.|Jacques

[1368]

Хочу перевести это интревью Бреля.

Хочу перевести это интревью Бреля:

-Your violent side isn’t getting any better
-Not any better. It’s not violence, it’s anger. I don’t know why, some people like me live with a lot of indignation. It doesn’t get any better. I don’t like a certain diffedence in which one refuses to see ugliness, saing “I see, but it doesn’t concern me”. That’s letting other suffer the ugly consequences. If one is relatively generous, whether it’s right or wrong, to be that way, you can’t help, but feeling angry now and then, it’s inevitable. If you’re not angry, it means you’re alone.

-That’s true at the age of seventeen, but later on you settle down.
-That’s not true, there are people who are still like that and those who are not like that at twenty-five, weren’t like that at 17 either. I don’t believe it. People pretend to be like that.

-Some people say, “I’m getting wiser with the age”.
-No, no. How can you get wiser with the age? It’s something I don’t understand. If by examining ourselves, we’re getting wiser, it means we’re asexual, invertebrate, and know nothing. It means having no feeling. Maybe then we will be wise. Maybe. I don’t think so.

-Examining ourselves… Reminds of an evening when we met, and you told me you were 38 years old.
-36! Not that I care.
-I must have misheard.
-I’m sorry.
-You said, “I’m thirty-six and I sing, why?”
-That’s true. You always ask yourself that question. I think there’s only one reason for that in the end. Notice how we can’t just talk about ordinary things? It’s a problem. What I do isn’t important. Still… Despite that, it wouldn’t be right to not say anything at all. That would be being a weak. I wouldn’t like myself. Not that I like myself when I sing, but one must choose. It’s a purely sentimental, arbitrary choice.

-In our late night pondering, it was a feeling of pointlessness.
-Because I’m incapable of expressing what I want to say. That’s something else. It’s very difficult to tell people that you love them. The word “love” has been pillaged and abused, it doesn’t mean much anymore. I can’t say it. I can say it badly, but I can’t it to them. Sometimes I write songs which aren’t love song for me, but thay’re about the kind of love that keeps me alive. I notice people say “it’s rough, what you write.” But it’s just about tenderness, minus the weeping. Tenderness coming from pain. It’s an answer to a cry that you don’t hear coming from people, but you do feel it.

-Maybe there’s no cry but still, when a crowd stands up to applaud for a quarter of an hour, thay must have understood that you love them?
-I hope they do. Maybe they do. It depends. Some people might say, “he’s just doing a job.” That’s also possible.

-People don’t stand…
-It’s nothing. But there are times when one doesn’t know. It’s only logical to have doubts when you create, it is worth living in such a way, because it’s quite exhausting.

-You don’t get a standing ovation by just doing your job.
-Of course not. Sure. But you can get them out of the house by doing your job, it’s all part of the same thing.

Конечно, на англ. они переводили не всегда прямо, но все равно...

Не получается. Он меня вырубает напрочь даже в виде интервью.