>> From the Library of Congress in Washington DC.
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[silence]
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>> GRANT HARRIS: Good evening, and welcome to the Library of Congress. I am Grant Harris. I am Chief of the European Division here at the library. The European Division and the poetry and literature center, in partnership with the Embassy of the Republic of Malta, and greatly supported by the Arts Council of Malta in New York, present tonight a poetry reading and conversation with Immanuel Mifsud. The European Division is responsible for providing reference and for developing the Library's collections relating to continental Europe. We hope you have a pleasant time at the Library this evening, and please come back to use the collections. For almost every country, we think we've got the largest collections outside of those countries. Please turn off your cellphones and recording devices for the duration of the program. Also be aware that this event is being recorded as a Library of Congress webcast. In a few minutes my colleague, Lucia Wolf, our specialist for Malta and Italy, will introduce poet Immanuel Mifsud, and after the poetry reading, Lucia will interview Mifsud up here on the stage. Now, however, I have the privilege of introducing to you the Ambassador of Malta. This is His Excellency Ambassador Pierre Clive Agius. Thank you for being here.
[applause]
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>> AMB. AGIUS: Thank you very much, Mr. Harris, Mrs. Wolf, Ruth. It's a big privilege and honor to be here, really too. I want to thank you for braving the cold weather and coming to the Library of Congress. You'll be rewarded, because you're going to discover a very fine intellect, some very measured words from one, I think, of the best authors we ever had in Malta. He's the winner of the European Prize for Literature of 2011, and you'll discover he's all enveloped in this very human and humble persona. You'll come to discover something, another aspect of Malta. Probably he's going to be a better ambassador than I am. He's going to take you to Malta, and you're going to feel his words really coming from the heart, which I think conveys the best spirit of Malta. But, before I make space for him, there is something which I want to share with you out of conviction. This is the sheer fact that we are in this institution, in the Library of Congress. This is, for a country like mine, this is very historical. It's the first time that a Maltese writer, a Maltese author, comes here and he shares, within this institution which houses humanity. I say this houses humanity, the history of humanity, the dreams of humanity, philosophy, the discoveries. The discoveries of diseases, and so on and so forth. There is, in this institution, there is a part of every corner of the world, of all of us. It's common heritage of mankind in its own right. I'm extremely, extremely touched and humbled by this evening, and I will take this memory with me when I finish this term here in Washington. I want to thank you very much for the space you've given us, and what you've given to my country. But, now it's time to make space for the real star of this evening. Thank you very much.
[applause]
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>> LUCIA WOLF: Good evening. I am Lucia Wolf, the European Division Reference Specialist for Italy and Malta. Welcome to the Library of Congress for this wonderful event dedicated to Malta, and to Immanuel Mifsud. Before going any further, I want to thank the Arts Council of Malta in New York. Without their support we would not have had this successful event. And I especially want to think Dr. Laura Falzon, there she is, who is here, and will come to the podium at the end of the program so you can say a few conclusive words. Thank you. Also I want to thank from the bottom of my heart, His Excellency, the Ambassador of the Republic of Malta. Thank you for your patience and your full support throughout this coordination. But, let us move on to the star of the evening, Dr. Immanuel Mifsud. Immanuel Mifsud was born in Malta in 1967. He has published eight poetry collections, including a collection of travel poems, Km, kilometer, in bilingual edition with translations by Maria Grech Ganado, and Confidential Reports, which was published in Ireland with translations by Maurice Riordan and Adrian Grima. I'm sorry for my pronunciation. He has also published 10 collections of short stories, including Sara Sue Sammut's Strange Stories, which won the National Literary Award for 2002, and was later short-listed for the Premio Strega Europa. Of course he is very well-known internationally for his award-winning novel, In The Name of the Father and the Son, which won the European Prize in 2011.
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[music]
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>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: That was the Trio Noir. It's a jazz combo from Malta, of course. That was the launch of their last album. As you can see, it was performed in a former chapel. I chose this because I collaborate with Noir, and there are two tracks from this album which includes some poems of mine. And well I thought it would be very nice to have them here via technology this evening. Before I start, I share the Ambassador's excitement, and also a huge sense of responsibility being the first Maltese writer to come into these walls to read. For me it's a huge thing, and I will, like the ambassador, this will be a day which, of course, I will never forget. But, I would like to thank all of you for braving the cold weather, and the traffic I have to say, and come here this evening. Thank you very much. I'm going to start reading a poem, given that a couple of days ago it was St. Valentine's day, which it seems is being celebrated, how should I say, quite regularly now year in, year out. It's a love poem divided into different pieces. When you dress in black you spread the night over your breast, and hide the full moon. Which, however, comes out to peep through your eyes.	Your hair pulled back is a wind that doesn't steer. Your hands are folded in a caress. You're thinking that tomorrow the sea will rise to take you, you don't know where. Maybe it will take you where eyes have never seen, ears never heard. Your fingers grasp the leaf you spread the dream on, which was born once while you were sailing with your loved one still hidden in your embrace. Your eyes read the horizon he painted for you, the hidden one who loves you in the depths of your breast. Your eyes wish to cry in the middle of a smile as soon as you finish reading the poem. Your lips are a long night which scarcely wants to end, dreaming with the movement of violence on boundless expanses of green grass. A blue night, which turns silently melancholic, lost among large expanses of white sheets. Your lips are the small island which is drowning. Slowly the water rises, sweetly. This drowning becomes sacred as it ends. Its very peaks are covered by the blue sea, the island which is lost in memory. Your lips are the stillness falling slowly, slowly. Soon they'll be heard crying. They'll soon be silent. When you come down to lie on the sea's surface and you forget the corners one by one because you wish to get quickly to the sand. You wish to hear your own voice reply to the call you throw to the restless sea. When you come down to lie on the sea's surface your face touches its face, its body your body, while you fly far away in order to forget these corners which have risen one by one, people's unintentional bumping into you. You wish alone to approach the sand where your clothes fall in a heap while you still walk, nude as the sea, as is this silence, this bay which has hidden in early morning. You wish to forget, to feel alone. You wish to sleep to the naked sound of water rising on you. You wish to sleep, to dream, of silence. And then you look at the earth with shut eyes, and see black pictures coming towards you. Of course that was a translation, and all the poems I will be reading were originally written in Maltese. I would like to thank my translators for making it possible that I read to people who do not understand my language. Speaking of my language, I would like to read just a snippet in Maltese so that you will hear the language. So, this is just the beginning of a poem I shall be reading right after this excerpt. It is called Macedonia Square, the main square in Skopje, Macedonia.
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[reading in Maltese]
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>> So, that was Maltese. Now the same poem, but the whole lot in English translation. Macedonia Square. I always meet you, you spirits of old cities, ghosts playing violins, the same songs old and dim, always about loves that have tried and failed. Always the same death in the middle of the square. By now I'm used to having you appear out of nowhere to bestow on me your solitary welcome. Strings, destined to play only images familiar, like the same sweaty embrace, and tears of silver dropping on our lapels and running everywhere. 	It's raining, but you keep on rambling through streets that are bursting with lore of kings and queens, who sketched a map that, silently, we can't help but follow. Just for tonight, we shall sit at table, smoke a cigarette together, and then we'll cry, and feel the tears give us pleasure only we two can understand. Because there is no one else left in this old city like us. 
[pause]
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>> Since I came here I forgot my name. I slept in seven different beds, climbed up mountain tops, dipped my feet in lakes. I spoke some four languages I didn't know, browned in the blazing sun, froze under the biting hail. I met people whose name I never learned, I ate and drank all they gave me and heard their stories and those of their ancestors. I rode cars of every shape and color. And then they drove me to the city's end. I asked them where I was, but no one answered. This is another poem from Skopje. And rain starts falling heavily again. Again, that song we heard six months ago when we were alone, looking shyly at each other, undecided whether to make love or not. And then you said, "Better not, because tomorrow you're leaving." Then you cried, and I stared, lost my eyes along the edges of your hair. Again, that stuffy weather and humid, dropping loads of leaves before they died, and again that song we heard six years ago when we were alone together, looking with nostalgia at each other, and decided what should or next words be after, "How's it going? It's been ages." And after a few uneasy seconds I spot the strange marks, sad and silent, that the rain left scattered in the corners of your face. Against your wishes you have to tell me again, "Hurry, run now. The plane is waiting." Everywhere I go I seem to find someone waiting. If it's not the plane then it's a strong gust of wind rising up and pouncing from behind every corner, with tearful eyes, with sure marks of aging. I look up, and the lights turn to green again. I would like to read two poems about my mother. My mother was a very religious person, and when you say a very religious person in Malta, it means very Catholic. The first poem I'm going to read, I was told that this ritual is no longer allowed in churches, but up to a few years ago, right after the end, or just before the end of the mass, before internment, relatives could go and read a message or something. And when my mother died, which was on the eve of Christmas, one of my nieces read this poem, which I wrote specifically for my mother's funeral. I have to tell you, it's never been read, not even in Maltese, except on that particular day, so this is really a premier, because I've never read this poem in public before. It's called of course, A Poem for Your Funeral. Mom, I remember you sitting out in the yard peeling tangerines for me, and telling the lovely stories which you always knew how to weave. And Mom, I remember you telling me once that you'd seen the stars fall one by one, and there were so many that the sea lit up. Before I went to bed you always told me that the rain was only Our Lady's needles. If you touched them they wouldn't prick, as they were holy. The wind was nothing but the voice of God singing, and the lightning and the thunder were the toys which Jesus dropped while he was playing. I remember you, Mom. Beautiful as red roses, as orange blossom, Narcissus, or as daisies. I remember, Mom, your voice like violins playing or stopping according to their wish. Then, they stopped once, for all. Everything ended. And now even flowers feel the muted silence, and the sea, which once lit up, has been switched off. So go, Mom, because the candles have been lit by someone. Someone awaits you with a bouquet in his arms. And make sure you smile Mom, and have a happy feast. I saw the fresh water running among the trees, carrying the remains of my mother. From afar they were carried, by frosty wind that blew over the grave. By the sheer waters searching for a foreign land. By happy dolphins, by strong waves, by icy rivers crossing mountains and resting for a while in valleys. The fresh water runs gracefully among the trees which waited centuries for my coming, and when I arrived to greet the fresh water approaching, I saw it had brought me the remains of my mother. Her bones, and her hair. Her blue dress with white motifs. Bits and pieces from her coffin. For 100 lira we had bought it. Now bearing some dizzy worms which had been feasting upon her. While bathing my feet in this fresh running water, against my bear skin, the remains begin rubbing. Then they all gather gently to rest just below me, looking me straight in the eye. I'm not sure if they understand my smile, whether they think its pleasure, or whether they take it as a sign that the end is near, and it's summoning me to slide into the water. This is a poem from Portugal, from Lisbon. So there'll be no more death now, it's just passion, you know. It's called "St. Nicholas Street in Lisbon."  You'd figure that from under her jet black hair would stream the sound of an old guitar. That from her matching eyes would tumble the songs of fishermen, and tall tales told on the way back home with a full catch. You think it was her painted fingers that parted your hair like a breeze, and you think it was her voice that woke you when there was no one left to hear you. You think that in her handbag she pegged your last remaining years until your bones fall to the ground, and you won't have the strength to pick them up and put them back in place.
You spot her walking toward you languidly, looking up and down, smiling as she notices you noticed her, and your heart starts beating harder, and your forehead, that's the fresh rash from the Atlantic.	But then you feel your legs wobble. You're scared. For so long you've been craving this encounter; now she's here right next to you, close enough to smell the perfume creeping along her neck. You can see stray wrinkles sauntering about her face, and her heart pulsing underneath her shirt. You can touch her too. She's right at your fingertips. But now your strength has completely left you. You stand there staring like a kid waiting to be punished, like a kid waiting for some present. "Let's have a coffee, and then we'll go." And it's true. She has cords circling around her head. Her eyes, the sole voice of the fisherman. "Want to come? I have a cottage on the shore, a bed where you can lie, bread and water, a large window through which you'll see the sea staring at night, crashing, waiting for us. In my bag I hold the waves, strong and cruel, just like my hair. So, you want to go, right?" So, you really want to go right?  You really want to go with her. You want to have your wish come true, see the dream unfurling sweetly into reality. But you can't. You're too scared. And you tell her, "No," because you still have your mother's milk beneath your teeth. "Some other time," you say. "I'll come again to wait for you. I'll catch a plane. I promise I'll be back. I'll sail against the wind again. I'll walk, climb hills, rappel cliffs, to get back to the city. I'll sit once more in this very same spot to make sure that you can see me."	But now you see her far away, no more than a tiny speck. She's left you savoring just her scent, and said she won't be back. Because a gust of wind blows only once. All right, some more passion from Spain. There is this beautiful square in Cordoba, it's called Plaza de la Corredera, and it's been used for different purpose throughout the years. It was a market, it was a place where there were bullfights once, et cetera, et cetera. So, this is Plaza de la Corredera in Cordoba. Imagine yourself starting to cross the square, naked as God upon the seventh day. Underfoot the bull's blood is still boiling. A slightly moist red rose is in your hair. In your left hand, there's a black fan the color of sweet wine that's been poured cold and which your full lips can still savor. You are crossing the square without your noticing that out of sight, behind a half-closed door, staring at you, there is this foolish poet.	Imagine that you've reached the middle of this square, naked as God upon the seventh day, the spilt blood's reek is growing slowly rusty. In your hair, a dry red rose is wilting. In your left hand you now carry a suitcase with folded cloths which have begun to crease, and letters you've received but never opened. You're there right in the middle, and you notice under one of the arches there's a poet studying you. His look is a bull's look. Imagine that you're right across the square, naked as God upon the seventh day. The rain is pouring down and cleansing everything. Your eyes, your lips and hair, are leaking dye. Your left hand moans. Your navel's lost within a troubled sea. Fatigue from the long walk weighs down your legs. You reach the edge and turn to look behind. An aging poet, on his life's last day, prepares at last to enter you.	Come down here to Plaza de la Corredera. Stare at the dark women and the men. Smile only with your lips. Keep your eyes hard. Stop up your ears. Ignore the noisy crowd. Instead, just listen to the sudden paces of that man standing right there opposite you, the man who's fully armed to wound the bull, his eyes two tiny swords, two sharpened daggers, his lips shutters ajar to the night's depths. The bull appears. The crowd's murmur fills out. The man who holds himself right opposite raises his swords aims his daggers well. You sit and smoke, sitting at your black coffee, your big green eyes blending well with the hue of blood rusting the tiles where the bull's writhing soul was spewed as five bombed out of upon that afternoon. 40 degrees, and thirst, and sweat, and lethargy. You take the sandals off, place your bare feet upon the empty chair where opposite you, a little while ago, the wary toreador rested, dazed by the hefty cheers of the crowd. 40 degrees. You draw your hair into a bun. There's sugar in the bottom of your cup, and ashes. 40 degrees. The moon prepares to rise and hides the blood which is still there, soiling the grooves between the tiles, spreading a sheet which can shroud death. You turn your head to look at the old woman, lovely still, sitting upon a stool selling her fans, and in her chestnut eyes you see the crowd, orgasmic at the blood that's being shed. And there, under the arches, mark the man still searching for you, his hand smeared with blood. Let your eyes remove his clothes. Raise your head as you divest him of his cares. Bewitch him with your own. Spell within spell, mystery entwined with mystery, gaze locked in gaze. The bull is ready for the fight. 40 degrees, and your dress clings to you. An immense fly teases your neck, and you pull out another cigarette to smoke in the silence of afternoon, of the gaze, in the silence of vapor drifting from the cup towards your green eyes, melting like the bull's cry, stretched in the rot. His eyes seeking an elegy in yours, late in the afternoon. His eyes turn dry. 40 degrees. This square buries a bull, but forgets to wash its blood. And so, as you sit with your black coffee, smoke, the green of your big eyes mingles with memories which reach into the corners. 40 degrees. But as you rise to make your way to bed, your body, drenched in sweat, suddenly shudders, your lips tremble a bit, and your teeth chatter. You're leaving one fully armed man behind, leaving a whole population soaked in the blood of an abandoned bull stretched full-length in a square. I can still savor the taste of those green olives, the spidery cuttlefish swimming in lemon blood. I can still feel the sun dry up my hair. I can still feel my body quicken to flamenco, with inviting glances of the dancer. They taught her body, now it could live death.
Tonight, in this four-star hotel, she'll steal into my room for us to spend this night in celebration of running water. Take me. Take me with you where you're not meant to take me. Carry me with you where you're not meant to carry me, into the corner there is reserved for others. entangle me unawares inside your web. Kiss me over and over until I'm out of breath, and let that fan conceal me with its shade of death. Your eyes seem to have grown while I undressed. I felt them, slightly damp, climb up my bodies. My toes first, then my legs, up to my waste, up my thighs. A moonless night was in your eyes, a hurricane embracing stormy seas, both rising, moving further, up to stroke my navel, to hang suspended from the nipples of my chest. But see, they never, never reach my eyes. Tell me, how scared are you of my lewd gaze? Lie down. There are no webs in me, nor does death lurk behind the fan. Let me take you, and make you what you feared to be, my darling.
^M00:37:38
>> I would like to read one last poem. It is a poem which I wrote after the nth case of people leaving from northern Africa heading towards Europe to try to make a new living, fleeing their troubled countries. As you know, many of these people, unfortunately, they never make it ashore, and they end up drowning in the Mediterranean. So, yes, there was the passion of the Mediterranean, but now there is the other side of our sea. We Mediterraneans are very full of our sea, very proud to be Mediterraneans, but we are also very sorry with what is happening with these people. This poem is called, Will This Boat Arrive?. It is based on two things: first, on the account of one survivor in Lampedusa, which is an island far from ours, but it's part of the Italian archipelago, and I'm sure you've seen that image of that little child washed ashore, lifeless. So, Will This Boat Arrive. Will this boat arrive? Will it? Or will it lose breath, seizing just before the sea stops and land begins, a land that does not know us? I walked through alleys, I walked through streets, through hamlet, town, and city. Everywhere, sweeping crooked steps just to keep on moving. I crossed rivers and valleys, climbed mountains which swore they'd return to crush me beneath them. Still I walked on through fickle suns, phasing moons, reaching out to pluck a bright star, blow it, and send it back home, so it might, through the window, warmly kiss my mother, my father, my sister, that is if they still are, if they are still. Before me, wave upon wave of sand, a yellow, fishless, and waterless sea. I walk on, counting all the steps and notes, holding the white plastic bag in my hands. A bottle of water, a cluster of dates, a handful of photos, some travel sickness pills, old papers folded certifying that I'm a learned one, a jacket, a jersey, and of course the passport. I got burned, frozen, terrified most by the dark; that is, till the Ghibli blew in, taunting and cruel, its searing hot winds burning down, tearing skin with fine dust, and swearing one day it would return to crush, bury me, secretly, its gusts. I wept mightily, prayers rolling where there once had been tears. Prayers to a God full of mercy. I supposed he would hear. I summoned him, calling him by name more than once, twice, in the nothingness surrounding me. When I dozed off, I dreamt of voices I used to hear often, wafting through lush tree branches. I dreamt of the voices of old folks I knew, maundering on for hours. I dreamt of the voices of apples, ripe melons, of milk sauntering freely through my mother's full breast, and spicy voices rising from Latakia leaves, pungent, being smoked by olive dark men. Then I dreamt again, of sweat, and of bones, of cold black holes piercing me, pleading me, "Don't go!" Telling me to turn back, "get away from the shore, pay no attention to men with boats. Beware the water," they say, "It's cruel." The voices cry out danger, warning me sure, "Don't step on another man's land." I woke with a jolt. And so before me descends a blue carpet unfurling to that cold land, a land that's afraid of, yet doesn't even know me, a land that I'm no less determined to set foot on, so I walk on towards the boats. I carry this bag that I have chosen, packed it with my whole story, one bag. And even that will soon get lighter once, at gun or knife point, I pay my passage to climb into their sea craft, challenging voices urging me to stop. Will the boat make it? Will it? Once upon a shore there were children playing, chasing a ball, running and laughing. Someone from afar, someone from afar gunned them down, and there was no one left on the beach save the ball, which stood there waiting.
I remember that ball bouncing across and back sand. I remember my cousins laughing, running, the ball bouncing, speeding faster than us, then the wind joined in playing with the ball, and it started playing with us. We were trying our best to outrun that wind, reach the ball it had cruelly snatched, racing to see who might get it first. Of course I was the last. I ran the slowest. I couldn't beat the wind. But I ran, I ran, we all did! The taunt of the wind, the sound of laughter, and then, then someone from afar, someone from afar gunned us down, and no one, not one of us reached the ball. Still the wind stayed on, having already won, kept playing on its own, but with my face to the ground I see nothing at all, only darkness. Now I have no idea how long I've been here waiting. A day, two, three? More? I wait. Locked up with strangers locked up with me. And we look, and we look at the dark blue sea, and we count. Counting every strange, and very strange numbers of, sounds, bank notes for the guy with the Kalashnikov, steps we take wasted deep into the water to get to this fragile boat meant to transport us, and I see that my bag is swelling with the sea. My passport inside, close to tatters. Faces of my loved ones now drifting in water, my pills one by one melting and dropping. My dates have lost their sweetness, quickly turning salty. The jacket and the jersey threadbare, I lose all my story. Now drenched, watch it dissolving. Like caught fish packed in crates, we set off for the unknown. Behind me, ashore with damp sands, there's no one left there save a gust of wind and heavy silence you always hear as you close one book to open another. There is a curious white blot, and it's spreading, carried neither by wind nor by water. But I can see clearly, there's a child in a red top face down kissing the sand, washed by the sea, a cleansing for burial. And the wind begins to blow as it always does when it wakes, but the red-shirted child does not stir. And the boat carries us off now, away, away. Maybe we'll get there, maybe.
And we ask, will this boat make it? Will it? Or will it lose breath, seizing, just before the sea stops, and ... The waves, the sand, mountainous, crushing, screams, darkness, cold, thirst, cries, and suddenly ...
Thank you very much.
[applause]
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>> LUCIA WOLF: So, we will watch a video, a beautiful video, produced in the Czech Republic with Dr. Mifsud as a protagonist in it, on the sea, in a boat. I won't say more. We will give Dr. Mifsud some time to transition into a part of our program which is a conversation, a briefer conversation, but a conversation between the two of us. Thank you.
[video]
^M00:56:11
>> LUCIA WOLF: I would like to take advantage of the fact that you're here, and have you read also a couple of passages from In The Name of the Father, rather than me doing it.
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD:	 Sure. Right.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Because it is inherent to a question that I wanted to ask you, which is very much tied to a video that we have just seen, The Sea. Starting to, when you get home, you collapse.
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD: To?
>> LUCIA WOLF: To The Tower, "I'm afraid of a lot of things." "I'm afraid of a lot of things" ... Yes, "I'm afraid of a lot of things". 
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Yes. When you get home you collapse onto the nearest chair and then lace your boots. You always unlace the left boot first, and you ask me to pull your boots off for you. Once they're off, they feel heavy in my hands, and you tell me to line them up neatly under the bed. And you roll along like a boat on a rough sea. And the sea gets rougher once your boots are off. No shortness of breath in spite of all the cigarettes you smoke. You dive to the very bottom of the bay below [inaudible]  to bring up sea urchins, scores of sea urchins in the wicker basket. They reek of the sea. The smell of sea urchins is alien to me, and I've never been down to [inaudible], and those dark depths scare me.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Beautiful. I have another passage related to the question we are going to, and this time it is about the father drawing squares in the sand.
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD: 	Okay.
>> LUCIA WOLF: If you could please read from, "You call me, and I come next to you"? Should I show you?
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Yes, please.
>> LUCIA WOLF: I'm sorry, we didn't prepare.
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD: That's all right.
>> LUCIA WOLF: It's improvised. You call me ... Read it from [inaudible].
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD:  Okay. Pardon me. You call out to me because you want to take a picture, but I've got a castle to build. I've no time for pictures. You take your pictures one after the other.  I want to build a sand castle so that I can enjoy tearing it down. Then, just as I'm finishing the castle, you get up and walk away, alone. Not far from where the foam boldly laps the shoreline, you call me and I come next to you and with a dead twig in your hand, you etch a square in the wet sand littered with lifeless jellyfish. "Look at the square," you say. "Now we'll wait for the sea to come closer." And the sea does come closer, and when it ebbs away I realize that the square has disappeared.
>> LUCIA WOLF: So, Dr. Mifsud, from your writing, from the poems you have read, from the video, it seems you have an ambivalent relationship with your country, and you don't mention your country very, very often in your works. The images of the sea conjure up your country and show this ambivalence. I wanted to ask you if ... In your works the sea seems to be synonymous with, or a metaphor of Malta, and the sea is at times the father. It takes away and forces you to be brave, just like a nation would also do. Or the mother, in a poem of yours, Wariness, free-falling into the sea, is like falling into the embrace of the mother, letting go. The sea is isolation, as you were saying, but also the route for travelers, colonizers, at once full of possibilities or entrapment. I understand this, I am from a coastal town in southern Italy. I don't come from northern Italy, I come from southern Italy. And you were saying something about the sea before, that Mediterraneans, who have the sea, are full of this pride of having the sea, but at the same time it is something that takes away from us because it isolates. It made me think a lot about an Italian songwriter, Pino Daniele, from Naples, who talks about the sea in these terms. My Neapolitan isn't good either, but [foreign language]. This is what it means: "Those who have the sea are happy fools. Those who have the sea know they do not have anything." What is your relationship with the sea?
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Well, I think, as year old pointed out earlier on, it's an ambivalent relationship. Partly because I think I have an ambivalent relationship with everything. There is always this need to relate to something, or to someone, but at the same time there is also an inability to do it, because there is this natural tendency to isolate. At this time I'm isolating myself most probably. What is my relationship to the sea? I think people who live on islands, especially small islands ... In Malta, basically you can see the sea from practically anywhere. It's that small, and also it's hilly, so it makes it more easy to look down and see the edge. And I think the sea is, on the one hand, something which gives us an identity, so we love the sea of course, but we are also very conscious that the sea is isolating us, so it angers us maybe. So there is this love and anger at the sea. Once I was talking to a fisherman, and you'd expect that a fisherman would take the sea for granted because they are all the time working near or on the sea. But it transpired from our short dialogue that fishermen too have this ambivalent relationship with the sea. Because it gives them their living, but at the same time they know they are risking their lives when they are on the sea. So, I think this ambivalence is quite natural. It is also an issue with me and my country as a whole. At one point you feel you belong, at one point you feel you don't belong. I had all the opportunity to leave, and when I was 16, I remember I was obsessed with leaving, with emigrating, like my brothers did. When I had the opportunity, I did not. Not even that, I am married to a foreigner, and I got the foreigner to Malta rather than I leaving Malta. So, life can be quite ironic sometimes.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Yes, could this also explain your love, your fondness, for countries in eastern Europe, in northern Europe?
>>IMMANUEL MIFSUD:  Yes, but my love for those countries, it started when I was still very, very young. I was maybe, what, 11, 12. The love started on a linguistic level. Because I used to hear the news, and I used to hear these words which rang so beautifully in my ears, like, "Czechoslovakia," for example, such a beautiful word. Or "Romania," I don't know, or "Yugoslavia." These, somehow they attracted me more than, I don't know, France, Netherlands, Germany. I don't know why, but I remember, it was the sound. Of course I was too young to know what Yugoslavia and Romania, et cetera, et cetera. I told before how religious my mother was, and I remember every Saturday she used to receive this newspaper. I'm sure the ambassador will know which paper, it was published by the church, [inaudible], devoid of truth. I was young, and I used to leaf through it, and there was always some page, even two pages maybe, demonizing the communist east, because they are killing priests, or because they are this and this and this. So in my mind I had this conflict, in a young boy's mind, I had this conflict that I am so in love with these words, Czechoslovakia, et cetera, but then the church is teaching me to be wary of them, you know what I mean.
>> LUCIA WOLF: The devil.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Of course growing older I realized that Yugoslavia, simply across the sea, it's so near us and the rest of this eastern Europe, then of course when I grew up I started reading, and I realized how in love I am with the arts of these countries. Of course it was very sad for me what happened in this region, et cetera, et cetera, but that is a different discourses altogether.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Yes. Going back to this, your book of poems, your collection of poems, Polska And Slovenska, talks about Poland of course, and also Slovenia, and talks about ... refers to, sorry, it does not talk. It refers to it, conjures up the holocaust, and it also refers to the communist regime in these countries. Can you talk more about this collection of poems, and what led you?
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Well, the Slovakia part, my wife comes from Slovakia, so by now it's my second adopted country, because we visit the country quite often: two, three times a year. Of course it was one of these words which I fell in love with when I was a little boy. Poland is a country which produced so many artists I admire. Kieslowski when it comes to film, Herbert and Szymborska and Ruzevich, and Kantor and [inaudible] and Grotowski, it's such a rich country, with such a sad history. Because if you were to look at just the map of Poland throughout the years, geographically Poland is never the same. At one point it even vanishes from Europe. That book was, basically it marked my first visit to the two countries, and the impression they left upon me. In the Slovak part, when we are there we live in a region which is very well known for having been the core of the partisan activities during the war, the revolution against the fascist regime there. And so, you can feel in the woods, you know, every so many meters there is a slab which commemorates some event, et cetera. As with Poland of course, as well, the history of the country, the collective identity of the people as a people who suffered from Nazi Germany, from communist Soviet Union. I have this, maybe morbid, I don't know, tendency to identify with countries and people who have suffered. I feel I am obliged to show empathy towards these people. On the other hand, as we were saying yesterday, in another event which we had yesterday, I always have this problem, it's an ethical problem, whether I have the right, being a foreigner to both these countries, and others I've written about. And the ethical problem comes from, do I have the right to tell the story which is not mine, which I had never, ever anything to do with it? Do I have the right to do it? It's an ethical problem which I haven't yet resolved.
^M01:10:49
>> LUCIA WOLF: Beautiful. I have prepared two poems from Polska and Slovenska, but I did not bring it over here, but one was about a child in the Holocaust, children in the Holocaust. That was extremely tragic, because I remembered being in Prague, and being in the Jewish cemetery, and this woman just kneeling on the ground and looking at children's drawings, children from the Holocaust, and she was just crying. So, it somehow brought me back to that image. Another one was about a woman in Czechoslovakia, a stranger on a train maybe, or even on the road. But, I would've liked to talk more about that. I am insisting on these countries because in the European Division in particular, we start off as a Slavic center of study, so I was very curious about your relationship to these countries. But let's return to Malta, I don't know how much time we have, but about Maltese literature and language. They are both relatively new, in the sense of Maltese language becoming recognized as a national literary language. Although Malta had this long history, and was colonized by many, as you were saying, and in any similar circumstance the language of the colonizer became your language, the language of Malta. It started to appear as a recognized national language in the 19th century, and it started to be valued as a literary language short after that, but really in the post-independence period of history in your country?
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: The language itself is much, much more ancient than this, because as you know, the language has a Semitic base, coming from Arabic of course, and then there's romance. In our case, by romance we mean Italian and Sicilian superstructure, and eventually an English superstructure to that. Of course this reflects the history of the island. So, as for language, language is a very ancient thing, and our Romantic poets were very proud saying that this language is an ancient language. I can understand the Romantic poets, because one of the magnificent things about this language is that it basically braved through all the foreign rules. As for literature, although we have a poem going back to the 15th century, but it's a solitary thing so far. So when we talk of our literature we go back only to the end of the 19th century. That's when literature started to be properly written. Remember that although the language is an ancient language, it was officially recognized as the official language of Malta in the 1930s. Of course it was a very cunning political move from the English government to basically put aside the Italian influence. It's not that they wanted the Maltese to be, you know. Then eventually, for us one huge thing was having the European Union recognizing Maltese as one of the official language as the European Union. Something which our romantic poets would not have dreamt in a million years. I always make with my students that if they were alive, they would be so happy they would drop dead there and then.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Wonderful. I think we have Time for one very short question. I'm sorry we have to ... But okay, I will ask you a little bit, maybe lighter, I'm not sure.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Okay.
>> LUCIA WOLF: When did you decide to become a poet, and why?
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: I always tried to avoid this question.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Yes, I know, but that's why I'm putting it to you.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Now you know why when I answer it. But, the first time I answered it was in Romania, because In The Name of the Father was published in Romanian some two years ago I think, and there was this journalist, and I thought that off the record she was asking me this question. I answered her very honestly, and not only was it published, but it was even translated into English, and I said, "Oh goodness, no, this I shouldn't have said." Anyway, now it's public so I can tell you. It's a very unpoetical reason why I became a writer. Basically, when I was in high school, and with us high school is 16, I used to go to the state high school. At the time we used to call it the New Lyceum. It was a two year course before entering the university. In Malta there is this, although it's changing now, but from 10 years until 15 they used to segregate students between boys and girls. Now it's changing. Although I went to a church school and I can't see that changing in church schools, although you never know. Of course after spending all your adolescence just with boys, and suddenly you start seeing girls in your classroom, now it was a very beautiful experience. Let's put it that way. You start flirting, you start dating, that usually is ... In my time now, of course. Now things have changed. I'm looking at the ambassador, because we were undergraduates together, so it's like I'm trying to confer with him. It was the time when usually boys, in my generation, started dating, et cetera. There was this student in my group who started dating a girl on the grounds that he was writing poems. And I said, "That must be something which impresses girls, it seems." And I said, "If he did it, why can't I do it as well?" So I started writing poems. You can imagine what kind of poems they were. Ironically this other person stopped writing soon after when most probably the purpose was reached. He became a prominent politician, so of course I'm not mentioning names, and a member of parliament as well, whereas I continued writing poetry and prose. Basically that was the story.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Thank you very much, Dr. Mifsud.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Thank you for this invitation.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Thank you everybody. This was wonderful.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Thank you.
>> LUCIA WOLF: I would have liked to ask a lot more questions and have you read.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
>> LUCIA WOLF: Maybe another time.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Maybe another time.
>> LUCIA WOLF: All right, thank you.
>> IMMANUEL MIFSUD: Thank you very much. Thanks.
[applause]
^M01:19:09
>> LUCIA WOLF: Dr. Laura Falzon, I would like you to come up here and say a few words, because this is a small way of thanking you for everything that you've done for this occasion.
>> LAURA FALZON: Thank you so much. First of all, I'd like to echo the same feeling as the Ambassador and Immanuel, just voice that it is an honor for me, but also really for the Arts Council of Malta in New York, as that is who I represent to be partaking in this event, and to be sponsoring it. Also of course it was the Ambassador's idea, and he convinced us basically, so I really want to thank the Ambassador for making this happen, really. I also want to thank everyone who came today, braving the cold. I mean it's not as cold as New York. And for your support and interest in Immanuel's work, and for showing such interest and enthusiasm for contemporary Maltese literature and art. Which, as here tested, is not only exciting and dynamic, but one that continues to sustain a long line of oral literary traditions that define our own sense of being, us Maltese. As someone who is very proud of being Maltese, but of course also American, I consider this event a very special one. In a way it is a landmark of recognition. We would be the first to claim the ancient truths of our language, like you were discussing. But we are also very much aware that more often than not, a lot of times we have to explain, where is Malta, and what language do you speak? All sorts of things. So, being an expert, I know how even a country like Britain, where I lived for 17 years before I came to America, and of course you know Malta considers England as the colonial motherland. Even there I always have to explain where Malta is, what Malta is. According to them, they only heard of Maltesers, the chocolate. And the Maltese dog. Everybody says, "You're the first Maltese musician I've ever met." Or, my husband, he's an academic and a writer as well, so in the United States I've also often had to do this. And these quick explanations, I must say that we tend to take a lot of pride, us as Maltese, not just being Maltese, but also Mediterraneans. Because we often feel that we have been privileged with a story that is at the crossroads of history. So, indeed, being Maltese and being Mediterranean is complimentary to us, and that as we speak our own language, we invoke the North and the South of the sea. Whereas you have noticed from Immanuel's reading, our language sounds at the same time Romance and Semitic, and we are very proud of that. I've prepared probably a little bit too much, but I just very quickly. Somehow, as a musician I realize that without this aesthetic identity I find myself at a loss as well. Playing music that is inspired by a constellation of cultures and sounds is not that dissimilar from speaking a language which represents a collective, basically, of cultures. So, Malta's artistic heritage is very much a product of this collective, between the local and universal. We are attached to the sea, as you identified in his writings as well, and in a way Maltese literature claims Beckett's cosmopolitanism in the ancient times, which have made our imaginary. We all feel proud, I speak for myself, but I know that I speak for all Maltese, especially the ones in this room, Immanuel and the Ambassador. You know, we are very proud when Maltese arts, language, and literature are heard in cosmopolitan setups, like for instance those of New York, where a lot of people heard Immanuel a few months ago when we had him there to participate in this literature festival, and he captivated the audiences and everybody was so interested in his books and his writings. And of course now here in Washington, DC and this wonderful institution, the Library of Congress. So, I want to say thank you all for engaging and sharing and being here today, and this would not happen unless we have a master. Of course having somebody like Immanuel, especially, as the first Maltese to ever be invited to the Library of Congress, it's great. Without the mastery of somebody like him, maybe you wouldn't think so highly of the Maltese language. He's taken it all over Europe and all over the world, and his writings have been translated into not just English but several other languages, as he has told us. So, this is just a little fraction of what he's written, so hope this would tempt you into looking at his other writings, all the books that are translated and his forthcoming ones, and also to introduce you to Maltese arts and literature, and hopefully you might also visit Malta at some point. Just to finish, I hope that tonight's event is the first one of many that would feature Maltese arts and culture here in Washington, DC and especially at the Library of Congress. Of course I've already thanked the ambassador and Immanuel. I want to also thank Ruth Ward who, she's very passionate about Malta, Maltese literature, and especially Immanuel Mifsud's writing. And ten, special thanks to Lucia Wolf. I know that, her incessant work, belief in Maltese literature, and belief in Immanuel's work, and commitment to make this happen.  I'm sure that you had to go against a lot of odds for this to happen, and I thank you very much. I understand there is a display.
^M01:27:44
>> LUCIA WOLF: Have a display outside, and I would like everybody to enjoy, and we have also a reception, so please partake.
>> LAURA FALZON: Thank you very much.
[applause]
^M01:27:58
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