Death of a cyclist
June 10, 2008, was the day when the outstanding Ukrainian translator and writer Anatol Perepadia was killed in a hit-and-run accident while riding his bicycle. Police are still looking for the driver, who fled the scene. Perepadia’s death is an irreplaceable loss to literature and culture. His name is associated with an entire era of Ukrainian translation. Thanks to Perepadia’s work, Ukrainians were able to read the works of Proust, Montaigne, Rabelais, Machiavelli, and other world classics from a different angle.
Below, the poet, writer, and film director Leonid Cherevatenko recalls his close friend and colleague Anatol Perepadia, whom he dubbed the “Ukrainian Rabelais.”
Death of a Cyclist was the title of an old Spanish film from 1955 that Anatol Perepadia saw and liked very much when he was a teenager. He revered cinema as the most modern of the arts, but belles-lettres was his true vocation. Perepadia did his utmost to enable Ukrainian readers to read the greatest works of world literature in his sublime Ukrainian translations. In the last few years of his life he gave us seven volumes of Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu , Niccolo Machiavelli’s Istorie fiorentine and Il Principe , Petrarch’s Canzoniere , the three-volume collection of Essays by Michel de Montaigne, and Gargantua and Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais. About the latter work, the French say that there are more words in this celebrated novel than in French dictionaries because Rabelais coined his own words.
Perepadia the translator ended up following the same path, showing great wit and resourcefulness. But we are still not aware of the importance of his body of work. His industriousness and extraordinary linguistic erudition evoked astonishment and admiration - and, of course, envy. But he treated the critics, who bit and stung (the wrong word, the wrong rhyme), like pesky insects. Ignoring trifles and stupidities, he continued to carry out his mission, crouch at the computer for hours, as if praying in front of an icon.
For relaxation, Perepadia would climb on his old bicycle. The bike was his perennial companion and source of relief. Every day he performed the same ritual of biking around Rusanivka or Rybalsky Island. He would also ride over to see editors or friends. When he finally arrived in his precious France, he traveled across Europe - not by train or bus but on a bicycle.
On that ill-fated evening a car ran over him on Heroes of Stalingrad Street. As it happens in Ukraine’s capital, the driver fled the scene of the accident without even trying to help the victim. Rumor has it that a criminal case has been opened and the offender is being sought, but will this solve anything?
One of Perepadia’s main character traits was his nobility. It is no wonder that Vasyl Symonenko was a friend of his. No wonder that when Symonenko died, a part of his archive came into Anatol’s possession. It would be wrong to hush up the juicy scandal that erupted after Vasyl’s diaries ended up abroad. Anatol was in no way involved in this, but he silently took the blame and was punished: his works were not published and his name was not even mentioned. We must not forget this.
Later, he became friends with a powerful trio of translators: Hryhorii Kochur, Dmytro Palamarchuk, and Mykola Lukash. Anatol dubbed them wittily as the “neo- neoclassicists.”
Perepadia was one of a handful of individuals who helped the proscribed Lukash with money, not just words. Lukash had suggested to the Soviet authorities that they imprison him instead of Ivan Dziuba, who was under arrest. Perepadia helped his colleague in a concrete and effective way by raising funds among his fellow writers, who did not have money to spare.
Perepadia was ecstatic when Lukash gifted him with his latest translations from the French. He would retype the poems of Arthur Rimbaud, Saint-Pol-Roux, and Paul Valery on cigarette paper (this was the age of samvydav/samizdat) and then present the thin, transparent sheets with undisguised pride, as if it were his own achievement: “Listen to this! This is a work of genius! We should immediately include this in dictionaries and publish them!”
Unfortunately, only The Phraseology of Mykola Lukash’s Translations has been published, while a large dictionary planned by a commission in charge of the great translator’s legacy is still just a pipe-dream of a few intellectuals. It was Perepadia who suggested the title of the future publication: “What are you arguing about? It should be called Lukash ! One word, like Larousse . No two ways about it!”
Who knows? Maybe some day we will hold the much dreamed-of Lukash dictionary in our hands. But we are already facing a new problem: it is high time to classify Perepadia’s own translational legacy.
He was the only one who managed to bring to completion at least one of Lukash’s creative plans: he finished the translation of the last chapters of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. None of the other “pupils and admirers” dared to do this, although they had given their word.
Anatol’s funeral was paid for by the Union of Writers, which he did not respect much and, whenever possible, gave it a wide berth. A few dozen of his closest friends and colleagues attended the funeral. His enemies also brought flowers.
Powerful people drove by, hidden behind the tinted windows of their luxury foreign-made cars. Protesters with placards and banners drifted past. The din of construction was coming from Independence Square, where a huge stage was being set up for the Paul McCartney concert.
They were all indifferent to Perepadia and his untimely departure. The deceased was not very perturbed by their inattention either. He lay silent and tranquil: he seemed to be thinking about what he was supposed to do but had not done. No one from the Presidential Secretariat and the Cabinet of Ministers showed up, even though all this was happening right on Bankova Street. This is par for the course. They were not familiar with Perepadia’s name; they did not read him.
Instead, a bouquet with the tricolor came from the French Republic, which, unlike Ukraine, had honored the outstanding translator with an order for his achievements. Still, there were fitting speeches and touching farewell phrases on our part, too. Then the body was taken to Berkivtsi Cemetery, where another yellow mound appeared.
Is that all? I think not. The existence of an individual, especially an artist, cannot be squeezed into the customary framework of “born-died”: this dash between the dates is of great significance. In Perepadia’s case, it contains so much that it will take us and our descendants a long time to evaluate it.
“It is no marvell (saith an old writer) that hazard hath such power over us, since wee live by hazard. It is impossible for him to dispose of his particular actions, that bath not in grose directed his life unto one certaine end. It is impossible for him to range all peeces in order, that hath not a plot or forme of the totall frame in his head. What avayleth the provision of all sorts of colours unto one that knowes not what be is to draw? No man makes any certaine designe of his life, and we deliberate of it but by parcels. A skilfull archer ought first to know the marke he aimeth at, and then apply his hand, his bow, his string, his arrow and his motion accordingly. Our counsels goe astray because they are not rightly addressed, and have no fixed end. No winde makes for him that hath no intended port to saile unto.”
Michel de Montaigne, Essays , Vol. II
Anatol must have known what he was translating.
He must have had a presentiment and a clear vision of his future.
Now that he is gone, there is a dangerous hole gaping in the body of Ukrainian literature through which the dirty waters of anti-culture are flooding in.
The scoundrel who fled the scene of the accident on Heroes of Stalingrad Street should remember that he killed a great personality. This loss is going to cause us long and everlasting pain. For no one will ever replace Anatol Perepadia, just as no one has replaced or will ever replace Hryhorii Kochur, Dmytro Palamarchuk, and Mykola Lukash.
