Airmail: the Letters of Robert Bly and Tomas Tranströmer by Tomas Tranströmer, Robert Bly

By Tomas Tranströmer, Robert Bly

The illuminating letters of the nationwide ebook Award profitable poet Robert Bly and the Nobel Prize profitable poet Tomas Tranströmer

One day in spring 1964, the younger American poet Robert Bly left his rural farmhouse and drove one hundred fifty miles to the collage of Minnesota library in Minneapolis to procure the newest e-book by means of the younger Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer. while Bly lower back domestic that night with a duplicate of Tranströmer's The Half-Finished Heaven, he came upon a letter expecting him from its author.

With this striking accident as its starting, what was once a colourful correspondence among poets who might turn into crucial participants to international literature. Airmail collects greater than 290 letters, written from 1964 till 1990, while Tranströmer suffered a stroke that has left him in part paralyzed and decreased his ability to write.

Across their correspondence, the 2 poets are profoundly engaged with one another and with the bigger global: the Vietnam conflict, ecu and American elections, and the struggles of affording a lifestyles as a author. Airmail additionally illuminates the paintings of translation as Bly started to render Tranströmer's poetry into English and Tranströmer started to translate Bly's poetry into Swedish. Their collaboration speedy changed into a friendship that has lasted fifty years.

Insightful, fantastic, and infrequently humorous, Airmail presents an extraordinary portrait of 2 artists who've develop into essential to every other's specific genius. This ebook marks the 1st time letters through Bly and Tranströmer were made on hand within the usa.

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Additional info for Airmail: the Letters of Robert Bly and Tomas Tranströmer

Example text

Don’t tell me that he went up in smoke like Daddy’s cigar! He didn’t blow out like a match! It is special being here at Easter with the Cross they built like a capital T. The ceiling is an upside-down rowboat. I usually count its ribs. Maybe he was drowning? Or maybe we are all upside down? I can see the face of a mouse inside of all that stained-glass window. Well, it could be a mouse! Once I thought the Bunny Rabbit was special and I hunted for eggs. That’s when I was seven. Now it’s really Jesus.

Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus. The bulbs vibrated. They were a halo over your forehead. But you did not move. I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change. But they did not age. The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible. Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it.

Maybe he was only hiding? Maybe he could fly? Yesterday I found a purple crocus blowing its way out of the snow. It was all alone. It was getting its work done. Maybe Jesus was only getting his work done and letting God blow him off the Cross and maybe he was afraid for a minute so he hid under the big stones. He was smart to go to sleep up there even though his mother got so sad and let them put him in a cave. I sat in a tunnel when I was five. That tunnel, my mother said, went straight into the big river and so I never went again.

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