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Sylph Editions’s Cahiers Series features some of the most venerable names in literature and publishing as they embark on unique explorations in writing and translation. This newest installment unites two texts by celebrated Canadian poet Anne Carson. The first, “Variations on the Right to Remain Silent,” is an essay on the stakes involved when translation happens and covers works ranging from Homer through Joan of Arc to Paul Celan. It also includes the author’s seven translations of a poetic fragment from the Greek poet Ibykos. The second, “By Chance the Cycladic People,” is a poem about Cycladic culture in which the order of the lines has been determined by a random number generator. The cahier is lavishly illustrated with drawings and gouaches by Lanfranco Quadrio.
43 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 2013
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About the author
Anne Carson
103 books5,163 followersAnne Carson is a Canadian poet, essayist, translator and professor of Classics. Carson lived in Montreal for several years and taught at McGill University, the University of Michigan, and at Princeton University from 1980 to 1987. She was a 1998 Guggenheim Fellow, and in 2000 she was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship. She has also won a Lannan Literary Award.
Carson (with background in classical languages, comparative literature, anthropology, history, and commercial art) blends ideas and themes from many fields in her writing. She frequently references, modernizes, and translates Ancient Greek literature. She has published eighteen books as of 2013, all of which blend the forms of poetry, essay, prose, criticism, translation, dramatic dialogue, fiction, and non-fiction. She is an internationally acclaimed writer. Her books include Antigonick, Nox, Decreation, The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos, winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize for Poetry; Economy of the Unlost; Autobiography of Red, shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the T.S. Eliot Prize, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry, and Glass, Irony and God, shortlisted for the Forward Prize. Carson is also a classics scholar, the translator of If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, and the author of Eros the Bittersweet. Her awards and honors include the Lannan Award, the Pushcart Prize, the Griffin Trust Award for Excellence in Poetry, a Guggenheim fellowship, and a MacArthur Fellowship. Her latest book, Red Doc>, was shortlisted for the 2013 T.S. Elliot Prize.
Carson (with background in classical languages, comparative literature, anthropology, history, and commercial art) blends ideas and themes from many fields in her writing. She frequently references, modernizes, and translates Ancient Greek literature. She has published eighteen books as of 2013, all of which blend the forms of poetry, essay, prose, criticism, translation, dramatic dialogue, fiction, and non-fiction. She is an internationally acclaimed writer. Her books include Antigonick, Nox, Decreation, The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos, winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize for Poetry; Economy of the Unlost; Autobiography of Red, shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the T.S. Eliot Prize, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry, and Glass, Irony and God, shortlisted for the Forward Prize. Carson is also a classics scholar, the translator of If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, and the author of Eros the Bittersweet. Her awards and honors include the Lannan Award, the Pushcart Prize, the Griffin Trust Award for Excellence in Poetry, a Guggenheim fellowship, and a MacArthur Fellowship. Her latest book, Red Doc>, was shortlisted for the 2013 T.S. Elliot Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews
March 5, 2024
An intriguing and thought provoking essay, which opens itself in possibilities instead of closing and wrapping itself in conclusions.
May 7, 2016
This is three works in one -- "Variations on the Right to Remain Silent," an essay; "By Chance the Cycladic People," a poem presented side-by-side with the essay, in which the order of the lines was determined by a random number generator; and several translations of a fragment of Ibykos, translated using "the wrong words." Because this is Anne Carson, these pieces work together delicately, and insistently.
I'll (very briefly) discuss the first two.
The essay explores the untranslatable and the (purposefully) mistranslated, and resistance to translation -- this last of which I think is most compelling when Carson writes regarding Joan of Arc's unwillingness and refusal to translate for her captors the voices in her head. Translation is of course not a new topic for Carson, a translator, and this piece speaks beautifully with her translations of Sappho, especially, her attempts to translate Sappho's fragments as fragments, as poems damaged and missing parts, sometimes missing nearly everything.
The poem presented with it stuns with its strangeness, and of course resists translation in its own way. Translation into cliche, into narrative. You know, the same things she writes of Francis Bacon as resisting. She is performing her own exercise in creating sensation, in obliterating clarity. The lines are numbered, so you could stitch the narrative back together, which is the genius of it -- she's giving you the tools to do so, while trying to convince you not to. Or, she's daring you to. I'm not sure.
I'll (very briefly) discuss the first two.
The essay explores the untranslatable and the (purposefully) mistranslated, and resistance to translation -- this last of which I think is most compelling when Carson writes regarding Joan of Arc's unwillingness and refusal to translate for her captors the voices in her head. Translation is of course not a new topic for Carson, a translator, and this piece speaks beautifully with her translations of Sappho, especially, her attempts to translate Sappho's fragments as fragments, as poems damaged and missing parts, sometimes missing nearly everything.
The poem presented with it stuns with its strangeness, and of course resists translation in its own way. Translation into cliche, into narrative. You know, the same things she writes of Francis Bacon as resisting. She is performing her own exercise in creating sensation, in obliterating clarity. The lines are numbered, so you could stitch the narrative back together, which is the genius of it -- she's giving you the tools to do so, while trying to convince you not to. Or, she's daring you to. I'm not sure.
January 12, 2022
If you check out Anne Carson on Goodreads you’ll see almost every one of her books has a rating of over four stars. The one that is less, at 3.87, is a comic book version of Euripides. Everything she writes is good; this is no exception. The front flap describes the author thus, “Anne Carson was born in Canada and teaches ancient Greek for a living.”
I buy one of The Cahiers Series from time to time. I have 16 of the 37 that have been published so far. They are beautiful little books that combine my favourite things; words and art. Each is about 40 pages long and has a wrapper about 6cm deep that slips over the whole book and adds one of the sumptuous art works from inside to the otherwise blank cover. Not all my collection has these wrappers, as I bought some of them second-hand. Once removed, so the book can be opened, they easily become lost or separated.
This volume, Number 21, is unusual. There are two ‘stories’ contained. Carson’s essay ‘Variations on the Right to Remain Silent’ considers what happens when translation takes place, when some things simply cannot be translated properly or at all. Alongside this, on the right-hand pages are fragments of ‘By Chance the Cycladic People’ by the Greek poet Ibykos. The order of the numbered lines has been determined by a random number generator, throwing together coincidences and clashes. I had not heard of Ibykos and thought they might be some minor ancient writer, linking to Carson via ancient Greek. I quickly saw that I was wrong. Here are three fragments:
The half page drawing and gouaches that accompany these fragments are by Sicilian artist Lanfranco Quadrio. They are exquisite. Hints of artefacts, oceans and oars.
Carson’s essay, as you would expect, is wide ranging. Silences in translation that trouble the translator are physical and metaphysical. She tells us that:
She goes on to give examples; the plant that Hermes gives to Odysseus as he is about to confront Kirke, to counteract her magic. Hermes says the gods call it mōlu. It is not something that you find on the roadside or on Google, it belongs to the gods alone.
She goes on the talk about the trial and condemnation of Joan of Arc. She was illiterate. She spoke Middle French at her trial which scribes translated into Latin. Her French idioms became judicial Latin, falsified to justify her condemnation:
Powerful stuff. Reading this I am reminded of the simile of poet as distiller and writer as brewer. The brewer produces quantity and the effects come with the consumption of that quantity. The distiller reduces the pleasure down to the smallest sip, the poet down to a well-chosen word.
From here Carson goes on to consider Francis Bacon and the German lyric poet Fredrich Hölderlin who in 1796 tried to translate Sophokles’ Antigone. The first line includes the verb purple, from the Latin and Greek noun for purplefish or murex, the source of all purple or red dye in antiquity. The verb came to signify profound and troubled emotion. The standard translation for that first line is ‘You are obviously growing dark in mind, brooding deeply over some piece of news. What Hölderlin ended up with was this: ‘You seem to colour a reddish purple word, to dye your words red-purple.’ He tried to wrench every item exactly into German. His translation was seen as the work of a madman. In 1806 he was certified insane and spent a year in an asylum from which he was released as incurable. He died insane in 1843. ‘I still wonder what exactly is the relation of madness to translation?’ Carson ponders.
All this narrative is alive, beautifully considered, linked together and delivered. I have touched only on a fragment.
I buy one of The Cahiers Series from time to time. I have 16 of the 37 that have been published so far. They are beautiful little books that combine my favourite things; words and art. Each is about 40 pages long and has a wrapper about 6cm deep that slips over the whole book and adds one of the sumptuous art works from inside to the otherwise blank cover. Not all my collection has these wrappers, as I bought some of them second-hand. Once removed, so the book can be opened, they easily become lost or separated.
This volume, Number 21, is unusual. There are two ‘stories’ contained. Carson’s essay ‘Variations on the Right to Remain Silent’ considers what happens when translation takes place, when some things simply cannot be translated properly or at all. Alongside this, on the right-hand pages are fragments of ‘By Chance the Cycladic People’ by the Greek poet Ibykos. The order of the numbered lines has been determined by a random number generator, throwing together coincidences and clashes. I had not heard of Ibykos and thought they might be some minor ancient writer, linking to Carson via ancient Greek. I quickly saw that I was wrong. Here are three fragments:
5.0 The Cycladic people were very fond of Proust.
3.0 While staying up at night the Cycladic people invented the frying pan.
10.2 Her inner eye grew sharp enough to slaughter goats.
The half page drawing and gouaches that accompany these fragments are by Sicilian artist Lanfranco Quadrio. They are exquisite. Hints of artefacts, oceans and oars.
Carson’s essay, as you would expect, is wide ranging. Silences in translation that trouble the translator are physical and metaphysical. She tells us that:
Metaphysical silence happens inside the words themselves. And its intentions are harder to define. Every translator knows that point where one language cannot be rendered into another. Take the word cliché. Cliché is a French borrowing, past participle of the verb clicher, a term from printing meaning ‘to make a stereotype from a relief printing surface.’ It has been assumed into English unchanged, partly because using French words makes English-speakers feel more intelligent and partly because the word has imitative origins (it is supposed to mimic the sound of the printer’s die striking the metal) that makes it untranslatable. English has different sounds. English falls silent.
She goes on to give examples; the plant that Hermes gives to Odysseus as he is about to confront Kirke, to counteract her magic. Hermes says the gods call it mōlu. It is not something that you find on the roadside or on Google, it belongs to the gods alone.
She goes on the talk about the trial and condemnation of Joan of Arc. She was illiterate. She spoke Middle French at her trial which scribes translated into Latin. Her French idioms became judicial Latin, falsified to justify her condemnation:
During the five months of her trial Joan persistently chose the term ‘voice’ to describe how God guided her. She did not spontaneously claim that the voices had bodies, faces, names, smell, warmth or mood, nor that they entered the room by the door, nor that when they left she felt sad. Under the inexorable urging of her inquisitors she gradually added all these details. But the storytelling effort was clearly hateful to her and she threw white paint on it wherever she could, giving them responses like:
…You asked that before. Go look at the record.
…Pass on to the next question, spare me.
…I knew that well enough once but I forget.
…That does not touch your process.
…Ask me next Saturday.
And on 24 February 1430, when the judges were pressing her to define the voices as singular or plural, she most wonderfully said (as a sort of summary of the problem):
The light comes in the name of the voice.
The light comes in the name of the voice is a sentence that stops itself. Its components are simple yet it stays foreign, we cannot own it. Like Homer’s mōlu it seems to come from somewhere else and it brings a whiff of immortality with it. We know that in Joan’s case this turned out to be a whiff of herself burning.
Powerful stuff. Reading this I am reminded of the simile of poet as distiller and writer as brewer. The brewer produces quantity and the effects come with the consumption of that quantity. The distiller reduces the pleasure down to the smallest sip, the poet down to a well-chosen word.
From here Carson goes on to consider Francis Bacon and the German lyric poet Fredrich Hölderlin who in 1796 tried to translate Sophokles’ Antigone. The first line includes the verb purple, from the Latin and Greek noun for purplefish or murex, the source of all purple or red dye in antiquity. The verb came to signify profound and troubled emotion. The standard translation for that first line is ‘You are obviously growing dark in mind, brooding deeply over some piece of news. What Hölderlin ended up with was this: ‘You seem to colour a reddish purple word, to dye your words red-purple.’ He tried to wrench every item exactly into German. His translation was seen as the work of a madman. In 1806 he was certified insane and spent a year in an asylum from which he was released as incurable. He died insane in 1843. ‘I still wonder what exactly is the relation of madness to translation?’ Carson ponders.
All this narrative is alive, beautifully considered, linked together and delivered. I have touched only on a fragment.
March 29, 2017
have been on an Anne Carson reading binge lately and have also been slowly making my way through the Cahiers Series so I was thrilled when I discovered that Carson wrote Cahier #21. Her essay in this Cahier, entitled “Variations on the Right to Remain Silent,” includes her thoughts on the issues of resistance in translation, the untranslatable, and the mistranslated. Silence, which is oftentimes a problem with ancient manuscripts, is her starting point: “Silence is as important as words in the practice and study of translation.” Carson points out that silence can be both physical and metaphysical; physical silence, for example, happens when a manuscript of Sappho has been torn in half and there is empty space. This part of her discussion particularly resonated with me because it is one of the issues with ancient texts that my students have the most difficulty. As I am translating Catullus this semester with my university level class, it bothers them to the point of argument, distraction and frustration when a piece of a text has been reconstructed with several possibilities from different editors. They want to know exactly which word Catullus wrote in the original transcript and they don’t want to hear from me that such literary puzzles can be “fun” to figure out.
Metaphysical silence happens when it is impossible to translate a word directly from one language to another. Carson’s example of this is taken from the word molu which appears in Homer’s Odyssey. Molu is a plant that is sacred to the gods and Hermes gives this plant to Odysseus in order to protect himself from the magic of Circe. Carson says about Homer’s use of this word and the intentional silence it engenders: “He wants this word to fall silent. Here are four letters of the alphabet, you can pronounce them but you cannot define, possess, or make use of them. You cannot search for this plant by the roadside or google it and find out where to buy some The plant is sacred, the knowledge belongs to the gods, the word stops itself.” When one encounters such words in teaching an ancient author it is difficult to convey to the students that translation is not an exact science. It has been my experience, however, that my students enjoy the metaphysical silences much more so than the physical silences because they are able to have a debate over the metaphysical by using their previous knowledge of an author’s body of work, as well as their mythological and historical backgrounds.
Also included in this Cahier is a poem that Carson has composed about the Cycladic culture entitled “By Chance the Cycladic People.” The order in which the lines appear in the text were determined by the author through a random number generator. This unique strategy of mixing up her poem is a way in which Carson provides us with her own example of a poem that resists translation. We can put her poem back into the correct order. But should we? Are the lines really meant to be put back into the original order or can we get a deeper understanding of her verses by seeing them in this random order? I chose not to put them back in order but instead I noticed patterns of images and themes that reoccur throughout the verses: the sea, pots and pans, boats, mirrors, etc. I wonder how others have chosen to deal with this poem?
For more of my reviews visit www.thebookbindersdaughter.com
Metaphysical silence happens when it is impossible to translate a word directly from one language to another. Carson’s example of this is taken from the word molu which appears in Homer’s Odyssey. Molu is a plant that is sacred to the gods and Hermes gives this plant to Odysseus in order to protect himself from the magic of Circe. Carson says about Homer’s use of this word and the intentional silence it engenders: “He wants this word to fall silent. Here are four letters of the alphabet, you can pronounce them but you cannot define, possess, or make use of them. You cannot search for this plant by the roadside or google it and find out where to buy some The plant is sacred, the knowledge belongs to the gods, the word stops itself.” When one encounters such words in teaching an ancient author it is difficult to convey to the students that translation is not an exact science. It has been my experience, however, that my students enjoy the metaphysical silences much more so than the physical silences because they are able to have a debate over the metaphysical by using their previous knowledge of an author’s body of work, as well as their mythological and historical backgrounds.
Also included in this Cahier is a poem that Carson has composed about the Cycladic culture entitled “By Chance the Cycladic People.” The order in which the lines appear in the text were determined by the author through a random number generator. This unique strategy of mixing up her poem is a way in which Carson provides us with her own example of a poem that resists translation. We can put her poem back into the correct order. But should we? Are the lines really meant to be put back into the original order or can we get a deeper understanding of her verses by seeing them in this random order? I chose not to put them back in order but instead I noticed patterns of images and themes that reoccur throughout the verses: the sea, pots and pans, boats, mirrors, etc. I wonder how others have chosen to deal with this poem?
For more of my reviews visit www.thebookbindersdaughter.com
February 9, 2017
Gorgeous
April 8, 2017
I love, love, love this little book. It made me so happy. Language comes alive and remains open and mysterious. It is smart, it is brilliant, it is beyond me.
Ibykos fr. 286 translated using only words from "the Owners Manual" of my new Emerson 1000m microwave oven, pp.17-18
In hot snacks and appetizers on the one hand, the soy,
barbecue,Worcestershire or steak sauce,
being sprinkled with paprika,
where a 'browned appearance [is desirable]
and beneath the magnetron tube
soggy crackers,
wrapped in bacon,
toughen.
On the other hand, a frozen pancake
will not crust.
Nay rather,
like radio waves,
bubbling,
spattering,
accompanied by you rubbing your hands together,
without venting the plastic wrap,
without rearranging the pieces halfway through,
without using the special microwave popper,
[it] will burn your nose right off.
Ibykos fr. 286 translated using only words from "the Owners Manual" of my new Emerson 1000m microwave oven, pp.17-18
In hot snacks and appetizers on the one hand, the soy,
barbecue,Worcestershire or steak sauce,
being sprinkled with paprika,
where a 'browned appearance [is desirable]
and beneath the magnetron tube
soggy crackers,
wrapped in bacon,
toughen.
On the other hand, a frozen pancake
will not crust.
Nay rather,
like radio waves,
bubbling,
spattering,
accompanied by you rubbing your hands together,
without venting the plastic wrap,
without rearranging the pieces halfway through,
without using the special microwave popper,
[it] will burn your nose right off.
March 3, 2024
Damn—another stunner from Carson. This short text focuses on translation and untranslatability/“silence” — drawing from Greek, Latin, German, and other languages, Carson interweaves academic rigor and creative textual play.
July 13, 2025
This is Anne Carson at her best and the accompanying illustrations are beautiful. However, though I understand the purpose of interweaving these two texts, I don't think it's particularly effective. Both read individually, one after the other, worked best for me.
January 17, 2026
forstod måske halvdelen, men var ganske underholdt
July 2, 2014
What you've come to expect from Anne Carson: quirky but very thoughtful and moving essay on writers/figures ranging from Homer to Joan of Arc to Holderlin, and all on the topic of translation from a brilliant if unconventional translator herself. The end translation exercise is funny and illustrative of many of the issues she explores in the essay in surprising and clever ways. The drawings and numbered fragments that appear opposite of every page of the essay, however, is Carson at her most precious and is willfully and unnecessarily "avant-garde." The drawings are nice, but the fragments are basically incoherent and distract from the overall impression of the book. I'm a huge Carson fan, but at her weakest I understand where her critics are coming from: making outrageous gestures is not a mark of daring inventiveness in and of itself, it can just be downright silly. Carson covers her bases with some pretty outrageous but brilliant gesture-makers (named above and joined by Francis Bacon and Paul Celan), but her own fragments don't hold up against Holderlin or Celan in this instance, I'm afraid. Still, I'll read silly, fragmentary Carson over most other authors at their most serious and complete almost any day of the week.
April 16, 2014
On a day when purple wine soaked through a career not even half rung, Carson's clear-eyed fascination in the untranslated is purposefully turned to the stops and stutterings in Homer, Joan of Arc, Francis Bacon, Hölderlin and Paul Celan. The catastrophic inference in a war on cliche.
June 22, 2019
'the benevolence of untranslatability"
"catatastrophe or cliche"
this book - a thrilling and stupendous poetic achievement - examines the structural (as opposed to incidental) violence of the real and its antitode, the enacting of untranslatability; the atomic and experiential instability, incoherence, and chaos of reality on the one hand and on the other the fascinatingly catastrophic/authentic representation of the real via empty spaces that resist fixity, escape certainty, and revolt against the cliche of the knowable idea, image, or word. anne carson's language enacts a stunningly soothing violence, at once an invasive asteroid from afar exploding against the atmospheric wall of our consciousness and a coherent parachute catching us as we fall, dishevelled and destroyed, into her garden, her caress, her kiss. wonderful.
"catatastrophe or cliche"
this book - a thrilling and stupendous poetic achievement - examines the structural (as opposed to incidental) violence of the real and its antitode, the enacting of untranslatability; the atomic and experiential instability, incoherence, and chaos of reality on the one hand and on the other the fascinatingly catastrophic/authentic representation of the real via empty spaces that resist fixity, escape certainty, and revolt against the cliche of the knowable idea, image, or word. anne carson's language enacts a stunningly soothing violence, at once an invasive asteroid from afar exploding against the atmospheric wall of our consciousness and a coherent parachute catching us as we fall, dishevelled and destroyed, into her garden, her caress, her kiss. wonderful.
October 16, 2025
Li "A Fragment of Ibykos Translated Six Ways" e "By Chance the Cycladic People" no site da LRB (de nada) e "Variations on the right to remain silent" num PDF por aí (mas tem a tradução no "Sobre aquilo em que eu mais penso"). Ficaram faltando as ilustrações, pra não falar na experiência do livro (a diagramação e a disposição parecem importantes aqui), mas não se pode ter tudo. Dito isso, muito divertido tentar recompor a ordem de "By chance..." (nisso o ctrl+f ajudou).
June 21, 2024
Et essay om oversættelse, der mest handler om tavsheden - det gemte (ikke det uoversættelige) og eksperimentelle oversættelser af oldgræsk digt - fx kun med ordforråd fra Beckett eller den københavnske metro!
Det er klogt, virkeligt sjovt og tankevækkende - og nu den handler om oversættelse er jeg også nædt til at få fat på et engelsk eksemplar...
Det er klogt, virkeligt sjovt og tankevækkende - og nu den handler om oversættelse er jeg også nædt til at få fat på et engelsk eksemplar...
September 22, 2024
With every subsequent Anne Carson book or essay I read she seems to be gradually moving closer and closer to God
September 24, 2024
skimmed, silence, violence, everywhere, loved the weird translations at the end w word banks from diff sources!
March 19, 2014
As with all Carson's works, my first reaction is that when she was a child, she must not have liked to color within the lines. Irreverent? Iconoclastic? Breaking conventions you never even realized existed? Check, check, and check.
She has an essay on translation on the left-hand pages, with a poem on the Cycladic people on the right-hand pages, whose lines are rearranged randomly, using a random numbers generator--I believe she doesn't say whether they were genuinely random or only pseudo-random numbers :). (I reassembled pieces of it using the line numbers, but I haven't yet tried to reassemble all of it.) And at the end she translates a fragment of a poem by Ibykos, with six variant translations using limited vocabularies, including one using only words on London Underground stops and signs, and another using only words from her microwave manual. (Yes, you read that correctly.)
The point? Obviously, part of her point is that translation always distorts the original. You could imagine someone reacting to that by insisting on trying for fewer distortions, or perhaps using multiple (non-vocabulary-limited!) translations, or footnotes, or commentary (or insisting that everyone learn Greek)--not Carson. She says that she's especially interested in the residue that's untranslatable (or untranslated?). But I suspect what's really at issue (especially in the Ibykos translations) is having fun. And I, at least, had a lot of fun reading this.
She has an essay on translation on the left-hand pages, with a poem on the Cycladic people on the right-hand pages, whose lines are rearranged randomly, using a random numbers generator--I believe she doesn't say whether they were genuinely random or only pseudo-random numbers :). (I reassembled pieces of it using the line numbers, but I haven't yet tried to reassemble all of it.) And at the end she translates a fragment of a poem by Ibykos, with six variant translations using limited vocabularies, including one using only words on London Underground stops and signs, and another using only words from her microwave manual. (Yes, you read that correctly.)
The point? Obviously, part of her point is that translation always distorts the original. You could imagine someone reacting to that by insisting on trying for fewer distortions, or perhaps using multiple (non-vocabulary-limited!) translations, or footnotes, or commentary (or insisting that everyone learn Greek)--not Carson. She says that she's especially interested in the residue that's untranslatable (or untranslated?). But I suspect what's really at issue (especially in the Ibykos translations) is having fun. And I, at least, had a lot of fun reading this.
July 28, 2014
I love Anne Carson!
Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews