Random thoughts while shoveling the pinche snow

There was a small artsy fartsy movie house in my hometown. Back in 1960s, anyone within a hundred miles that had a modicum of pretension went there on a regular basis. It showed films like “Juliet of the Spirits” instead of “Girl Crazy” or the “Sons of Katy Elder.” At any rate, we all went to see Dr. Zhivago after re-reading the novel and spending an inordinate amount of time preparing for our post mortem of the film. We would all puff on English Ovals [which were an American smoke] or Gitanes [a French smoke] and gas on about the problem of translating such an important text into mere cinema. Ah it was a much simpler time plus it was a lot of fun being an arty farty boomer – we actually thought we were going to change the world!

The movie of course did not reflect the beauty of the novel or at least the translation I had read. At one point Zhivago is manically trekking through the snow and I still recall wondering who in their right mind would live in a place where there were endless tracts of snow!

Well on a night like this – with the wind howling like mad outside our windows –the stupid three foot snowdrift on my deck -- the ache in my muscles after shoveling my way to the horse barn…I think back to that night and laugh -- yeah, it takes a crazy person to live in Central New York. But one consolation in all of this is that the boomer arty farty in me always recalls Pasternak’s poetry in Dr. Zhivago.

In particular, I still remember the beauty of “Winter Night” which has been wonderfully translated by Christopher Barnes.

Winter night

Snow on snow the blizzard blew,
All frontiers enswirling.
A candle on the table stood -
A tallow candle burning.

Like summer midges' swarming flight,
Towards the candle chasing,
The snowflakes eddied to the light,
Converging on the casement.

And on the pane the blizzard hewed
Its arrows, darts and circles.
A candle on the table stood -
A tallow candle burning.

And shadows settled overhead
Upon the illumined ceiling,
Dim forms of crossing arms and legs,
Fate's shadows interlacing.

A pair of shoes slid to the floor
And raised a sudden clatter,
And on her gown the waxen flare
Shed tears that oozed and spattered.

And all was lost in snowy murk,
A pallid, gray-white blurring.
The candle on the table stirred -
A tallow candle burning.

A sudden draught breathed on the flame,
Seductive fires enkindling,
With arms outspread in cruciform
Like two wings of an angel.

All February the blizzard raved,
Yet ever and anon, unchanging,
Candle and table still remained -
A candle ever flaming.