Thank you for the bibliography! I imagine you omitted for a good reason the lecture on translation by Schleiermacher. I value his spatial metaphor for the choices available to a translator: “Either the translator leaves the writer in peace as much as possible and moves the reader toward him; or he leaves the reader in peace as much as possible and moves the writer toward him.” (His translator, Brittany Powell, points out this metaphor in https://translationista.com/2011/02/friedrich-schleiermacher.)
When I think of enjoying literature in the original language (something I can do, haltingly, only in French), I recall a story told by Rex Warner in his introduction to James Michie's translations of Horace's Odes. A British judge in Malaya was captured by the Japanese in Singapore at the beginning of World War II and held captive for the entire war. Once he returned to England, he rented a horse and rode alone out on the South Downs. "While the horse galloped on and the clouds floated by," he recited at the top of his voice the fifth ode of the first book: "What slender Youth bedew'd with liquid odours / Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave..." (Milton).
As a minor translator myself and even more-minor poet-translator, I had a few thoughts.
First an interesting sideways comment on the word 'virgule' which in English poetic transcription indicates a 'slash denoting a line-break'. In its original French, virgule means 'comma'. A semi-colon is a 'point-virgule'. (A slash is 'barre oblique'.) This transference of term may have come down in early years of typesetting, as a 'sign' for the printer to use a comma, but I'm speculating.
Second, the Destination version of any translation of PROSE can usually be counted on for reasonable 'accuracy' of both metaphor and literal sense and even a bit of atmosphere. Or even of 'prose form'. But the same claim is difficult to make for poems.
Poetry arose from song, usually epic song or ritual singing; not from ordinary verbal language. The song is a metamorphosis, even consecration, of ordinary language. But also, of _culturally specific_ language, in terms of tonality, syntax, shadings, stress, etc. The song aches in its desire to become non-literal and metaphoric, esp. in the ancient world. Its reversion into print-based language is a difficult one.
My point is, it's impossible to do a 'true' translation of most decent poetry -- not all but most. Even less, to do a 'faithful' one. To 'translate' literally means to 'carry over faithfully'.
The better word is 'faithful adaptation'.
I ran into this a few years back, translating (for the nth time) Rimbaud's Bateau ivre. The historic English-translation title, The Drunken Boat, is a hideous and literal mistranslation.
The reason such mistranslations take place is merchandising. One hundred years ago, the English reading classes generally could read a bit of French writing ... in French! So the Original Title had brand and mercantile value. .In my footnote, I say that the word 'drunken' is both crude and a _pejorative_ in English... but not always so, in its French original, ivre. A drunken boat is plain silly.
At any rate, I called the poem 'Like a Boat on Firewater'.
The poem is an erotic fever dream, conceived by an intoxicated young Rimbaud, drifting down a river on his belly on a raft. The boat is the boy on his belly, or the river itself. The assumed river is the Seine, which, from this Paris beginning of the piece, meanders all the way to the Atlantic, and that's relevant to the poem
Finally, to my horror, I discovered that most English translators had copied the end-rhyme straight-jacket of Rimbaud's original. But the Rimbaud poem is a convention, not just a poem. It's a very French riverman's song, and conventionally end-rhymed. It has to be _sung_ to be totally 'original'. Actually, I heard a recording of one French singer trying to do just that -- without a musical songline -- he failed miserably.
As someone who grew up in one language, and now lives in another, I enjoyed this very much. I skimmed the list in footnotes (very useful, thanks) but I don’t think anyone has mentioned Eva Hoffman’s classic memoir Lost in Translation, understandably so as it’s not about the art (or craft) of translation, more about how we are different people in different languages, but it’s a great read for anyone interested in bilingualism, so I thought I would mention it. Also, speaking of poets who also translate: Czesław Milosz was both a poet and a translator, not least of his own poetry, and there is much about his life as an exile, living in California and teaching in English while writing poetry in Polish, in Cynthia Haven’s Miłosz in California.
This illuminates some of the excerpts in your piece on the non-existent Latin sonnet, and their approach to translation. Thank you. (And that last quote made me wonder if in Romans 10:7,8 Paul is using faith somewhat in a metaphor of a personal "translation".)
Wonderful article. Steiner’s book sometimes requires its own translation. Weinberger wonderful. Barfield’s Poetic Diction is strange, archaic, an almost mystical text. Your fabulous footnote could also include (unless I missed it) Mark Polizzotti’s Sympathy for the Traitor.
Thank you for the bibliography! I imagine you omitted for a good reason the lecture on translation by Schleiermacher. I value his spatial metaphor for the choices available to a translator: “Either the translator leaves the writer in peace as much as possible and moves the reader toward him; or he leaves the reader in peace as much as possible and moves the writer toward him.” (His translator, Brittany Powell, points out this metaphor in https://translationista.com/2011/02/friedrich-schleiermacher.)
When I think of enjoying literature in the original language (something I can do, haltingly, only in French), I recall a story told by Rex Warner in his introduction to James Michie's translations of Horace's Odes. A British judge in Malaya was captured by the Japanese in Singapore at the beginning of World War II and held captive for the entire war. Once he returned to England, he rented a horse and rode alone out on the South Downs. "While the horse galloped on and the clouds floated by," he recited at the top of his voice the fifth ode of the first book: "What slender Youth bedew'd with liquid odours / Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave..." (Milton).
my only contribution is the idea that a translation is like a cover song.
Thanks for this excellent overview.
As a minor translator myself and even more-minor poet-translator, I had a few thoughts.
First an interesting sideways comment on the word 'virgule' which in English poetic transcription indicates a 'slash denoting a line-break'. In its original French, virgule means 'comma'. A semi-colon is a 'point-virgule'. (A slash is 'barre oblique'.) This transference of term may have come down in early years of typesetting, as a 'sign' for the printer to use a comma, but I'm speculating.
Second, the Destination version of any translation of PROSE can usually be counted on for reasonable 'accuracy' of both metaphor and literal sense and even a bit of atmosphere. Or even of 'prose form'. But the same claim is difficult to make for poems.
Poetry arose from song, usually epic song or ritual singing; not from ordinary verbal language. The song is a metamorphosis, even consecration, of ordinary language. But also, of _culturally specific_ language, in terms of tonality, syntax, shadings, stress, etc. The song aches in its desire to become non-literal and metaphoric, esp. in the ancient world. Its reversion into print-based language is a difficult one.
My point is, it's impossible to do a 'true' translation of most decent poetry -- not all but most. Even less, to do a 'faithful' one. To 'translate' literally means to 'carry over faithfully'.
The better word is 'faithful adaptation'.
I ran into this a few years back, translating (for the nth time) Rimbaud's Bateau ivre. The historic English-translation title, The Drunken Boat, is a hideous and literal mistranslation.
The reason such mistranslations take place is merchandising. One hundred years ago, the English reading classes generally could read a bit of French writing ... in French! So the Original Title had brand and mercantile value. .In my footnote, I say that the word 'drunken' is both crude and a _pejorative_ in English... but not always so, in its French original, ivre. A drunken boat is plain silly.
At any rate, I called the poem 'Like a Boat on Firewater'.
The poem is an erotic fever dream, conceived by an intoxicated young Rimbaud, drifting down a river on his belly on a raft. The boat is the boy on his belly, or the river itself. The assumed river is the Seine, which, from this Paris beginning of the piece, meanders all the way to the Atlantic, and that's relevant to the poem
Finally, to my horror, I discovered that most English translators had copied the end-rhyme straight-jacket of Rimbaud's original. But the Rimbaud poem is a convention, not just a poem. It's a very French riverman's song, and conventionally end-rhymed. It has to be _sung_ to be totally 'original'. Actually, I heard a recording of one French singer trying to do just that -- without a musical songline -- he failed miserably.
And to add to your already extensive fifth footnote: Daniel Hahn's 'If This Be Magic': The Unlikely Art of Shakespeare in Translation.
As someone who grew up in one language, and now lives in another, I enjoyed this very much. I skimmed the list in footnotes (very useful, thanks) but I don’t think anyone has mentioned Eva Hoffman’s classic memoir Lost in Translation, understandably so as it’s not about the art (or craft) of translation, more about how we are different people in different languages, but it’s a great read for anyone interested in bilingualism, so I thought I would mention it. Also, speaking of poets who also translate: Czesław Milosz was both a poet and a translator, not least of his own poetry, and there is much about his life as an exile, living in California and teaching in English while writing poetry in Polish, in Cynthia Haven’s Miłosz in California.
This illuminates some of the excerpts in your piece on the non-existent Latin sonnet, and their approach to translation. Thank you. (And that last quote made me wonder if in Romans 10:7,8 Paul is using faith somewhat in a metaphor of a personal "translation".)
Wonderful article. Steiner’s book sometimes requires its own translation. Weinberger wonderful. Barfield’s Poetic Diction is strange, archaic, an almost mystical text. Your fabulous footnote could also include (unless I missed it) Mark Polizzotti’s Sympathy for the Traitor.
Actually, everybody speaks English. It's only natural. They affect these other languages just to screw with us.