To stitch
About five years ago, I tried translating Andrey Platonov’s poetry, Blue Depths (Golubaya glubina, 1922). Not because it is his mentionable work — I had been told that it is not — but because of a curiosity in the origins of this noted writer of the 20th century. In my efforts, I was happy to come across the beautiful translations of Robert Chandler (et al) as guide, and yet, I found that many of Platonov’s texts remain untried and much of his language unparsed. Recently, Andrew Krizhanovsky, a computer scientist and a fellow Platonovist (platonoved), and I have been captivated, or held captive, by Platonov’s “The Behidden Man (Sokrovennyy chelovek)”, and in particular, this line: People were raising a ruckus, the rails were groaning under the knock of the forcibly rotated wheels, the hollow of their rounded world was wavering in fetid nightmare, fitting the train with shrieking air, — and Pukhov was shivved into the wind along with everyone else, hauled and hapless,