He never left my side. He has been my guiding spirit, my guiding light, not only through his poetry but through mine as well. Dear friend.

Gerard Malanga
5:VI:13