Three translations of the first two paragraphs in The Notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke:
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1. Translated by Stephen Mitchell, 1982 (Vintage International)
September 11th, rue Toullier
So this is where people come to live; I would have thought it is a city to die in. I have been out. I saw: hospitals. I saw a man who staggered and fell. A crowd formed around him and I was spared the rest. I saw a pregnant woman. She was dragging herself heavily along a high, warm wall, and now and then reached out to touch it as if to convince herself that it was still there. Yes, it was still there. And behind it? I looked on my map: maison d’accouchement. Good. They will deliver her—they can do that. Farther along, on the rue Saint-Jacques, a large building with a dome. The map said: Val-de-grâce, hôpital militaire. I didn’t really need to know that, but all right. The street began to give off smells from all sides. It smelled, as far as I could distinguish, of iodoform, the grease of pommes frites, fear. All cities smell in summer. Then I saw a house that was peculiarly blind, as if from a cataract; it wasn’t on the map, but above the door there was an inscription, still fairly legible: Asile de nuit. Beside the entrance were the prices. I read them. It wasn’t expensive.
And what else? A child in a baby-carriage standing on the sidewalk: it was fat, greenish, and had a clearly visible rash on its forehead. This was apparently healing and didn’t hurt. The child was sleeping with its mouth open, breathing iodoform, pommes frites, fear. That is simply what happened. The main thing was, being alive. That was the main thing.
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2. Translated by Stephen Spender, 1984 (Oxford University Press)
11 September, Rue Toullier
People come here, then, to live? I should rather have thought that they came here to die. I have been out, and Is aw hospitals. I saw a poor fellow stagger and fall. People gathered round him: so I was spared the rest. I saw a pregnant woman. She dragged herself heavily along a high, warm wall, now and again groping for it as if to assure herself it was still there. Yes, it was still there; and behind it—? I looked for it on my map of the city: Maison d’Accouchement. Right. They will deliver her; they can do that. Further on, in the rue Saint-Jacques, an immense building with a cupola. My map said: Val de Grâce, hôpital militaire. I really did not need this information, but that does not matter. On every side an odour began to rise from the street. It was, so far as one could distinguish, a smell of iodoform, the grease of pommes frites, and fear. Every city has its summer smell. Then I saw a house curiously blind as if with cataract. It was not to be found on my map; but above the door there stood an inscription still fairly readable: Asile de nuit. Beside the entrance was the list of charges. I read it. The place was not dear.
And what else? A baby in a perambulator standing on the pavement. The child was stout, of a greenish complexion, and it had a noticeable eruption on its forehead. This was evidently healing and not causing any pain. The child was sleeping with open mouth, breathing iodoform, pommes frites, and fear. This, then, is what it came to. The chief thing was to keep on living. That was the chief thing.
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3. Translated by Burton Pike, 2008 (Dalkey Archive)
September 11, rue Toullier
So, this is where people come in order to live, I would have rather thought: to die. I have been out. I have seen: hospitals. I saw a man who tottered and collapsed. People gathered around him, that spared me the rest. I saw a pregnant woman. She was pushing herself with difficulty along a high warm wall, which she sometimes reached out to touch as if to convince herself that it was still there. Yes, it was still there. And behind it? I looked on my map: Maison d’Accouchement. Good. They will deliver her—they can do that. Further on, rue Saint-Jacques, a big building with a dome. The map indicated Val-de-Grâce, Hôpital militaire. I didn’t really need to know that, but it does no harm. The street began to smell from all sides. It smelled, as far as one could distinguish, of iodoform, of the grease of pommes frites, of fear. All cities smell in summer. Then I saw a curiously cataract-blinded building, it wasn’t to be found on the map, but over the door it said, fairly legibly: Asyle de nuit. Beside the entrance were the prices. I read them. It was not expensive.
And what else? A child in a standing baby carriage. The child was fat, greenish, and had a prominent sore on its forehead. The sore was obviously healing and did not hurt. The child was sleeping, its mouth open, breathing iodoform, pommes frites, fear. That’s how its as. The main thing was that one was alive. That was the main thing.
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