We've come a long way from the Old World, manually operated printing press - toiling away by the light of candles and amidst the smell of ink, wax, sweat and oil. It's been quite some time since the Gutenberg Bible was fashioned in a dank German printing shoppe, as were, it sometimes seems, even the glossy pop-up books from our own childhood (oh, the paper! the touch! the excess!). But while iPads become our parchments and computers become lending libraries, there are still some out there who persist on doing things the old fashioned way, that is, making books from paper and peddling them one by one and door by door (OK, perhaps they do use online purchasing platforms, but you know what I'm saying).
One such survivalist is Ugly Duckling Presse in Brooklyn, New York. For the past eight years, this small, not-for-profit art and publishing collective has specialized in producing unique, handmade works of poetry, translations, lost works and artists books. Aside from giving voice and physicality to otherwise neglected writers, Ugly Duckling creates special artifacts (read: art) to which the digital spheres and online book clubs have yet to find a suitable replacement. There's nothing about a nice webpage or e-book that makes you want to get a frame and hang it on the wall or prop it on the mantle.
Currently, Ugly Duckling Presse is preparing a work-of-art-of-a-work-of-art, so to speak, in the form of the first English translation of The History of Violets, written by Uruguayan poet Marosa di Giorgio (1932-2004). The translation and subsequent publishing of the book is a labor of love for Garth Graeper, a longtime volunteer at Ugly Duckling and a man of letters in his own right, and translator Jeannine Pitas, who has spent significant time in Uruguay and has met with Marosa di Giorgio’s family and friends while working on this translation. By all accounts, di Giorgio was something like the "Emily Dickinson of Uruguay," and her poetry is at once magical and true-to-life, erotic and austere. The English-language version of The History of Violets is set to be released later this year, and currently, Graeper and the rest of Ugly Duckling are attempting to raise funds for its publishing (you can check out their Kickstarter pitch at the bottom of this post.)
I recently talked to Graeper and Pitas about The History of Violets, Ugly Duckling Presse, and why on earth anyone would still want to make books.
What about The History of Violets captured your imagination and inspired you to undertake its translation for English-speaking audiences?
Jeannine Pitas: I was utterly spellbound by the world that Marosa di Giorgio creates in her poetry, a world that despite all its supernatural characters and outrageous events seems very real. Her visions seem simultaneously personal—only di Giorgio could have written these poems—and oddly universal, as the world in which she immerses her readers is like an amplified version of our own. To me, di Giorgio is much more than a writer. She is a visionary in the tradition of Teresa of Avila and William Blake, and I wanted to make these visions accessible to an English-speaking audience.
Garth Graeper: The translation came to us unsolicited—I found it in a big stack, and it had been sitting there for a while. Once I started reading this manuscript, I couldn’t stop; when I finished, I couldn’t believe that it was sitting in my hands, that it wasn’t already out in the world. These poems—and the natural and supernatural figures that inhabit them—are both strange and instantly familiar, casually bizarre and convincing. I contacted Jeannine to see if the poems were still available and was very excited to learn that they were. For about two years now, we’ve been working to make the book happen, and it will be released in November.
Can you tell us a little bit about Uruguayan poetry? Its foundations; its history?
Pitas: Like the nation of Uruguay itself, Uruguayan poetry has a brief but rich history. I would say that it really came into its own during the modernista movement of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Women played an extremely prominent role in the literary scene from the beginning—two of the modernistas, Delmira Agustini and Juana de Ibarbourou, are considered to be founding figures. Ibarbourou was known for her love lyrics and poems for children, Agustini for her unabashed eroticism. During the twentieth century, other prominent poets emerged, including Mario Benedetti, Idea Vilariño, Cristina Peri Rossi, and many more.
However, I don’t think it is possible to speak of “Uruguayan poetry” as if it were a unified entity, as each poet has a very distinct voice and writes in dialogue with different aspects of the Latin American, European, and indeed world tradition. Some writers, such as Benedetti and Vilariño, wrote in direct response to the military dictatorship and human rights abuses of the ’70s and ’80s; others did not. And, while many of Uruguay’s women writers deal with themes of female sexuality and eroticism, each one does so in a unique way. Di Giorgio was an active member of the Uruguayan literary community and an avid reader of world literature, but she firmly denied membership in any literary school. Her voice is distinctly her own.
Do you know anything about Marosa di Giorgio’s personal history? If so, can you relate some of the more interesting points?
Pitas: I find it interesting that many of the scholars and poets I talked to in Uruguay liked to compare di Giorgio to Emily Dickinson. It’s hard to say if Dickinson was an influence on di Giorgio’s work, but I can’t help but note a resemblance in the way they lived. Both poets created a unique, nearly mythical image for themselves. Di Giorgio was not reclusive, but she was known for being extremely reserved with anyone outside her intimate circle of family and friends. She dressed extravagantly with heavy makeup, nails painted green or blue, hair dyed bright red. She did not speak in public other than to read her poetry. Still, those who were close to her say that she was extremely compassionate and kind, and her deep love and dedication to her family is reflected in her writing.
Another resemblance to Dickinson is the dichotomy between the erotic tension of her work and the apparent austerity of her life. Austerity is probably the wrong word in di Giorgio’s case, but like Dickinson, di Giorgio never married and is said to never have had any romantic relationships. However, she did experience one “impossible love,” a figure who appears in much of her poetry.
What is Ugly Duckling Presse? Who, what, where, and most importantly... WHY?
Graeper: Ugly Duckling Presse (UDP) is a small independent publisher of poetry, translations, and artists books—we release about 25 books each year. UDP is a non-profit run by an editorial collective of writers, artists, and designers. We all work on a volunteer basis. We maintain a small workshop and letterpress studio in a restored warehouse building in Gowanus, Brooklyn, which is home to a community of artists, artisans, and creative enterprises.
In addition to contemporary poetry, we publish books in a number of different series, including the Eastern European Poets Series, which focuses on translations from the region; the Dossier Series, which includes essays and investigative works; and the Lost Literature series, which brings back neglected works of 20th century poetry. We also publish 6x6, a poetry magazine featuring six poets per issue. The best place to learn more about who we are and what we publish is our website.
The “why” is simple: it is a labor of love. We want to get this poetry into the hands of readers who will care as much about it as we do, and we have figured out a pretty successful way to make this happen. I’ve worked with UDP since 2004, and I’ve loved every minute of it. (Well, mostly.)
In a world of iPhones, Leonardo Di Caprio, and Kindles, making handcrafted books of Uruguayan poetry seems an idealistic, if not foolish endeavor. What makes it worthwhile?
Graeper: Ah, but foolish things can be the most fun! We are constantly encouraged by the reactions to our work: each year 200 people buy annual subscriptions (and receive everything we publish that year); lots of critics review our books; people attend our events. Our average print run is around 1,000 copies, and our books often sell out. I think there will always be enough of an interest out there for exciting poetry and beautiful books to support an organization of our size. Fingers crossed.
Through the years UDP has gotten better about creating a sustainable enterprise. In large part, this is because of the people. We’ve been fortunate to have a steady stream of interns and volunteers—people who do great work with us and then go on to do amazing things of their own. But even with the benefit of people’s generous donations of time, it still takes some magic to get all of our production costs and bills paid. For The History of Violets, we are running a Kickstarter campaign to help support the cost of producing the book. In the end, things usually seem to work out.
It’s funny you mention the Kindle! We’ve recently started a grant-funded initiative to create e-book versions of all of our out-of-print handmade chapbooks. At first, I think people were surprised, but we’ve gotten a wonderful reaction so far. [For more, you can read about it here.
And lastly, do you have a favorite line or verse from the book? Would you like to share?
Graeper: So hard to choose! I think this poem—one of my favorites—gives a good sense of the simple, strange, scary, and funny nature of this book. I can’t wait to get it into people’s hands.
XXI
At the hour when the oak trees close up sweetly, I am at the hearth beside the mothers, the grandmothers, the other women, and they speak of years long past, of things that now seem like mere dust. And this scares me, and it seems that this is the very night when he is going to come—the cursed field hand, the murderer, the thief who will strip us of everything. And so I flee to the garden, and the little underground creatures are already there. So beautiful, I say, with their smooth alabaster faces, their sharp, delicate, almost human hands, sometimes with rings even. How deftly they advance along the paths.
They attack the best violet, the one with a grain of salt, the celandine that fumes like a bit of dough with honey, the basket of butterflies’ eggs—oh, how they quiver.
They act with such confidence.
One time, my mother decided to trap one; she killed her, skinned her, and put her in the middle of the night, of the meal. And that creature retained a bit of life, an almost unreal death, she seemed to have fled from a funeral banquet, or jumped out from the casket of some marvelous corpse. We gulped her down, and she was almost alive.
The ring I now wear was once hers.
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