Victoria Cribb is a translator, one of the few who specializes in Icelandic literature.  She’s translated the novels of Sjón, Arnaldur Indriðason, Gyrðir Elíasson into English – receiving praise from the likes of A.S. Byatt.  Victoria was gracious enough to take time out of her busy schedule to answer a few questions regarding her work on From the Mouth of the Whale (which was shortlisted for this years Independent Foreign Fiction Prize).

BSR:  Victoria, first, thank you so much for taking the time to answer some questions.  I read in an interview Sjón gave to Fabulous Iceland that the main character of From the Mouth of the Whale was an actual man – Jón the Learned – who lived in the 17th century . Yet, it seems to me that Jón is a foundation onto which the author has layered a multitude of ideas and elements: Icelandic mythology, Jonah and the whale, alchemy, even a little Paradise Lost. There’s so much going on… did the density of ideas and influences make it a particularly challenging novel to translate?

VC:  It certainly did, and invariably there will be many influences that I have failed to pick up. But, for me, part of the pleasure of translating Sjón’s work has always been immersing myself in his sources, learning about the background to his texts and marvelling at what he has done with them. In this case, I was already familiar with seventeenth-century Icelandic literature and the medieval works referred to. And any English speaker brought up on Shakespeare has some sense of the early modern world. When I read the book for the first time, I kept thinking of the furiously polemical 1590s author Thomas Nashe and turned to him for stylistic inspiration, only to discover that Sjón does in fact quote Nashe at one point in the story. And of course Google is an invaluable resource for tracking down the more obscure references – bezoar, boramez and so on, often redirecting one to online editions of original works. When my own research fails, I can always go to the fount of all wisdom and ask Sjón himself for help, but that is cheating and part of the fun is trying to find out the answers for myself.

BSR:  I’ve been told Sjón speaks excellent English.  Does that put any additional pressure on you as his translator?  What do you feel your collaboration brings to the table?

VC:  Far from regarding it as an additional pressure, I find it a huge advantage that Sjón’s English is so good – unusually good, even by Icelandic standards. Most Icelandic authors are sufficiently competent in English to review and criticise translations of their work, so I have come to rely on a certain degree of collaboration. Since this is the fifth book I have translated for Sjón, he trusted me to do my best rather than reading over every word of the manuscript, though I think he also felt it would make him anxious if he found too many mistakes. I sent him lists of queries, as usual, sometimes providing him with alternatives so that he could choose the one that best reflected his meaning, and we discussed various possible translations of problematic words and phrases, so I can’t always remember whose suggestion was adopted in the end. I’m strictly a prose translator, so I tend to go wailing to him with the verses, especially if they require rhyme. In previous books, Sjón has polished my feeble efforts or even translated the verse himself; in this case, my partner came to my aid as Sjón was busy!

BSR:  Speaking of verses, some of my readers may not know that Sjón is also a poet.  Did you read or translate any of his poetry in preparation for translating From the Mouth of the Whale? Do you see similarities between his poetry and prose fiction?

VC:  I have to claim ignorance here. Back when I was a student I read some of Sjón’s poetry from his earlier surrealist days but I have mainly been engaged in translating his prose. As mentioned above, we’ve now collaborated on five novels, all of them historical works, their settings ranging from the ancient world to the recent past. The surrealist vein is still palpably present in these novels, however, for example in Jónas’ meditations in part IV of From the Mouth of the Whale, which I think brilliantly evoke a seventeenth-century mind grappling with ideas about the connectedness of all things, which anticipate modern scientific discoveries.

BSR:  Finally, for readers who love From the Mouth of the Whale and want to further explore Icelandic fiction, are there any authors you personally enjoy and can recommend?

VC:  There are so many Icelandic authors who deserve a larger audience, but I would feel awkward having to single out any one writer from among those I know and translate. To be safe, I’ll opt for one who’s no longer with us – Halldór Laxness, an obvious choice as he’s the country’s Nobel laureate. Readers who enjoyed From the Mouth of the Whale might appreciate The Bell of Iceland, translated by Phil Roughton. I am shamefully out of date when it comes to the current Icelandic literary scene, having spent the last few years immersed in medieval sagas for my PhD. From what I hear, though, there are a number of exciting young authors emerging, and Amazon’s publishing arm is planning to bring out a long list of Icelandic titles, both old and new, in the near future. Given the presence of Icelandic books on the lists of several established publishers in the UK and US, there should be plenty of opportunities for English-speaking readers to become better acquainted with the country’s extraordinarily vibrant literary culture.

It’s always interesting picking up a book by a Nobel Prize Laureate…  I’m never sure what to expect.

Detective Story takes place in an unidentified country, which immediately gives everything an unreal, fable-like quality.  The narrator is Antonio Martens, one of three former members of the “secret police” working directly for the government (which I believe is a dictatorship headed by a mysterious figure referred to as “the Colonel”).  The story is about a past case, a situation Martens was involved in at the beginning of his career.

At its center is Enrique Salinas, the son of a prominent businessman.  His father has remained lucrative under the current regime – as, we are given to understand, he has under past regimes.  This has been accomplished through avoiding politics and political ideology – by not taking sides or passing judgement.  Easier to say plainly – he kept his head down.  The son, Enrique, wants to take a different path. He has convinced himself that his life has no meaning unless he joins those opposing the dictator. Interestingly Kertész does not seem to hold the boy or his élan in particularly high regard, despite Enrique’s moral righteousness.  Or perhaps it is Martens who looks down on the boy, as the story is being presented to us from his perspective.  Either way – Enrique’s convictions are portrayed as foolish, stemming from an lack of purpose and boredom.  No one takes him seriously.

Until the secret police learn of “an impending atrocity” and begin watching Enrique.  Eventually they will arrest him, his father and question all their known associates.  Salinas, father and son, will be tortured.  Circumstances are set into motion and the cogs of the machine begin moving with frightening efficiency. Victims and perpetrators alike are powerless to shut it down.

All this is being told to us long after the events described have transpired. Frequently Martins refers to himself as the “new boy”, as if this will in some way absolve him. The dictator he served under is no longer in power, one of his partners is dead and the other has fled.  Martens’ future appears uncertain.  Kertész reveals all this slowly through asides and allusions.  The reader quickly comes to understand that Martens is recounting only one horror among many – and quite probably not the worst that he and his colleagues perpetrated.  These acts were not fueled by hate, a sense of morality or political motivations – Martens simply performed a job.  It is the most chilling component of the plot: as the story unravels the reader comes to see that Martens sensed something was amiss, yet chose to do nothing.  He, like the elder Salinas, is guilty of indifference and acquiescence.

This mirroring of victim and perpetrator, along with the inevitability of ones fate, give Detective Story all the trappings of a Greek (or Shakespearean) tragedy.  The book is undeniably political, but in the end both the idealist and pragmatist suffer.  Testament, perhaps, to the arbitrariness of absolute power and corruption.

Where Detective Story fails for me is in its most important character.  Antonio Martens makes an unconvincing (not to be confused with unreliable, though he’s probably that as well) narrator. He and his partners are brutes, bullies and thugs – inarguably.  But they lack that additional layer that identifies them as “police”.  For example, when they tell a suspect during interrogation that he’s “been rumbled” do they mean “rolled on”?  Would these men, who I just described as thugs and bullies, refer to attack on the regime as an “upcoming atrocity”?  Or look at this passage, which inexplicably makes an obscure American reference for no apparent reason -

The shaggy-haired weirdos all went into hiding.  We circulated their details nationally but with about as much success as if we had been searching for, let’s say, for half a dozen irregularly yellow-striped Colorado beetles in a twenty-five-thousand-acre field of potatoes.

I can’t say for certain whether or not Imre Kertész wrote about Colorado beetles – still, it feels completely random, don’t you think? And jolting, as up until this point the author has completely obscured the setting.

It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what went wrong.  I don’t read Hungarian, so I can’t speak with any authority.  But the translation reads as if stilted.  In addition to what is described above, other word choices appear awkward – often they feel too literal.

Language aside, Detective Story isn’t badly written. The mood, the message and the philosophical questions Kertész poses are all interesting and exceedingly well-handled.  He leaves much to the reader’s intelligence and imagination – which I believe is exactly how to develop this type of narrative.  But, because we’ve been given a weak and implausible narrative voice, whatever Kertész seeks to accomplish has been severely handicapped.  I couldn’t emotionally invest in Antonio Martens.  Or, consequently, in the story he tells.

Publisher:  Vintage Books, London (2009).
ISBN:  978 0 099 52339 0

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.