Read Where the Stress Falls Online
Authors: Susan Sontag
Where the Stress Falls (40 page)
I’LL MENTION BRIEFLY
three variants of the modern idea of translation.
three variants of the modern idea of translation.
First, translation as
explanation
. Motivating the translator’s effort is the project of replacing ignorance, obscurity (“I don’t understand.
Would you please translate that for me?”) by knowledge, transparency. The translator’s mission is clarification, enlightenment.
explanation
. Motivating the translator’s effort is the project of replacing ignorance, obscurity (“I don’t understand.
Would you please translate that for me?”) by knowledge, transparency. The translator’s mission is clarification, enlightenment.
Second, translation as
adaptation
. Not simply a freer use of language, which purports to express, in another language, the spirit if not the letter of the original text (a wily distinction), but the conscious creation of another “version” (from
vertere
, to turn, to change direction): “versionist” is the old English word for translator. Indeed, some translators (usually poets) who don’t want to be held to the criterion of “mere” accuracy entirely eschew the word “translation” in favor of “adaptation” or “version.” Rewriting would be a more accurate description, and if the poet is, say, Robert Lowell, the version stands as a valuable new (if not wholly original) poem—by him.
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adaptation
. Not simply a freer use of language, which purports to express, in another language, the spirit if not the letter of the original text (a wily distinction), but the conscious creation of another “version” (from
vertere
, to turn, to change direction): “versionist” is the old English word for translator. Indeed, some translators (usually poets) who don’t want to be held to the criterion of “mere” accuracy entirely eschew the word “translation” in favor of “adaptation” or “version.” Rewriting would be a more accurate description, and if the poet is, say, Robert Lowell, the version stands as a valuable new (if not wholly original) poem—by him.
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Third, translation as
improvement.
The hubristic extension of the translation as adaptation. Of translations which could be considered improvements on the original, Baudelaire’s translation of poems of Edgar Allan Poe is one, not too controversial, example. (More controversial, to say the least, is the judgment of several generations of cultivated Germans—Americans old enough to have known German-Jewish Hitler refugees in the academic world or in other professions may remember hearing the fervently held view—that the Shakespeare of the Schlegel-Tieck translation was better than Shakespeare in English.) Translation as improvement has its own sub-variant: translation as
obfuscation
(as in “It sounds better in translation”), a dressing up or paring down of the text, which may or may not entail actively tampering with it.
improvement.
The hubristic extension of the translation as adaptation. Of translations which could be considered improvements on the original, Baudelaire’s translation of poems of Edgar Allan Poe is one, not too controversial, example. (More controversial, to say the least, is the judgment of several generations of cultivated Germans—Americans old enough to have known German-Jewish Hitler refugees in the academic world or in other professions may remember hearing the fervently held view—that the Shakespeare of the Schlegel-Tieck translation was better than Shakespeare in English.) Translation as improvement has its own sub-variant: translation as
obfuscation
(as in “It sounds better in translation”), a dressing up or paring down of the text, which may or may not entail actively tampering with it.
THE ACCURACY OF
a translation is not merely a technical question. It is as well an ideological one. And it has a moral component,
which becomes visible when for the notion of accuracy we substitute the notion of fidelity.
a translation is not merely a technical question. It is as well an ideological one. And it has a moral component,
which becomes visible when for the notion of accuracy we substitute the notion of fidelity.
In the ethics of translation, what is projected is an ideal servant—one who would be always willing to take more pains, linger longer, revise again. Good, better, best, ideal … however good the translation is, it can always be improved, bettered. Can one translation be the best? Of course. But the perfect (or ideal) translation is an ever receding chimera. Anyway, ideal by what standard?
(You will have already noted that I am assuming that there
is
such a thing as an “original” text. Perhaps only now, when ideas utterly devoid of common sense or respect for the practice of writing have great currency in the academy, would this seem to need saying. And not only am I making that assumption, but I am also proposing that the notion of translation not be too broadly extended or metaphorized, which is what allows one to claim, among other follies, that the original should be regarded as itself a translation—the “original translation,” so to speak, of something in the author’s consciousness.)
is
such a thing as an “original” text. Perhaps only now, when ideas utterly devoid of common sense or respect for the practice of writing have great currency in the academy, would this seem to need saying. And not only am I making that assumption, but I am also proposing that the notion of translation not be too broadly extended or metaphorized, which is what allows one to claim, among other follies, that the original should be regarded as itself a translation—the “original translation,” so to speak, of something in the author’s consciousness.)
The notion of ideal translation is likely to be submitted to two perennially opposed standards of translation. Minimum adaptation is one. It means that the translation will feel like one: it will preserve, even flaunt, the rhythm, syntax, tone, lexical idiosyncrasies of the text in its original language. (The most contentious modern proponent of this literalist idea of translation is Vladimir Nabokov.) Full naturalization is the other. It means that the translator must bring the original text wholly “into” the new language, so that, ideally, one does not ever feel one is reading a translation at all. Inevitably, this work of dispelling all traces of the original lurking behind the translation requires taking liberties with the text: these adjustments or inventions are not only justified but necessary.
Pedestrian trot versus impertinent rewrite—these are, of course, extremes, well within which lies the actual practice of most dedicated translators. Nevertheless, there are two notions of translation in circulation, and behind the difference lies a larger disagreement about what responsibility one has to the “original” text. Everyone agrees that the translator must serve—the image is a powerful one—the text. But for what end? A translator may feel that the text (or “original”) is best
served by taking certain liberties, perhaps in the interest of making it more accessible or gaining for it new members of the potential audience.
served by taking certain liberties, perhaps in the interest of making it more accessible or gaining for it new members of the potential audience.
Is it the work to which one is faithful? The writer? Literature? The language? The audience? One might suppose (maybe I mean that I might suppose) it to he self-evident that one be faithful to the work, to the words of the book. But this is not a simple matter, either historically or normatively. Take Saint Jerome himself, father of the Latin Bible, who is called the patron saint of translators. Jerome couldn’t have received this illustrious title because he was the first to advance a
theory
of translation, for that honor belongs, as we might expect, to Plato. Perhaps it’s because Jerome was the first on record to
complain
about translations, about their quality: to rail against ignorant, careless copyists and brazen confectioners of interpolated passages; and to campaign for greater exactitude. And yet it was this same Jerome, in his epistle “The Principles of Good Translation,” who said that, except in the case of Scripture, a translator should not feel bound to produce a word-by-word rendering; that it was sufficient to translate the sense.
theory
of translation, for that honor belongs, as we might expect, to Plato. Perhaps it’s because Jerome was the first on record to
complain
about translations, about their quality: to rail against ignorant, careless copyists and brazen confectioners of interpolated passages; and to campaign for greater exactitude. And yet it was this same Jerome, in his epistle “The Principles of Good Translation,” who said that, except in the case of Scripture, a translator should not feel bound to produce a word-by-word rendering; that it was sufficient to translate the sense.
That a translation from one language to another ought to be reasonably faithful (whatever that may mean) is now received wisdom. Standards of fidelity to the original are certainly higher now than they were a generation, not to mention a century, ago. For some time now, translating, at least into English (though not, say, into French), has been measured by more literalist—I should say more scrupulous—standards, whatever the actual insufficiencies of most translations. This is partly because translation has itself become a subject for academic reflection, and translations (at least of important books) are likely to come under scholarly scrutiny. As part of what may seem like the coopting by academic standards of the translator’s task, it is more and more likely that any literary work of importance which is not contemporary will be accompanied by the translator’s “notes,” either at the bottom of the page or at the end of the book, explaining references in the text presumed to be obscure. Indeed, less and less do translations presuppose that the reader possesses the most elementary information about history or literature, or any language skills. The recent, much
heralded re-translation of
The Magic Mountain
puts the delirious conversation in the pivotal “Walpurgis Nacht” chapter between Hans Castorp and Clavdia Chauchat, which transpires, crucially to the story, in French (and is in French in the old H. T. Lowe-Porter translation of 1927), into English. English in italics, so the Anglo-American reader (whose ignorance of French is taken for granted) might “feel” that it is in a foreign language.
heralded re-translation of
The Magic Mountain
puts the delirious conversation in the pivotal “Walpurgis Nacht” chapter between Hans Castorp and Clavdia Chauchat, which transpires, crucially to the story, in French (and is in French in the old H. T. Lowe-Porter translation of 1927), into English. English in italics, so the Anglo-American reader (whose ignorance of French is taken for granted) might “feel” that it is in a foreign language.
TRANSLATIONS ARE LIKE
buildings. If they’re any good, the patina of time makes them look better: Florio’s Montaigne, North’s Plutarch, Motteux’s Rabelais … (Who was it who said, “The greatest Russian writer of the nineteenth century, Constance Garnett”?) The most admired, and long-lived, are not the most accurate.
buildings. If they’re any good, the patina of time makes them look better: Florio’s Montaigne, North’s Plutarch, Motteux’s Rabelais … (Who was it who said, “The greatest Russian writer of the nineteenth century, Constance Garnett”?) The most admired, and long-lived, are not the most accurate.
And, like building (the verb), translating produces something increasingly ephemeral now. Few people believe in a definitive translation—that is, one that would not need to be redone. And then there is the force of novelty: a “new” translation, like a new car. Submitted to the laws of industrial society, translations seem to wear out, become obsolete more rapidly. With respect to a few (admittedly a very few) books there is actually a glut of translations. Between 1947 and 1972 there were eleven German translations of
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
and since the 1950s at least ten new English translations of
Madame Bovary
. Translation is one of the few cultural practices that still seems ruled by an idea of progress (in contrast to, say, acoustics). The latest is, in principle, the best.
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
and since the 1950s at least ten new English translations of
Madame Bovary
. Translation is one of the few cultural practices that still seems ruled by an idea of progress (in contrast to, say, acoustics). The latest is, in principle, the best.
The new cultural populism, which insists that everything should be available to everyone, carries with it the implication that everything should be translated—or, at least, be translatable. Recall, as a counter-example, that the old
New Yorker
—call the magazine snobbish or anti-populist, as you will—didn’t, as a matter of policy, print fiction in translation.
New Yorker
—call the magazine snobbish or anti-populist, as you will—didn’t, as a matter of policy, print fiction in translation.
Consider the force of the locution “language barrier”—the barrier which language interposes between one person (or community) and another, the barrier which translation “breaks down.” For language is the enforcer of separateness from other communities (“You don’t
speak my language”) as well as the creator of community (“Anyone speak my language around here?”).
speak my language”) as well as the creator of community (“Anyone speak my language around here?”).
But we live in a society pledged to the ceaseless invention of traditions—which is to say, the destruction of fealty to and knowledge of the specific, local past. Everything is to be recombined, remade—ideally, in the most portable, effortlessly transmissible form.
A leading feature of our ideology of a unitary, transnational capitalist world culture is the practice of translation. I quote: “Translation today is one of the communicational lifelines of our global village.” In this perspective, translation becomes not merely a useful, desirable practice but an imperative one: linguistic barriers are obstacles to the freest circulation of commodities (“communication” is a euphemism for trade) and therefore must he overcome. Underpinning the ideology of universalism is the ideology of unlimited business. One always wants to reach more people with one’s product. Besides the universalist claims implicit in this goal of unlimited translation, there is another implicit claim: namely, that anything can be translated, if one knew how.
Ulysses,
Gerard Manley Hopkins, whatever. And there is a good argument for saying this is true. (Perhaps the only important book that can’t be translated is
Finnegans Wake
, for the reason that it is not written in only one language.)
Ulysses,
Gerard Manley Hopkins, whatever. And there is a good argument for saying this is true. (Perhaps the only important book that can’t be translated is
Finnegans Wake
, for the reason that it is not written in only one language.)
The inevitable instrumentation of this idea of the necessity of translation, the “translation machine,” shows us how the ancient dream of a universal language is alive and well. Saint Jerome took it for granted, as did most Christians of the early centuries, that all languages descend from one Ur-language (Hebrew, the original speech of mankind, until the presumptuous building of the Tower of Babel). The modern idea is that, via the computer, all languages can be turned into one language. We do not need an actually existing universal language as long as we have, or can imagine as feasible, a machine which can “automatically” give us the translation into any foreign language. Of course, the poets and fancy prose writers will instantly weigh in with their old lament about what is, inevitably, “lost in translation” (rhyme, flavor, wordplay, the grit of dialect) even by experienced, individual, “real” translators. Imagine the dimensions of the loss if the translator is not a person but a program! The directions on a Tylenol bottle can be translated without
loss into any language. This is hardly the case with a poem by Marina Tsvetaeva or a novel by Carlo Emilio Gadda. But the project of a translation machine proposes quite another idea of language, one which identifies language with the communication of information: statements. In the new Platonic praxis, the poets will not need to be banished from the Republic. It will suffice that they will have been rendered unintelligible, because the artifacts they make with words cannot be processed by a machine.
loss into any language. This is hardly the case with a poem by Marina Tsvetaeva or a novel by Carlo Emilio Gadda. But the project of a translation machine proposes quite another idea of language, one which identifies language with the communication of information: statements. In the new Platonic praxis, the poets will not need to be banished from the Republic. It will suffice that they will have been rendered unintelligible, because the artifacts they make with words cannot be processed by a machine.
This universalist model exists side by side with the persistence of language separatism, which asserts the incommensurability of cultures, of identities (political, racial, anatomical). So, in the former Yugoslavia, one language is being turned into many, and there is the farce of a patriotic
call
for translations. Both models exist simultaneously, perhaps interdependently. Language patriotism may continue to grow as a country pursues economic politics that sap national sovereignty, just as the most lethal myths of national distinctiveness can maintain their hold on a population even as it becomes ever more attached to the cultural paraphernalia of consumer capitalism, which is blandly supranational (made in Japan, made in the U.S.A.), or to computer technologies, which promote inevitably the growth of a world language, English.
call
for translations. Both models exist simultaneously, perhaps interdependently. Language patriotism may continue to grow as a country pursues economic politics that sap national sovereignty, just as the most lethal myths of national distinctiveness can maintain their hold on a population even as it becomes ever more attached to the cultural paraphernalia of consumer capitalism, which is blandly supranational (made in Japan, made in the U.S.A.), or to computer technologies, which promote inevitably the growth of a world language, English.
I BEGAN WITH
an anecdote that illustrated some of the ideological paradoxes embedded in the practice of translation. I’ll end by evoking another fragment of personal experience: my participation in the transmitting of my own books into other languages. This has been a particularly wrenching task in the case of
The Volcano Lover
, with its multiplicity of narrative voices and levels of language. Published in 1992, the novel already exists or is about to exist in twenty foreign languages; and I have checked, sentence by sentence, the translations in the four principal Romance languages and made myself available to respond to countless questions from several of the translators in languages I don’t know. You might say I’m obsessed with translations. I think I’m just obsessed with language.
an anecdote that illustrated some of the ideological paradoxes embedded in the practice of translation. I’ll end by evoking another fragment of personal experience: my participation in the transmitting of my own books into other languages. This has been a particularly wrenching task in the case of
The Volcano Lover
, with its multiplicity of narrative voices and levels of language. Published in 1992, the novel already exists or is about to exist in twenty foreign languages; and I have checked, sentence by sentence, the translations in the four principal Romance languages and made myself available to respond to countless questions from several of the translators in languages I don’t know. You might say I’m obsessed with translations. I think I’m just obsessed with language.
I don’t have time to tell you any stories about my dialogue with the
translators. I’ll end by saying that I wish I could stop wanting to be available to them. I wish I could give up trying to see the words, my own sentences, English, shine through. It’s melancholy as well as enthralling work. I do not translate. I am translated—in the modern sense and in the obsolete sense deployed by Wycliffe. In supervising my translations, I am supervising the death as well as the transposition of my words.
translators. I’ll end by saying that I wish I could stop wanting to be available to them. I wish I could give up trying to see the words, my own sentences, English, shine through. It’s melancholy as well as enthralling work. I do not translate. I am translated—in the modern sense and in the obsolete sense deployed by Wycliffe. In supervising my translations, I am supervising the death as well as the transposition of my words.
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