ANNE RANASINGHE
Interviewed by New Ceylon Writing (November 2016)
Published in The Sunday Island
This interview with Anne Ranasinghe turned out to be the last she ever gave. It was conducted in difficult conditions, because Anne did not use email or computer, and was physically not well for most of the year. She therefore required that her answers to the questions be written by hand, and then be transcribed onto computer. The last edits were being made when she passed away in November, on a Saturday night. We knew she was elderly, and that she
had been ill, but we had thought that, in some way, she would live forever. The
friend who told us of Anne’s passing told us that Anne loved the interview, and
that she was happy that we had ‘done it her way’. Vale Anne Ranasinghe.
NCW: In speaking of literature and life, I would like to begin, if I may, with your
personal view of the nature of literature: in particular, your approach to poetry and
story-telling, in both of which genres your achievement is a considerable one.
Although it does not presume to teach ‘creative writing’, New Ceylon Writing
welcomes the opportunity to hear about the experience of a practitioner such as
yourself.
Anne Ranasinghe: Literature deals essentially with the life of man, his reaction to his
environment, and the forces and motives that shape human conduct. From the
beginning of the First World War in 1914 to the end of the Second World War in 1945
more than seventy million people have died violently or have been exterminated.
There is no way that we can ignore this fact, the enormity of it, nor that it signifies a
horrifying new dimension to the possibility of human evil. An awareness of the
unpredictability of human conduct should perhaps infuse our writing with a sense of
urgency to counter the possibility of ever-increasing darkness. Even here, on the
other side of the world from Hitler’s Europe we have had our own experiences to lend
substance to these fears.
For me it is not possible to concentrate entirely on poetry. Poetry is – how shall I put
it? – the rare champagne. To write poetry there must be an experience so intensely
felt as to exclude all other forms of writing: love or anger, fear or remembrance, and
above all the perception of great beauty create a moment that wakens, or demands,
a poem. There is then a period of gestation, a distillation of the experience, and out
of this grow the first words of the poem. It is a momentary vision, a crystallisation
which compels you to follow, sometimes through innumerable twists and turns, rarely
straight on; for an hour, or two, or three – and sometimes over a period of months,
even years. Right to the end of the poem.
Working on a poem is one of the great privileges of life, and I find it incredible that
there are poets who believe a first draft is also a final draft, and must not be touched.
That the first inspiration is holy. Either they are much better poets than I am or they
are plain lazy and don’t like the tremendous effort that chiselling a poem into shape
entails.
As for short stories, no one will deny that the first and foremost function of the short
story is to tell a story for the sake of the story. Somerset Maugham caustically
remarked that there are some among the intelligentsia who regard pure story telling
as a debased form of art, and he stipulates that extraneous knowledge and
information should be used cautiously lest the story be swamped by the facts.
Structurally a short story should have a beginning, a middle and an end; and, like a
poem, it should have such concentration of mood and singlemindedness of purpose
that no digression or deviation is permitted. There is a framework, and all action, all
detail should serve to consolidate this framework, with no loose ends or spillage.
Everything must add to the oneness and completeness of the story. It is this limitation
that creates the very essence of it, distinguishing it from the novel.
The short story as we know it today is supposed to conform to certain principles,
some of which I have just mentioned. Additionally, it should be of a certain length,
and concern itself with but a single anecdote, episode or situation. The number of
characters introduced should be limited. In actual fact I doubt very much whether a
writer planning a short story gives too much thought to these mechanics. There is a
story to be told – and of course, ultimate success depends on the reader/audience,
who have their own expectations: they want to be entertained or thrilled, shocked or
made curious, or perhaps emotionally involved.
I write a short story out of a compulsion more or less similar to what makes me write
a poem, but for me a short story is much harder to write, and takes a great deal of
time. I spend a great deal of time on polishing and re-polishing. In order to get started
I have to live my story for some time, I carry it around with me, and its full structure –
beginning, middle and end – is more or less worked out in my head before I start
writing. All my stories have as their core something that really happened, something
that stirred me or upset me, or goaded me into comment. The problem is too large to
be worked out in a poem: so I use the short story.
NCW: You have described yourself as “extraordinarily lucky”; and stated that,
although you “fell a number of times, you always landed on your feet”. These are
optimistic statements, and express an extremely resilient attitude to life. How
important is resilience in the living of life, especially of creative life? And how
significant is optimism, as a quality that a creative writer should develop?
AR: I didn’t actually say that, although I did ‘fall’ a number of times, and invariably
‘landed on my feet’. It was my ‘Mother-Aunt’ who made that statement! ‘Mother-Aunt’
in this context means ‘being in loco parentis’: as a thirteen-year- old, alone in
England, I became her responsibility and her husband’s. After one week of getting ‘to
know’ one another, I was speedily dispatched from their nice home in London to my
school in Dorset. Naturally, there were many differences of opinion over a period of
four years. I won my greatest victory when, after leaving school, my Mother-Aunt’
apprenticed me as a ‘Junior Probationer’ at a beautiful home for blind babies for two
years, to earn my living. My job consisted of potting the children after each meal.
While I loved the kids and the place, at just seventeen I considered this a ‘waste of
my time’. I began secretly to apply elsewhere; and landed a two-year training at the
Moorfields Eye Hospital1
. I had hoped to study medicine, and although I did very well
in the Oxford Matric I could not win a scholarship as I was still a German citizen. I
had no money. My uncle, who was a Doctor of Chemistry, maintained that ‘in any
case, women always get married’, and was not prepared to help.
This was 1942, and World War II was in full swing. Moorfields (at age seventeen or
eighteen) was a great adventure. I was in London, and at the beginning of ‘growing
up’ – in sometimes very dangerous situations. We were hit at the Hospital by a
‘Doodle Bug’: these were aeroplanes without pilots, controlled – we were informed –
by German soldiers at the French border. When they stopped the engine, or the
machine ran out of fuel, the Doodle Bug dropped to the ground, causing a massive
explosion.
You ask whether optimism is a quality a creative writer ‘should develop’. How? To
become ‘optimistic’, you need opportunity. Sometimes you create your own
opportunity, and then ‘fall on your feet’. Sometimes there is just no opportunity. The
worst situation in which to be is when you have created an opportunity, and then
somehow missed out on it.
Finally – creative writing may come partially from many things: talent, a particular
home environment, encouragement, extensive reading, readiness to see the world
from your own point of view, from some or all of these. But it is not just a gift: you
have to work it out, and cherish it, and at all times to be faithful and convinced by
your own thinking!
NCW: In response to an honour bestowed on you in 2015, the Cross of the Order of
Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany, you have said that you “will treasure it for
what it signifies”. Since you have also said “I was born in Germany, was saved by
England, and lived a very fulfilled adult life in Sri Lanka”, and have described yourself
as “belonging to all three”, what does this award ‘signify’ to you?
AR: With regard to the medal I was given by the President and people of Germany,
my statement of acceptance was phrased in this manner: “I will treasure it for what it
signifies and will continue to ponder my eligibility”. I am sure everyone who has read
me over the years would fully understand the conflict.
But I regret the feelings involved by the many German contributors, and after
‘pondering’ the issue, I made my decision. It doesn’t mean the past is erased or
forgotten: on the contrary, I live with it day by day. But I have found a means of
compromising.
With regard to my statement that “I was born in Germany, was saved by England,
and lived a very fulfilled adult life in Sri Lanka: I belong to all three”, that is very true.
I was born in Germany, brought up in the seeming security of an established tradition
of obedience, affection, reasonable independence, encouragement (especially to
study), and exposure to all the available Arts till I was thirteen years old.
I have (somewhat ineptly) translated Federico Fellini, who has encapsulated my
situation exactly:
Nobody may forget his roots,
They are the foundation for our whole life.
Where England is concerned: Coming from the incredibly terrifying experiences of
Germany, and although I was on my own, the atmosphere and daily life were
unbelievably safe, the people friendly and helpful, the school fantastic. I spoke very
little English, but was carefully taught by a group of devoted teachers. The freedom
to use all the facilities available, the beautiful country open to visits without restriction,
and the access to the Arts. Until the war curbed that way of living. But even during
the worst days of the war, I was never made to feel an enemy, but joined in all
defensive activities.
As for Sri Lanka: I have lived here now for sixty-seven years. I am sure I don’t need
to explain that – although no one ever forgets that I am a ‘foreigner’ – I have been
accepted, nurtured, and encouraged. I am deeply grateful to ‘belong’ as far as it is
possible.
NCW: You have described this book of your selected works, Four Things, as ‘a rather
unconventional book’. Could you please explain what you mean?
AR: When Dr Jürgen Morhard, Ambassador of the Federal Republic of Germany, first
offered to sponsor a book of my selected poems, I was really delighted. My friends
had been encouraging me, but I was reluctant – at my age – not having thought it
through. But then, the temptation was too great, and I accepted.
However, when in January this year I had to start on it in order to complete the book
before Dr Morhard had to leave Sri Lanka, I began to panic: I just hadn’t a clue what
to use, how to choose, how big, and most important, to make it reader-attractive.
Priyanthi, my printer, and I have no other help. Also, Dr. Morhard wanted a German
section included.
I suddenly had an idea: a priest living not far from my father’s village, Hr. Pfr. Paul
Gerhard Lehman, had earlier used my poetry for a small German journal, to write my
family story. With his permission, I used his 60-page essay as my ‘Einleitung’ or
Introduction. He talked to some journalists in the area – as a result one of them sent
me a set of photographs for a calendar, and I was allowed to choose a view from a
balloon of my father’s village. A picture arrived of myself many years ago, and then I
remembered all the translated poems – mine into German – and I realised I had
enough material. I received some more beautiful and relevant pictures, divided the
whole collection into relevant sections, and divided them by content.
Then I decided to use attractive book covers (of my 20) to separate them.
It became more and more complicated.
Having gathered by then 350-odd pages, I suddenly noticed there was no thought of
a cover. Major problem. How to find a meaningful, attractive (and unique) design?
As I mentioned in Four Things, I was visited by a friend with his young daughter. She
brought me a small gift – a ceramic dish with what I thought an unusual design.
With some manipulation it became a suitable back-cover. The girl is delighted – she
is twelve years old! – and of course features in the Acknowledgment Page of the
book.
When we had put together the whole ‘unconventional’ material, a letter arrived from
a children’s school in Germany. We thought it so delightful that we added it to the
very last page of the book, to leave a reader relaxed and charmed, as we were.
NCW: Your book positions the works in German as well as in English, and the format
shows your ability to think and write poetically in both languages. Do you prefer one
language to another when dealing with specific subjects?
AR: This question really deals with the ability to translate, the art of translation. In
2002 I gave a talk at the British Council in Colombo, some parts of which may be
appropriate to this subject. The title of the talk was ‘Moonlight stuffed with Straw’, a
reference to an observation made by Heinrich Heine, the 19th century German poet,
that his own German poems when translated into French were like ‘moonlight stuffed
with straw’. Vladimir Nabokov, nearer our own time, expressed his opinion in the
poem ‘On translating Eugene Onegin’3
What is translation? On a platter
A poet’s pale and glaring head,
A parrot’s shriek, a monkey’s chatter
And profanation of the dead.
There is, however, another approach, less traditional, which allows the focus to shift,
at least partially, from the author to the translator and gives him/her a chance to be
both daring and original. It shifts from strict literalism in translation to one that does
experiment and tamper with usage to challenge and stretch language with the same
vitality that the original possessed, and maybe create a greater vitality born of new
linguistic and metaphorical contrasts. Especially in a multi-lingual context, translation
can not only negotiate between languages, but could come to occupy literary space
in its own right4
.
Translation can be seen as a living spark between past and present, and between
cultures. When you translate a poem you immerse yourself in another language, or
at least you try to, and then you begin to realize the limitations of your native tongue
– or maybe the tongue of your usage if you happen to have lost your mother tongue
by living in exile or as a refugee, which of course has happened all too frequently in
the course of the political upheavals of the last century.
But if you are really into translation, it is a very exciting adventure, and an enormously
stimulating challenge. It strains your resources to the limit, making you aware of what
you lack in facility and power of expression. Ultimately, it brings you face to face with
the genius and structure of the original, and instils in you an urgent desire to do justice
to it.
I have attempted translations from the German both of prose and poetry. One poem
I have translated into English is ‘Herbbsttag’ by Rainer Maria Rilke5:
HERBSTTAG
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer was sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren Laß die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gibe ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Süße in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandem, wenn die Blätter treiben
Rainer Maria Rilke
DAY IN AUTUMN
Lord, it is time. The summer bore high yield.
Now cast your shadow on the sun dial,
Release the winds across forest and field.
Command the last unripened grapes upon the vine
to swell, grant them of southern warmth a few more days,
urge them towards fulfillment, and then grace
with a sweet richness the heavy purple wine.
Whoever has no house now will not ever build.
Whoever is alone now will remain alone,
wake through the night, and write long letters filled
with sadness; and wander through the town
restlessly when autumn’s leaves are blown.
Translation: Anne Ranasinghe
“Say what you will of its inadequacy,” wrote Goethe in 1827 to Carlyle. “Translation
remains one of the most important and valuable concerns in world affairs.” And
George Steiner6 added, “Without it we would live in a condition of silence.”
NCW: Dr Jürgen Morhard comments on your ability to ‘find a new home in words’.
AR: I am not at all sure what he means by that; but it is true that once you become
involved in writing a poem or a short story, you become part of it, in the sense that
your surroundings disappear and you ‘live what you write’. I have also been told that
the reader becomes absorbed as if he or she were participating – but I am sure that
probably happens to other ‘creative’ writers.
In this context, however, I would like to refer to the poem “The Song has died from
the Lips of the King” (in German, translated by Pfr. Paul Gerhard Lehman – page xliii
– liii – Four Things – Introduction. In English page 60 – 63, Four Things.)
In November 1983 I returned to Essen and saw the remains of the beautiful
Synagogue6
. Built in 1913, and considered the most magnificent in Germany, the
whole interior was destroyed by fire in the “Reichskristallnacht”. The outer structure
remained.
During the Hitler period Jews were totally isolated, and especially for us children the
Synagogue became, before its destruction, the only place where we could meet and
lead some kind of social life, exercise, study jointly, listen to music and so on.
So I decided to write a poem, reproducing in detail the beauty and significance of the
Synagogue as far as I could, with the help of a book that my mother had sent earlier
to England. It is a treasure, and I still have it.
Pfr. Paul Lehman has done a fantastic work in translating that poem, written in
English, in his Introduction to Four Things (see pp. 60 – 63). But more than that: I
have used 80-odd Biblical references which explain the original contents; and Pfr.
Lehman has identified, numbered, and recorded each one in his German version.
Unfortunately, I had no time to add this to the English version, but items can easily
be identified.
NCW: Dr Morhard commends you for ‘using your personal stories and the lessons
learned from the past’, noting that you have ‘helped to reconcile the past with the
present’, and that you have taught the younger generations that we should not allow
a repeat of history’s great tragedies’. How and when did you realise the nature of the
profound legacy your creative gifts could offer us? Could you also comment on the
state of the world today, from your perspective? Do you think the role of creative
writers and thinkers has become even more crucial than it was before?
A: When I asked some children in a school in Essen what they knew about Hitler they
were enthusiastic about the motorways he had built, and said that he had eliminated
unemployment. Their fathers had told them that Germany was a better place under
Hitler. When (during the making of a film about my writing) a Gallup poll questioned
people in Essen at random as to what had happened to their erstwhile Jewish fellow
citizens and taped their answers, some said they did not know. Others said the Jews
had “gone away”, but they didn’t know where. And some laughed and said most of
them had been gassed and went up in smoke. I have the tape. It is not an invented
story. Even the laugh.
Since the reunification of East and West Germany there has been an upsurge of a
vicious neo-Nazism and anti-Semitism that is more than reminiscent of the Hitler
period, but covers a wider clientèle: apart from Jews, first the Turks and now all
foreign and especially dark-skinned and dark-haired immigrants. I have mainly written
‘At What Dark Point’ for Sri Lanka, because readers here are still largely ignorant of
the wider ramifications of the Nazi horror, and the bestialities that are possible. I think
they should know. Knowledge is to some extent protection. In 2004 ‘At What Dark
Point’ was translated into Sinhala.
George Steiner7 raised the question: How is it possible that the tortures and murders
could be committed at Treblinka or Dachau at the same time as people in New York
were making love or going to see a film. That problem is as relevant today for those
of us who were not there (or are not there), but lived – or live – as on another planet.
How can we teach the generations to come to feel deeply about those deaths that
the world was powerless to prevent, or be alert to the deaths that can be prevented
today, to which we can put an end?
NCW: In recent times, ‘elitism’ and ‘classism’ have been identified in the writing of
those who are thought of as being ‘privileged’ in this society. Does a person’s socioeconomic
background have any impact, in your opinion, on his/her world-view, or
affect their authority to speak to contemporary issues? Why is a person’s ‘status’ such
an issue in contemporary Sri Lanka?
AR: I hesitate to answer, as I myself have been identified, and indeed attacked, as
being ‘privileged’ in this society. Actually, my past is such that I have not, nor will
ever, ‘shake it off’. There is something contradictory in the fact that on the one hand
you are not accepted as a ‘full’ member of this society (and correctly so) and on the
other you are attacked publicly (by reviewers in the press, for instance) for being
‘privileged’. As a matter of fact, I resent this: I have been a hard-working woman all
my life, and am surprised that I have managed to stretch my very limited means to
support me for ninety-one years.
And yes, I do think a socio-economic background has an impact on one’s world-view;
and certainly I feel no inhibition or lack of authority hampering my discussions of
literary writing or contemporary issues. But I think I should explain that people who
wish to express their ‘displeasure’ have seldom taken the trouble to study the item
they are criticising or reviewing: on the contrary, in their reading they have totally
misunderstood what has been written. I have never had any objection to serious and
constructive reviewing – quite the contrary. But I do feel resentment and injustice
when I receive misrepresentation intended to destroy.
NCW: Dr Lakshmi de Silva, translator and literary critic, has identified three
categories in your poetry. Those who identify you as solely a ‘Holocaust Poet’ fail to
recognise the diversity of your subject matter and your interests. Could you
comment?
AR: Lakshmi is, I believe, correct in her assessment. It is likely that some of the
‘Holocaust Poems’, which appeared not so long after World War II was over,
overshadowed what followed. Professor Yasmine Gooneratne published my poem
‘Auschwitz from Colombo’ in New Ceylon Writing in 1970 without knowing who I was,
or how I came to be in Sri Lanka.
The fact is, that I had a busy and varied life, which changed dramatically after my
husband’s death. My poems served as a kind of catharsis, arising out of powerful
impressions, with no special objective. During a period of perhaps sixty-five years
they covered the events of a lifetime, and so I am not surprised that readers could
not identify or ‘recognise the diversity of the subject matter’.
I hope that my last book, Four Things, may help them to do so.
NCW: The poem ‘Amaryllis’ is one which fuses specific detail with intense symbolism
and connotation, in a manner that opens it up to universal readers. How important
has the rich, detailed experience of the sensory world been to you as a writer?
AR: ‘Amaryllis’ is a favourite poem of mine. I was sitting at my desk in my office, and
watching this unbelievable happening: I wrote as it happened. The whole process
was so smooth, so elegant and beautiful, I became totally involved and charmed.
There was no question of choosing words or making corrections: this plant was as
alive as I was, with its own distinctive personality.
And then, the tragedy
that the Amaryllis will bloom only once
because the soil and climate are alien.
NCW: How important has it been to you to find understanding in your readership?
Has that need changed across your lifetime?
AR: I am always delighted if my writing is found interesting or useful. But, basically, it
is not important. I have to be satisfied, and that has not changed over the years.
NCW: What advice would you give to young writers in today’s Sri Lanka? Can you
comment on how you think the literary culture in English can be improved, to foster
Sri Lankan creativity in literature?
AR: a) Parents should introduce children to books at an early age, reading to them
and with them till they can do so on their own.
b) Visits to bookshops.
c) Membership of libraries.
d) Family discussions of ‘special books’.
e) I found the most valuable ‘reading years’ between being approximately seven or
eight and the time I had to start working for a living, i.e., seventeen or so. I have
continued reading all my life, but of necessity the working and domestic obligations
limited me.
f) Schools should play a much greater part in stressing the life-long value of the
reading habit. But as I am no longer in touch with them (my own children are now of
‘retiring age’) I may not do them justice.
g) Foreign languages are of great importance. My own parents insisted that I should
join the Latin class among the boys. My friend and I were the only two girls to do so.
I have never regretted learning Latin, and still remember sections after 80-odd years.
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