Reviewing Translations (Afterthoughts)

It was roughly this time last year when I made the decision to focus on translated and international literature here at BookSexy Review.  The Reviewing Translations panel last Thursday at the 2012 PEN World Voices Festival of International Literature couldn’t have been better timed.  The panelists were Ruth Franklin, Julya Rabinowich, and Lorin Stein.  The co-moderators were Eric Banks and Susan Bernofsky (Arne Bellstorf was listed in the description, but I don’t recall seeing him).  All are important figures in the world of translation and literary criticism.  Needless to say I was very interested in what they had to say. (You can view the video and hear for yourself).

A benefit to attending this type of panel is that it forces you to carefully examine and define your position on the matters being discussed. Do you agree or disagree with the statements being made by the speakers?  Early on the discussion centered around defining the types of translations and, subsequently, the three types of reviews being written.  As defined by Lorin Stein:  The first translation is one that…

“…should, ideally, give the book a life in the target language; there’s the second one, that should bring it back to some sort of more correct… more faithful… sort of a ‘revisionist’ translation; and then, eventually, over the life of a very successful book, there might be a scholarly translation…”

The conversation dealt almost exclusively with fiction, and Lorin Stein went on to talk about how in the early rounds of reviews of a new translation – when the author is being first established among English readers – he prefers that the subject of translation not be raised.  (While I don’t want to make too many assumptions, it appeared to me that he adhered to the school of thought that American readers don’t buy translations).

Next, Ruth Franklin put forth her opinion that reviewers should be fluent in the language the novel was originally written in.  While it was brought up that this rule might present difficulties for some languages (including a round of quiet laughter after the line “ably translated from the Icelandic”), no one contradicted her. Ruth Franklin went so far as to state that she didn’t think poetry could be translated, as it is a form of writing where the language is “the main event”.  As you can imagine, there was some debate afterwards on whether a translated novel can judged solely on its own merit – the style and flow, plotting, etc. – without the reviewer referencing back to the original text.  And some audience members, mostly students studying to become translators themselves, discussed the importance of a cultural awareness versus having a foundation in the language.  Though we might laugh at the formulaic “ably translated from the Icelandic” what it really represents is a form of code that is meant to reassure readers that they can trust this translator and are in good hands.

One topic that the panel revisited throughout the evening was how much credit (if any) should be given to the translator in the review.  Or whether the translator’s name belongs on the cover of the book.  In fact, when Lorin Stein stated that he felt the translator’s name should be left off the cover entirely I feared for his safety when he left the building.  (At a conservative estimate, 75% of the audience members were, or hoped to be, translators).  But, fortunately, this was on the whole a pretty sedate group.  Though I wonder if any angry, though erudite of course, emails appeared in the inbox-es of the panelists afterwards.

Now, admittedly, some might say that much of what I write from this point on is so much sour grapes.  And I can’t in all honesty guarantee that it isn’t.  Because I am, unfortunately, not bilingual.  I speak and read only English.  Yet, I would argue that many readers are in the same boat.  Narrowing the pool of reviewers to only those who speak an author’s native tongue creates a needless and artificial constraint.  A harmful one even.  (It’s also kinda’ ridiculous).  No doubt the second “revisionist” and third “scholarly” forms of translation are closed to me.  I can’t make a line by line comparison between texts or elucidate for a reader the choices the translator made.  But helping to establish the author and the book with a general, English speaking/reading audience – this I can do without feeling the fraud. I can comment on the flow and rhythm of the text; discuss the author’s background and the historical context of the novel; examine the pacing and how the plot is developed.  I can speculate on the author’s influences; point out how this book and this author are similar to his countrymen and contemporaries.  I can write about how he or she differs both stylistically and culturally from an English speaking/Western writer.  All these things are, I believe, more relevant to the general reader than how much a translator’s interpretation of a particular passage diverges from the original text.

As for credit being given to the translator, a reviewer needs to make a decision as to how she will address this early on.  Both sides of the debate are defensable.  Personally, I feel it is a translator’s job to be transparent – to be the glass pane through which a reader first peers into a novel.  They perform the initial introductions and then step aside so that the two, reader and novelist, can become better acquainted.  This doesn’t mean that translators should remain forever in the shadow – that to give them credit is to ruin the illusions and, subsequently, the experience of the individual reader.  The implication underestimates and, what is far worse, condescends to English readers.  Who picks up Bolaño, for example, and is unaware that he wrote in Spanish?  And if they somehow go in ignorant why would they, on learning that his native language isn’t English, feel cheated???  In my reviews I always make a point of mentioning the translator by name.  This is to, hopefully, inform my readers.  Allow them to add these names to their mental spreadsheets and ultimately build a database of the translators they can depend on.  But my primary purpose is always to introduce followers of this blog to new author and their work.

Your turn.  Because if any post on BookSexy has the potential to create a conversation, then this one is it.  Share your thoughts and express your opinions below.  What are your feelings on translations?  Do you read (or review) them?  Do you avoid works in translation because you feel they’re an adulterated version of the original?  Do the translators deserve more time in the spotlight?  Enquiring minds want to know.

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“I could live under a table reading Borges.” – Roberto Bolaño

The covers of the Pearls are minimalist & gorgeous. The orange color block is embossed, as is all the text. And, like every other New Directions book I’ve seen, it’s numbered. Imagine a complete set lined up on a bookshelf… stunning!

Everything and Nothing is a collection of Jorge Luis Borges’ writings, released in a New Directions Pearl edition.  I’m a huge fan of the Pearls – they’re throwbacks to a time when paperbacks came in 4-1/2″ x 7″ format and fit handily inside your jacket pocket.  Ficciones holds a special place in my heart.  But this particular collection is beautiful, compact and contains some of the author’s best work.  If you already know & love Borges, it is the perfect vehicle to become reacquainted.  If you’ve yet to have the pleasure of reading Borges’ sublime (truly!) prose, Everything and Nothing is a powerful introduction to the best of the short stories, lectures and essays.

Borges is one of the few writers I’ll read over and over again.  His prose style is clean, succinct.  It nicely balances out against the complexity and cerebral quality of his subject matter.  The Lottery in Babylon is a story about a society ruled entirely by chance.  At first it seems ridiculous, – a city in which all decisions are made through lottery.  But as the story progresses, the plot inverts and life in Babylon becomes eerily familiar.  The Garden of Forking Paths is spy vs. spy, a labyrinthine espionage tale with a twist at the end you’ll never see coming.  Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius is supposedly about the internet… but I, personally, don’t see it.  For me it’s a much more straightforward narrative on the manipulation of reality and history by a small group of individuals.  My absolute favorite of the collection, Blindness, is a lecture Borges gave in the 1970′s.  If I am ever stranded on a desert island I want it with me.

For me to live without hate is easy, for I have never felt hate.  To live without love I think is impossible, happily impossible for each one of us.  But the first part – “I want to live with myself, / I want to enjoy the good that I owe to heaven” – if we accept that in the good of heaven there can also be darkness, then who lives more with themselves?  Who can explore themselves more?  Who can know more of themselves?  According to the Socratic phrase, who can know himself more than the blind man?

A writer lives.  The task of being a poet is not completed at a fixed schedule.  No one is a poet from eight to twelve and from two to six.  Whoever is a poet is one always, and continually assaulted by poetry.  I suppose a painter feels that colors and shapes are besieging him.  Or a musician feels that the strange world of sounds – the strangest world of art – is always seeking him out, that there are melodies and dissonances looking for him.  For the task of an artist, blindness is not a total misfortune.  It may be an instrument.

Four separate translators worked on the stories and essays that make up Everything and Nothing.  Donald A. Yates, who also wrote the introduction; James E. Irby; John M. Fein and Eliot Weinberger.  This is worth mentioning because Borges voice remains consistent from piece to piece, regardless of who is translating.

I don’t speak or read Spanish.  But in the past I’ve read multiple works of a single author, each interpreted by a different translators.  The substitution of one translator for another can be glaringly obvious.  After reading a book translated by Lucia Graves  I went looking for more novels by its Spanish author.  The next book I picked up was (unfortunately) done by a different translator in whose hands the characters became flat and two-dimensional.  I never bothered with that author again.  To the point: With great power comes great responsibility.  The credit for the smooth flow of this collection is a testament to the skill of the translators.  And while I know it must be so, how could the original Spanish possibly be any better?

Please forgive the poor metaphor, but I find reading Borges’ soothing. Comparable to watching words float by on a stream.  Every so often you fish out an idea like so much flotsam.  Sometimes to keep, sometime to throw back.  You can spend hours doing this.  Days.  Possibly weeks.  And be perfectly content the entire time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me?  It’s time to crawl back under my table.

Publisher:  A New Directions Pearl, New York (2010)
ISBN:  978 0 8112 1883 2