Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away (or so it seems), I was a Classicist, studying and teaching ancient Greek, with a bit of Latin thrown in for good measure. Even then many asked why I would be pursuing such a line of study, what it could ever possibly do for me. Although I did not go on to make a career out of my classical studies, the difference those years of study have made to my life have been enormous.
* I learned to distrust “facts,” and I learned that history is as much about who relates it as about what “really” happened
* I learned that a close scrutiny of individual words and their usages matters tremendously, not to mention gives great pleasure
* I developed my life-long passion for theatre
* I discovered that our basic interests and obsessions have not changed much over the centuries.
…and much more. But there is one other idea that grew out of my classical studies that I’m thinking about especially today:
* the extreme difficulty of translation
Having tried to translate the Greeks from Homer to Sappho, with an especially intense attempt at Euripides, I learned what it takes to translate a piece of writing from one language to another. It is not just about opening up a dictionary and finding a word that “means” the same. Words in different languages do not “mean” the same. Language has more to do with cultural baggage than we tend to remember. Every word choice brings with it horse-carts full of nuance and history, shadowing and detours of thought. And so, for years, I have been very reluctant to read literature in translation. I have thought that even if the translator knew the original language so well that it was actually their first language, how well, then, could they know the language they were translating the text into? And what does it mean to “know” a language, anyway? I think the whole question got me up my own ass, to be honest, and rather than have to deal with it, I just turned my attention to books written in English. At least English is a language I can claim to have familiarity with.
But for various reasons, over the last few months, I have read several books in translation, and have been overwhelmed by their artistry. I have already blogged about Cocoon, by the Marathi author Bhalchandra Nemade, translated by Sudhakar Marathe here. A few months later, I read and loved Sandor Marai’s The Rebels, translated by the UK poet George Szirtes. Now, last night, I finished reading an absolutely marvelous French novel called The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery and translated by Alison Anderson. Although it may not be fashionable to say it these days, I am a bit of a francophile. French is a language I am somewhat comfortable in, and it is a culture with a “mentalite” (sorry about the lack of accent) that I love. This book, two interweaving narratives about the people who live in an exclusive modern-day Parisian apartment house, is full of over-the-top philosophical musings and obscure intellectual references that the French do so well. It is also full of class struggle, passion and heart. And yet, that is not what I’ve been thinking about this morning. This morning I am thinking about the difficult, and often overlooked, task of the translator. When you read any book, it is the author who you think of as the sole creator of the text. If it has been translated, then the translator’s name is written in a smaller italicized font at the bottom of the page. The translator’s name is rarely on the cover and never on the spine. At yet, for all those readers whose first language has not been French or Hungarian or Marathi or whatever, it is the translator who has brought the story, the characters, the sentiments, longings, passions, ideas to life for the reader. I’ve begin to think that translating may be the most altruistic of all the arts. And it is an art in itself, clearly. Just think about how difficult it is, how much time it must take to do it right. Yet, the translator puts all that energy into someone else’s creation. Yes, in his/her hands it becomes their creation too, but not really…. It makes me wonder. And I’m sitting here remembering my own Masters thesis on Euripides’ “Iphigenia at Aulis” with its consciously evolving uses of the many Greek words for the verb “to see.” How I struggled with that. But how rewarding.
Translation should always be done into the translator’s mother tongue, but even then unless you are bilingual it is very hard to get the nuances right. It’s not just about the meaning, but also about getting over the stylistic usage as well. When I was doing my modern languages degree I dreamed of being a literary translator, but sadly I would never have been good enough 🙂
Well said, Sue (I’m reading The Elegance of The Hedgehog right now – how timely). Miriam Shlesinger would also get a nod from me for translating Etgar Keret’s Hebrew into something I can understand (and love).
Ooh, this is fascinating. As you know my first degree was in classics but also because I’m reading Love in the Time of Cholera at the moment. I found myself wondering about the job of the translator because one of the characters is described as standing erect, *clears throat* and I wondered whether the original word choice would have the same nuances as, uhm, I thought of…
Anyway, sorry… I’ve probably lowered the tone here.
I wonder…. it is one thing to translate those who have long gone… all you have are the words, and to a certain extent, you have to do a ‘literal’ translation. As soon as you add a nuance, arent you adding something you ‘think’ is there, rather then ‘is’ there?
But – when translating the wrok of a contemporary – isnt it important to know the person who created the original word sequence, or at least to have extensive communication with the person, in order to understand the ‘why’ of the work, as well as the ‘what’?
I honestly take my hat off to good translators. Translating a novel is so much more than just going from one language to the next, it’s about finding the right intonations, nuances, colour – it’s a formidable task, but I imagine, if well done, it must also be extremely rewarding.
I have also wondered about the role of translators and what impact their translation has had on the text….it’s never stopped me reading though!!
I recently finished a wonderful book called ‘Death and the Penguin’ by Andrey Kurkov, translated by George Bird. It’s set in Kiev and is about a writer trying to get his work published when he is approached by the Editor-in-Chief of Captial News who wants him to write obituaries. I won’t tell you any more but I do think, if you’ve not already read it, you should give it a go….don’t think you would be dissapointed!!
C x
Couldn’t agree more Sue. I remember reading somewhere a comparison of two different translations of the opening page of a Murakami novel and they were totally different.
And I’m just starting The Elegance of the Hedgehog too. It’s been sitting on my TBR pile since last Christmas.
Cathy: all about nuance. I totally agree. And I can’t imagine anything much harder.
Nik: Thanks for the referral. I don’t know her stuff and will look out for it.
JJ: How can a fellow classicist lower the tone 🙂 I often wonder what it’s like to be a translator. have even thought about writing about such a character. might still do it, but whenever I think about it it turns into a murder mystery. Hmm….
Vanessa: fascinating distinction. I think you must be right…
Ab Van: yes! Nuances, as Cathy said above, but colour, too. Absolutely
Carol: “Death and the Penguin”. Yes! I forgot about that one. And Boris Akunin. I read them both when I was writing about Russia for Tangled Roots. So strange, their work, but so so wonderful!!! Thanks for reminding me.
Lane: I’m always finding these books late. You’ve known about Hedgehog for nearly a year? You’ll love it, I’m sure.