Behind every great translator…
When told by a reader that his stories read better in French, James Thurber replied, “Yes, I tend to lose something in the original.”
It’s been said more than once that nobody knows a book better than its translator. Only the author himself will have read it as many times and with equal scrutiny, but to an extent handicapped by months of growing familiarity and waves of conflicting desires.
Both equally invested, the rapport between writers and their translators is doubtless one of the most passionate working relationships: a potential clash of artistic sensibilities, talent, cultures and viewpoints – made all the more curious by the fact that, most often, they never meet.
So I’ve decided that, even if nobody else would want to read it, a collection of the correspondence between authors and their translators would make for a fine and fascinating book.
Collaboration (if any) is generally in writing in the author’s native tongue and, although proud to be read by foreigners, many a writer remains wary of the translator’s ability to transport him unscathed over seas. Not always without reason.
And so a full spectrum of relationships ensues: from openly hostile to be always mine love, by way of reluctant professionalism, obsequious gratitude, and a two-way longstanding mentor-student tug.
On the openly hostile front we have many notorious tales – including those of Nabokov, his Vera and their crisp new Swedish dictionary, scouring the translation of Pnin word by word, then calling for a ritual burning.
Of Kundera who rejected the first three English translations of The Joke, only to later stitch together a “definitive” version using bits of all three, adding: “O ye translators, do not sodonymize us!”
And of old Isaac Bashevis Singer who puffed: “There is no such thing as a good translator. The best translators make the worst mistakes. No matter how much I love them, all translators must be closely watched.” Nobel, indeed.
In the who the hell does this guy think he is category, we have Borges’s longstanding American translator cum tagalong Norman Thomas di Giovanni who diluted and undid stunning prose for what he ruled the American ear, saying the process of translating Señor B., “I liken to cleaning a painting; you could see the bright colours and sharp outlines underneath where you couldn’t before.”
In the reluctantly professional (bordering on openly hostile) section, we have Alan Bennett who tells two tales in his diaries. One, his own:
20 June. A list of queries comes from the German translator of [his play] Kafka’s Dick:
Q. Who is Nurse Cavell, a figure from a movie or a play? I think I know her, but I cannot remember from where.
A. You shot her
Other questions:
‘For a long time I used to go to bed early.’ This Proust quote, where?
Ivy-Compton-Burnett: who or what is that?
Gas oven: do you mean the gas chamber of the Nazis or the kitchen stove which is used for suicide?
Altar: do you mean marriage or sacrifice?
And the other from a trip to Moscow:
Novy Mir had printed bootleg extracts from Sue Townsend’s The Diary of Adrian Mole. Now it is to be officially translated, and the translator is to take her out to supper. We go off to a restaurant, where eventually she joins us. The translator has stood her up. Next day he calls to say that he had the day confused and thought Tuesday was Thursday. Paul Bailey remarks that this augurs ill for the translation, which will probably read, ‘Friday. Got up early and went to Sunday school.’
Under haven’t I been through enough already, we have Primo Levi in The drowned and the saved speaking of his relationship with his German translator:
For the first time I was caught up in the always burning, never untaxing adventure of being translated, of seeing one’s thoughts manhandled, refracted, one’s painstakingly chosen worlds transformed or misunderstood, or even invigorated by some unhoped for resource in the host language.
From the very first instalment I was able to see that in reality my “political” suspicions were unfounded: my partner was as much an enemy of the Nazis as I, his indignation as great as mine. There remained, however, the linguistic suspicions. [My translator] did not know the degraded, often satanically ironic jargon of the concentration camps.
On neutral ground, here is Michael Ondaatje speaking with his Spanish and Catalan translators. Though I still haven’t forgiven Mr. O for having become such a wanker, the piece is interesting – particularly since all three have mixed linguistic backgrounds.
And then there are those who have fallen in love: Marie Chaix and her translator Harry Mathews; Jose Saramago and his Portuguese to Spanish translator, Pilar Del Rio; Maryse Condé and Richard Philcox and, my pets, la charmante M. Yourcenar who left France in 1937 to live in Maine with her translator, Grace Frick, with whom she stayed till death did them part.
(Huh, I just noticed: most all female authors…)
And, finally, in the unclassified (/control freak, moi?) section, we have Derrida who inserts menacing footnotes to future translators:
How are you going to translate that, récit, for example? Not as nouvelle, novella, nor as short story. Perhaps it will be better to leave the French word récit. It is already hard enough to understand in Blanchot’s text, in French.
Yeesh.
Now all I need is a title.
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Comment
- Now all I need is a title.
Arise, Dame Gail.
Interesting stuff. I sent a long list of questions to my first client. She completely ignored the email, which made me think a little harder. The resulting translation pleased both her and me. I don’t ask questions as much any more.
— Simon Mar 27, 8:12am # - Indeed. What is an Ivy Compton-Burnett? It’s a kind of vegetarian substitute eaten at summer barbecues by health-conscious Oxbridge dons.
— palinode Mar 27, 11:47am # - And from the world of fiction… there’s the subplot that runs through David Lodge’s Small World of the correspondence between the (as usual) discombobulated main character and his poor Japanese translator muddling his way through Black Country dialect.
– No, really, it’s fascinating. Listen. “Page 86, 7 up. ‘And a bit of spare on the back seat.’ Is it a spare tyre that Enoch keeps on the back seat of his car?”
…
– I mean, you can see the problem, says Ronald. It’s a perfectly natural mistake. I mean, why does ‘a bit of spare’ mean sex?
– I don’t know, says Irma, turning a page. You tell me. You’re the writer.
– “Page 93, 2 down. ‘Enoch, ‘e went spare.’ Does this mean Enoch went to get a spare part for his car?’” You’ve got to feel sorry for the bloke. He’s never been to England, which makes it all the more difficult.
– Why does he bother? I can’t see the Japanese being interested in reading about sex life in the back streets of Dudley.
— gail Mar 28, 1:01am # - I’m a contract writer for an insurance company and am responsible for “coordinating” the translation of said contracts. I have to confess to feeling rather frustrated when my translator comes back to me asking what we mean when we say “benefits payable on the death of the spouse will be payable to the employee’s estate if the employee is deceased and there’s no beneficiary designation.” He’s trying to understand it, for heaven’s sake. I, on the other hand, don’t want to understand it, as it just gives me a headache.
— cmb Mar 28, 9:31am # - This has the makings of a great book, and best of luck with it. From my own experience, though, it seems that you’d have to include some discussion of what happens when an editor jumps in and mucks up what has been a highly successful collaboration between author and translator. This happened to me with the translation of Homestead (Mariner/Flamingo) into German. The story takes place in western Austria, high in the alps, in communities where a dialect is spoken that is as different from written German as Chaucerian English is from modern English. The translator was an accomplished professional who happened to be a native speaker of a related, nearby dialect. He worked with me very closely to get the nuances of the dialect while translating into the modern written language. He travelled to the villages in question to talk to the people I had lived with and interviewed, to ask specific questions and just to listen. I was so pleased with the results. Then the editor, a northern German with what I can only call the all-too-common condescending approach of many northern Germans towards Swiss dialects, waded in and made a mess of it all. When this was brought to my attention both I and my agent wrote to the publisher, and never even got the courtesy of a reply.
So best of luck with the complex project. I’ll be watching for it.
— rosina lippi Mar 29, 1:21pm # - As for a title: “Récit” would do nicely.
— Derek Mar 31, 7:37am # - ‘The Bee Tween’
with that same sour taste one gets reading a book in a translated language, as one gets getting translated as a writer.
I think, humblblbly, it should be a book in chapters. Thus not only in cascading style, also about the Other Big Questions; like why not leave a lot more words untranslated. And add an explanation with the *.
I’m Flemish. We speak Dutch. And constantly, in papers and magazines, I see sentences quoted from, say English, but in Dutch. A lot one wonders, what was the genuine word? I depend on one’s translation. Now that is stupid. Because one is grown up enough to grab the meaning of the pronunciation, the meaning. In English.
An interbellum in understanding.
Translaters should be able to divide the common and the exception. In our language, there is the feeling that within 30 years, everybody will speak english.
But then again, we are all consumers now, and petrol will be gone in that same span of time.
Wonderful idea to make a book about translations. But where do you mark a line.
— koen h Mar 31, 3:37pm # - O just imagine the irony should your book ever get translated!
— Fritz P. Apr 1, 1:34am # - Suggested title: Your Language Here
— John Hudson Apr 1, 11:43am # - i would buy the book, great idea.
An additional angle, maybe, is what happens when translations become better-known than the original. i’m thinking of Bob Dylan’s album Love and Theft, the lyrics of which have very noticeable similarities to an English translation of a modern Japanese book about the yakuza (Confessions of a Yakuza, maybe? i forget). Love and Theft doesn’t mention Japan or Japanese organized crime at all, i don’t think, but there are images and stories that listeners will associate with Bob that were really invented by the Japanese author.
But then – i guess that’s true of everything. No one can claim to be the first to have ever come up with a unique metaphor. Hmmmm.
— Amy Hostler Apr 1, 12:24pm # - When – when -when….
(I’m not surprised)
...did you become so erudite?
I just finished adapting Rostand’s CYRANO DE BERGERAC into a musical play taking place in Fort Langley B.C., 1858. (And the Crimean War! – brilliant and suspect historicizing, I know…)
Whoa! Dealing with the French original – which I can barely dechipher, (except for the scansion – poetry! ahhh…) – plus three seleted translations in English – (the Brian Hooker is still the best, best, best) – what a mind-fuck!
Anyway, I’m a neophyte. Your passion (and high spirits) for translation is a revelation.
— MOJdeB Apr 1, 6:38pm # - I too would buy that book.
And,yes what is with Mr. O turning into such a wanker anyway?
— Kenneth Apr 18, 1:55pm #
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