Incomplete
Brevity is the refuge of the concise.
We at the complete review hate translation.
This kind of facile statement, with intent to provoke, I find disingenuous to say the least. Particularly coming from the book lovers at the Complete Review.
In two critiques, one of Robert Wechsler’s book, Performing without a stage – The art of literary translation and the other of William Gass’s Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problems of Translation, we’re instructed in, well, very little aside from and the reviewers’ propensity for self-indulgence and cliché:
We still prefer strictly literal translations, trying to mirror the original, and we’ll take a footnote explaining an unclear meaning over a more suitable but not literal translation of a word or sentiment any time.
This has been said many times before but I still don’t buy it. While the stance has merit, and would give all inveterate pedants a chubby, a novel (or poem) rendered in a strictly literal translation (me, I say…) and rife with footnotes is not conducive to pleasurable reading. Eyes flicking back and forth between text and footnotes is a chore, and destroys the flow of the narrative. (Footnotes are like subtitles: annoyingly irresistible.)
Now, I don’t dismiss the use of footnotes entirely: they’re essential at times, but a novel meant to be read as a novel should not be riddled with them.
A luxury afforded few translators, a foreword containing an exposé of some of the challenges involved in translating the work – accompanied by salient examples – should preface all translated literature. It would not only open some eyes, but also temper some critics and force the translator to dig as deep as is humanly possible.
Alas, this is not likely to happen any time soon, largely because of publishers’ indifference – many of whom attempt to downplay the fact that a book is a translation – coupled with their belief in readers’ indifference.
I recognize that most of us are drawn overtly to the familiar, and many perceive foreign works as a challenge, but I hope against hope that mere dismissal has not settled in, that we have not become so self-referential as to ignore the enticement of other takes, other metaphors, other cadence.
The many comments by actual translators were a bit much for us, but they do lend the book some authority.
Not being a Freudian, I have no idea what this means.
It goes without saying that not all translations are good, and too many are downright unfortunate, but the situation is not likely to improve if translators continue to be viewed as a near superfluous part of the publishing process or, worse, like criminals.
Indeed, translators keep taking Rilke’s finely-wrought verses and wringing every last bit of art from them until only these dry, pale, English imitations are left—and readers apparently continue to be deceived into paying good money for these forgeries.
Oh, the horror!
It seems to me that constructive criticism is required, reviews of translations on par with reviews of the literature itself (by competent bilinguals), greater interest on the part of publishers and the bastions of reviewing, more accessible talk on the plethora of pitfalls involved in translating not just words, but cultures – i.e. talk which doesn’t tumble into the linguistic babble of the inner circle – but not merely:
To go to an American or English bookstore and leaf through any of the many different translations of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies that are available is among the most depressing experiences one can have. The experience is more than depressing: these renderings stand as proof positive of the impossibility of translation and the horrors that result when it is perpetrated. But no one hears our wails, our anguished howls, when we stand, teary-eyed, leafing through these obscene renditions.
What bothers me most is that this could have been the lead-in to a very valid statement, but the author gives no examples, nowhere compares the German to the English. Nowhere even indicates that they are capable of doing so. S/he is apparently convinced that merely being appalled holds a de facto weight of authority.
Gass considers some fourteen versions of the Duino Elegies (and there are already more), and his comparative analysis of a few of the lines is most useful – though his criticism can, occasionally, be harsh. (See also, for example, David Young’s reader review at Amazon.com, complaining about Gass’ (sic) approach).
Not only does the reviewer revel in hypocrisy when accusing Gass (who knows his business) of harshness – given that only minutes ago “we cried and screamed and wailed, flung Gass’ book into the corner and then tore it apart in a fury (as we have done with every English translation of Rilke’s poems we have ever owned)” – but the only substantiation of their viewpoint offered is an Amazon review. (?)
This form of ill-supported put-down – sometimes tempered by a backhanded compliment – accomplishes nothing. What’s worse is that the claims are not invalid, but they’ve unfortunately been invalidated by an absence of examples (of which there is a horn of plenty) and, apparently, knowledge. It’s a lazy and unconvincing invective and too familiar a style: if you’re peeved, you must be right.
(How is it that reverence of the Bible, Tolstoy and Proust remains near mythic, but we now wince at the lure of discovering new authors from abroad?)
This critique has the weight of moviegoers in the cinema indignant and confused by the fact that the past five minutes of dialogue have been afforded only three lines of subtitles. They don’t know what was said, but certain there was more to it than that.
Yeah, so?
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Comment
- Hey, have you ever had comments before, or is that new?
Aside from that, I wanted to say that it’s always easy to pick on the translators and make yourself look smart. There’s a lot of great litaerature that English speakers can only read in translation, and everyone who claims to hate all translations needs to stop and think a bit about the Bible. Or the Odyssey. Or Herman Hesse.
— Violet May 17, 5:45pm # - I was with you right up till the last bit. I too am indignant when “the past five minutes of dialogue have been afforded only three lines of subtitles”; aren’t you? What is “Yeah, so?” supposed to mean?
— language hat May 17, 7:00pm # - I agree with you entirely. There’s nothing more irritating in a novel than a recurring asterisk referring you to a footnote. And regarding the quote about “the impossibility of translation and the horrors that result when it is perpetrated”: a book is always going to best in the original. This is obvious. But not all the reading public can be polyglots. I don’t understand Swedish, so I read Henning Mankell novels in their English translation.
— Jez May 17, 7:01pm # - I hate translations, too. That’s why I speak 3000 languages fluently.
— Simon May 17, 8:23pm # - God forbid the complete review express an opinion.
— Baloney May 18, 3:24am # - But really: Imagine a translation of Paradise Lost into French. If this requires further explanation, you’re not going to get it. You don’t get it.
— Baloney May 18, 3:31am # - I had always been under the impression that translations were not primarily intended for readers familiar with the language of the original. That said, the role of reviewer – who does have a reasonable knowledge of the original – is not to compare the absolute aesthetics of the translation with those of the original, but to see whether the translation hits near or wide the mark. A helpful review might point out the peculiar merits of a given translation, or content itself with suggesting an alternative, should one be necessary and available. I quite agree that unsubstantiated invective (though I find it amusing) is somewhat amiss in the supposedly reasonable medium of the book-review.
Such an approach is especially lamentable because a good translation should be the best argument in favor of learning the language of the original, for it draws the two languages closer together by converting an otherwise unfamiliar novel or essay or poem or film into a source of pleasure, with which the reader might like to increase his or her familiarity. To be pointed in the direction of a good translation is to be handed a key which might unlock the door of indifference. Yet it remains incumbent on the reader (or the viewer in the cinema) to actually unlock the door, to bridge the remaining gulf – or at least not to complain that the distance remains should he or she choose not to cross it. With world enough and time, every reader could be a polyglot, though too few have either the desire or the leisure to make the effort necessary to learn. For this lack, though, the reader (and reviewer) ought not to blame the translator.
— MFC May 18, 5:35am # - LH: I’m consistently frustrated by poor subtitles (as I am by poor translations); the “yeah, so?” was my childish way of saying that mere rebuke is not enough, i.e. “so what needs to be done?”.
Baloney: Baloney.
MFC: unfortunately, reviewers are too seldom familiar with the source language, and so incapable of providing informed commentary. Remarks like “it reads smoothly” are just as silly as blanket dismissal of the translation process.
— gail May 18, 6:49am # - Thanks to The Complete Review (of which I am an avid reader, I should point out) for their response.
— gail May 18, 10:30am # - You make a good point that translators should be allowed to preface the novel with notes on their work and some of the decisions he or she made.
In one of my Russian literature classes we had to read multiple versions of some poems as well as The Master and Margarita and discuss the different choices the translators made in conveying the story.
Until this endeavor I never realized how difficult and exciting the job of a translator must be. Literal translations rarely do the trick but then again sometimes free translations take too much license. Translators have so much do to with so little room for error. It’s a truly admirable occupation.
Anytime there was a translator’s note I read it and it helped me to understand what problems the work gave them and why they chose to relay it the way they did. That sort of information is invaluable when expressing the poetry and prose of a different language.
— claire May 18, 2:00pm # - This whole “let’s not translate anything, it’s worthless” argument frustrates me in its utter stupidity and uselessness. So many people have gotten so much from so many translated works (Hesse for me, too, Violet!) that pedantry is uncalled for and unproductive. I, too, wish qualified bilinguals reviewed translated literature instead of literary pundits; perhaps that’s an idea for a web project?
More detailed comments in my blog here:
http://www.polyglut.net/index.php?id=50
— Chris May 18, 4:53pm # - Unbelievable, that comp. lit degree has finally paid off. Having read both Rilke in his native language Gass’ book a few years ago, as well as many of the various English translations of Rilke, i find many of CR’s criticisms all together childish and ill tempered, as if they’d completely missed Gass’ point. It seemed to me as if they’ve almost abandoned the thought that the act of translation is, in and of itself, an art and a tightrope walk. Therefore translation is subject to many pitfalls, various methodologies, and shortcomings but absolutely necessary, which was exactly what Gass’ had quite thoroughly expressed. They’ve completely missed the point of what translations offer: how they bridges the gulf of indifference and viewpoints to allow people from all walks of life to understand one person’s point of view with the cavet that it has been distilled and filtered. Indeed, ultimately giving insight to the blind.
In stating ‘we hate translations’, they come off more than a bit childish. What else is there to offer? Of course, if one has access to the original language, more power to them, but if you don’t, must you remain in the dark? Rilke himself was a translator as well as a poet and many of his thoughts of traversing language can be found in the wonderful collection of letters between Pasternak and Tsvetaeva in 1926, shortly before his death. Gass’ book, I thought, excelled at examining the issues dealt with by translators of Rilke’s poetry; a poetry which wouldn’t be so harsh as to deem completely open ended to interpretation by all readers and translators alike. However, isn’t that the very nature of poetry?
Consider the novel, where language is more structured and rooted to the narrative development. Translators have less wiggle-room in these cases but it is their job and art to serve the story, (whereas in poetry, perhaps they serve only to the language itself). A good translator of a novel considers each word in translation as how it would serve the story. When one comes across translations that are lacking, it’s plain to see as the story and the langauge fail. When one reads a good translation, it’s as if another world opened up, seamlessly, almost blind to the art of the creation.
I think for a moment of that book written by a french author several years ago, which had cause an mild uproar. A book (who’s authors name and title (‘elements’ was, i believe, the stateside title) escape me, but it was the story of the two bothers who’s worlds are a void wasteland of sexual catharisis and pain and isolation. A brillant book, even in translation, because a reader with a good translation can ultimately understand what is at the core of its story. Without that translation, what would there be? But there it was and i’m grateful for it.
It boils down to just how good the translator is. At once they are a juggler of languages and a storyteller themselves. We all know when we’ve read a wonderful translation and I would suggest CR offer a discourse on effective translations then just off-handedly denouncing them.
— lincoln May 18, 5:23pm # - My response here:
http://www.languagehat.com/archives/000604.php
— language hat May 20, 2:36pm # - This whole “let’s not translate anything, it’s worthless” argument frustrates me in its utter stupidity and uselessness.
Because that’s what the CR said. Yeah. Unbelievable.
— Baloney May 20, 7:18pm # - Lincoln; that writer was a Michel Houellebecq, and his first novel was « Les Particules élémentaires », published in Ireland and the UK as “Atomised.” Which was strange, because I could swear I had seen an “Atomisé” in a Brussels bookshop once upon a time.
— Aidan Kehoe May 28, 6:55am #
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