From the section TRANSLATIONS

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.

On a dirty train,

on the international route Salonika-Munich,

I am trying to read Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities.

And that is, I become aware, impossible in places like this.

I reach for trivial replacements:

to continue reading is incomparably more difficult

than finding a sleepy scoundrel

in every compartment on all railway lines in this part of Europe,

be it first or third class.

 

Intriguingly, the international train

stops quite frequently even in local stations:

I am looking for invisible symbols in that inconsistency of the train timetables.

 

I find it better to give up reading.

That is why I stay silent and watch,

firstly, the nocturnal landscapes of Slavonia,

and, then, in the mirror opposite me —

the two of my modest bags,

not a heavy luggage, apparently.

But, it seems to me, it proves impossible to give them up.

As the train moves

and the day approaches

I think that it is all the same

at which station to alight

or whose luggage to take.