The Art of Translation, pt. 5

I hope this series on the Art of Translation has given you a few things to think about when you approach translated literature. There's a whole world of fantastic books out there waiting to be read, and it would be a shame to shy away from them just because you have to read them via translation.

Perhaps in the future I'll make more observations on the subject and decide to share them with you, but for now, I'm calling this the end of the series.

That said, I'd like to spend one last post talking a bit about some exceptionally well-translated books for you, just to give you a few examples (and reading suggestions – hint, hint).

Without further ado:

1.

In my review of Six Four by Hideo Yokoyama, I said, “Six Four is easily the best-translated, and – to whatever extent this can be determined around the translation – the best-written book I’ve read from Japan.” This is because all of the pieces fell into places just right: the use of idiom, description, and sentence structure totally worked. It wasn’t clunky (like, for example, Vampire Hunter D by Hideyuki Kikuchi and translated by Kevin Leahy, which felt downright jarring to read). In fact, we might even say that Six Four felt like it could have originally been written in English.

(Okay, so I guess that it was one more piece of advice on judging a translation: does it feel like it could have been written in English originally? – if so, that’s probably a good translation [though of course this still doesn’t say much about the accuracy of the translation]).

So Six Four is the best translated book (that I’ve read so far) to come out of Japan. Sweet!

(Oh, and, to give credit where credit is due: it was translated into English by Jonathan Lloyd-Davies. Thanks, Jonathan!)

2.

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco was originally published in 1980 in Eco’s native language of Italian. Incredible, fast-paced, highly intriguing book, full of wit, nuance, history, and literary references galore. And, in reading William Weaver’s English translation (1983), you would never once even think to guess that it was written in any language other than English. The book reads so fluidly, so perfectly in English, I would almost say it’s hard to believe it didn’t start out that way.

If you want a fantastic example of Italian translation at its absolute pinnacle, The Name of the Rose is a great place to start. (And, by the way, it’s definitely a 5-star book all the way, so you should read it for that sake, too. Truly a joy to read.)

3.

And finally, you might want to brace yourself, because I saved the best for last: A Void by Georges Perec

Here’s the first remarkable thing about A Void:

In the French language (the book’s original language), the most commonly used letter is ‘e’. And so, because Perec loved having fun and being crazy with his writing, in the original French version of A Void, the letter ‘e’ doesn't appear (with three exceptions: je ["I"], et ["and"], and le ["the"]). And it uses real words, too – he didn’t simply take random words and leave out the ‘e.’ He solely used words that simply didn’t have ‘e’s. (And it’s a full-length novel, mind you, not a short story.)

Whoa! Epic, right?

Here’s the next remarkable part (which might be even more epic, actually):

Just like in French, the most commonly used letter in English is also ‘e’. And so, in the spirit of fun and challenge and amazingness, in the English translation of A Void, translator Gilbert Adair translated the entire book while still accomplishing the same feat: no ‘e’s.

Holy cow.

If that isn’t translation at its finest, I can’t tell you what is. Seriously. 

Aside from these three specific books, I've always been a fan of Jose Saramago's common translator, Margaret Jull Costa (translating from the Portuguese); as well as Zoran Zivkovic's long-time translator Alice Copple-Tosic (translating from Serbian); and William Weaver's translations of Italo Calvino's books (translated from Italian). (In fact, you'll remember that William Weaver also translated The Name of the Rose, which was my example #2 above - it seems that guy really knows his stuff.)

The Art of Translation, pt. 4

In part 3 of this series, I said, "...isn't the translator's job not only to make a book readable for us, but also to make it connect with us?"

I want to shift focus slightly and spend a bit of time considering what sorts of translations connect with us. Is it always the most accurate translation? Does the "most accurate" translation automatically equal the "best" one? Hmm...

This time around, rather than talking about hypothetical blue skies and hair pulling, I’m going to use an actual literary example from an Italian book you’ve probably heard a thing or two about: The Inferno by Dante Alighieri.

Technically speaking, The Inferno is actually an epic poem (basically a book-length poem). And in its original Italian, the book rhymes.

I don’t speak a word of Italian. I think buon giorno might mean good day, or something like that. That’s about it, though. (Okay, fine: if I’m right about that, I guess I speak two words of Italian.)

That said, I’m going to give you lines 1-6 of The Inferno in four different forms:

• The original Italian
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1867 translation
• Robert Pinsky’s translation (© 1994 by Robert Pinsky)
• Google’s translation

…but not in that order. ;)

Let’s see if we can guess which is which. Should be fun, right?

A

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

   mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

   ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura

   esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte

   che nel pensier rinova la paura!

(Okay, I’ll give you a hint just this one time: this one’s the Italian.)

B

In the middle of the walk of our lives

   I found myself in a dark forest,

   as the straightway was lost.

Ah how to tell what it was was tough

   it is wild wild and hard and strong

   that in thought re-fears fear!

C

Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself

   In dark woods, the right road lost. To tell

   About those woods is hard—so tangled and rough

And savage that thinking of it now, I feel

   The old fear stirring

D

Midway upon the journey of our life

   I found myself within a forest dark,

   For the straight-forward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say

   What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,

   Which in the very thought renews the fear.

Again, I don’t speak Italian. But if we look at these translations, we can probably pick out a couple important tidbits about them, don’t you think?

First of all, what’s up with the repeated words in B? The repeated “was” is okay – just an unfortunate quirk of English that pops up sometimes. But why is “wild” repeated? 

Actually, if we compare B to the original, we can see where that "wild" repetition comes from. In right about the same place as “wild wild,” the Italian has selva selvaggia. Even without speaking Italian, we can see how similar those two words are – both start with “selva,” the second word just adds a suffix. I wonder if the Italian “-ggia” is similar to the English “-ly.” (I have NOT looked this up; I’m just theorizing.) In which case, selva selvaggia might mean something like “wildly wild.” – if so, that’s actually not quite as ridiculous, is it?

Also, interestingly, neither C nor D use the word “wild” here. C uses “tangled,” and D tells us the forest is “savage.” And neither uses a repetition, nor even an -ly adjective. Hmm. Maybe it's just a typo in B's translation? (Hey, these things happen sometimes...)

I have no idea which of these words is the most accurate. Then again, we’re talking about a forest here. Wouldn’t you say that all three (wild, savage, tangled) could be synonymous?

So all three might be decent translations, but B, at least, sticks the most true to the repetition in the original Italian. This seems important. The punctuation seems kind of weird in this one, though - although, then again, it actually matches the original Italian pretty well.

Now what can we pick out of C?

Perhaps the most obvious thing we can say about C is that where the line breaks happen in C doesn’t match either of the other two versions. B and D seem to end line 1 with the idea of our “life’s journey.” C, though, finishes the life’s-journey thought, then keeps going into the “I found myself” bit, all in line 1 (whereas “I found myself” begins in line 2 in the other two translations). In fact, perhaps because of this, C is a line and a half shorter than B and D.

C is also the only one that uses "woods" instead of "forest." Of course these words are highly synonymous, but why would it disagree with B and D on this front - even if it's only slightly?

Surely you see the pattern here: by comparing these four versions – even without speaking Italian – we can already see that C is shaping up to be less literal than B and D. It doesn’t automatically mean it’s a bad translation, per se, but, based on these few examples, it’s not the one I’d call the most accurate, at the very least.

Anything special about D?

The line breaks seem about right, as far as we can tell. It certainly isn't the most fluid of the translations, though – would you say? Sure, we can totally tell what’s going on in these lines. It feels a little forced, though. Not the smoothest of the three, anyway. (For example: who says "the forest dark"? Wouldn't we normally hear "the dark forest"?)

Aside from this, though, the overall ideas in D seem to match the other two reasonably enough.

So then. What’s your guess? Between B, C, and D, which is which? (Again, your choices being: 1867 Longsfellow, 1994 Pinsky, and 2017 Google.)

…

You’re absolutely right!

B = Google

C = Pinsky

D = Longsfellow

Google (B) certainly seemed the most literal. Clunky read and bad punctuation, but it seems rather accurate.

Pinsky (C) is probably the easiest to read, but he definitely takes the most liberties. (In fact, I didn’t point this out, but Pinsky’s is the only version that tries to make everything rhyme. Not the same rhyme scheme that Dante uses, but at least he tried to use rhymes. Lots and lots of them, if you read the whole book.)

Longfellow (D) was a bit old-timey – but, then again, it was translated 150 years ago, so of course it is. And it seems to have the right ideas, more or less.

That said, next time you read The Inferno, which translation would you pick?

• Literally Literal* (Google),
• Old-Timey But Halfway Accurate Wording (Longfellow), or
• Readable But Not-So-Accurate (Pinsky)?

Is one translation better than another? If by "better" we mean "more accurate," then yes, certainly one of these is "better." But which do you think will help you understand and enjoy and connect with the book more? And, ultimately, wouldn’t you say that’s the best translation for you, at least?

*Please tell me you picked up on why I called it "Literally Literal" – get it? – like this translation’s “wildly wild” thing? 

...Anyone?

 …eesh. Tough crowd.

The Art of Translation, pt. 3

We can consider a book’s idioms.

We can consider its use of descriptions.

There's another element we haven't gone over yet, and, in fact, it's the one I notice the most in my own reading. It's also, unfortunately, the hardest element to pin on the author versus the translator. (That is, it's the hardest to figure out who is to blame if this element goes wrong.)

That said, let me first point out: when I'm reading a translated book and I just can't quite figure out whether it's bad writing versus bad translating, I tend to lean towards blaming the translator. If it's 50/50, I'd hate to point fingers at an author who really is a good writer, and just got stuck with a bad translator. I'd hate to be the author in that situation, at least. And isn't the translator's job not only to make a book readable for us, but also to make it connect with us?


So then. The biggest thing I notice about translated books - even more than its idioms and descriptions - is its use of sentence structure.

To do this, let's go back to my blue-sky example from part 2:

There's nothing inherently wrong with the sentence "The sky was blue," right? It says what it needs to say. It's grammatically correct. It tells us something about the setting.

Let's imagine a translated-into-English book with a paragraph something like this, though:

The sky was blue. The air was warm. The sun was shining. A bird was singing. It was nice today. Joe was feeling happy. He liked nice days. Joe went on walks. Walks made him glad.

Gross.

I mean, really: this is downright atrocious, isn't it? What exactly makes this so atrocious, though?

Every one of these sentences is fine on its own (if a little mundane). It's okay to say the sky was blue and that Joe was happy. But every sentence in this paragraph is structured the same way:

Subject - Noun - Object (with an occasional adjective thrown in there)

And, in this case, they're all exactly four words long.

It's like each sentence was made with a cookie cutter. They're basically the same sentence over and over again, just with words swapped out here and there. And our poor, anxious, literary hearts can only take so much of reading the same sentence again and again.

So if this is our translated-into-English book, we can see that something is definitely wrong here. These sentences need to...well, to dance a little. They need to be different lengths and tell us different ideas and reorganize the way in which the words are presented.

What about something like this?

The sky was blue. The warm air wrapped around Joe, making him glad to be on a walk. If it were up to him, this is how every day would be: clear skies, singing birds, the sun shining brightly. He always felt particularly happy on days just like this, days when he could be outside in the world, taking in the colors and the sounds the earth had to offer.

Yes, I know this is still garbage. But at least there's variation, right? At least each sentence sounds different and flows nicely and doesn't feel like it was tossed out of the same blender as each and every one of the sentences surrounding it.

But now we have to come to the question we keep asking: If we pick up a book with the first paragraph I shared, is it bad writing or bad translating?

This is going to get just a touch mathematical.

Yes, the author can write those terrible sentences, and the translator can translate them just as terribly.

Or else the writer can write wonderful sentences that follow the fantastic, intricate, varied grammar of another language, which the translator simply doesn't bother to rearrange in a meaningful way for the sake of his English audience.

Either way, what's the common denominator between these two scenarios?

One is Bad Writer + Bad Translator.
One is Good Writer + Bad Translator.

There's not really an option here for Bad Writer + Good Translator, though, is there?
And this sure as heck isn't the case of Good Writer + Good Translator. Something is definitely wrong.

When the use of sentence structures is this terrible in a translated-into-English book, whether or not the original writing is bad - which we can't always say for certain - what we can say is that, almost assuredly, the translation is bad. The translator did nothing at all to help these sentences mean something to us.

This is why, when a translated-into-English book feels off, I usually try to give the original author the benefit of the doubt and assume it's the translation that's funky.

The Art of Translation, pt. 2

As I explained in my previous post on the topic of translations, one way we can start judging the strength of a translation is via idioms. But of course not every sentence has an idiom. In fact, you might only come across a handful of idioms in an entire book. (Actually, this is unlikely. When you’re reading a book written in your own first language, you won’t even notice the majority of the idioms used because they’re already part of your everyday speech. Kind of weird, if you think about it.)

Now let’s take a look at another angle we can play: use of descriptions.

Suppose we have a translated-into-English book that begins with the line, “The sky was blue.”

(Let me interrupt myself already with a pro tip for you: Say you’re standing in a bookstore, curious about this new book you just happened to pick up. If the first sentence is “The sky was blue.” just set the book down and walk away. You don’t need that monotony in your life. Anyway. Moving on…)

Like I said, suppose we have a translated-into-English book that begins with the line, “The sky was blue.”

This is a really boring line, isn’t it? At least, it’s a boring first line, if nothing else.

So if we pick up a translated-into-English book that begins with this line, are we dealing with a bad translation, or a boring writing style?

Likely it’s a boring writing style, right? It’s not the translator’s fault that the book was written so tediously; he has to play the cards he’s been dealt. (<-- Look at that! - another idiom.)

Now let’s suppose we pick up a translated-into-English book with the first line(s) something like this:

The sky was blue, but only barely; you might have even missed its blueness if you didn’t look closely enough. It was almost blue by mistake, like a blueness just barely squeezing its way through the thick clouds, a blueness trying to prove that it was here first, that it would still be here even after all the clouds and their unearthly gray have moved on to haunt a different corner of the world.

(I kind of like those sentences, actually. Heck, maybe I’ll put them in one of my own stories someday…)

If we read these sentences, is this good translation, good original-author’s style, or possibly both?

In this case, we can’t know how accurate the translation is. But we can rest assured that the author’s original probably wasn’t just “El cielo era azul.” (“The sky was blue.”) Right? (That’d be a mighty brave translator, if so.)

It turns out these sentences were good writing, and, therefore, most likely they were put there by the original author.

Again: the translator has to play the cards he’s been dealt. And in this case, he’s been dealt some good cards.

If you’re reading a translated-into-English book, ask yourself, How solid are the descriptions? If the descriptions are decent, you can guess that the author’s original writing is pretty decent, too. (And, clearly, there’s a good chance the translation is solid as well.)

The Art of Translation, pt. 1

As I’ve mentioned before (or as you’ve surely guessed by now, if you’ve even read only a couple other posts on this site), I’m particularly fond of Asian literature (especially Japanese, though not exclusively). Considering that I don’t speak any Asian languages, though, I have to experience it all second-hand via a translator. It’s unfortunate, but I’ve no one to blame but myself (at least until I learn to speak Japanese).

So what’s the deal with translations? Why are some so great, while others seem to fall flat?

Or, the more interesting question (which will be the focus of this series on Translation):

If you don’t speak another language, how can you know whether it’s the translation that’s flat, or the author’s original writing?

What a great question! I’m glad you asked.

In this first post, I’ll give you an example by using Spanish (which I speak with about 8% fluency; maybe 8.5% if I’m feeling extra confident one day).

In English, when we’re trying to get someone to believe a funny story that isn’t true, we might say we’re “pulling their leg.”

Spanish has a similar sentiment: Tomar el pelo a alguien. What this actually translates to, though, is “Taking the hair of someone” (in other words, “pulling someone’s hair.”)

It’s the same idea, but in English we say “leg,” and in Spanish they say “hair.” (I leave it to you to decide if one of these makes more sense than the other.)

So then. Let’s suppose a person is commissioned to translate a book from English to Spanish. They come across “You’re pulling my leg!” When they go to translate it, which word do they use: “leg” (pierna) or “hair” (pelo)?

Of course they use “hair” (pelo), right? – that’s how the Spanish variation of this phrase works.

In this case, the word “hair” is technically less literal, but, by being less literal, it actually becomes more accurate.

(At this point, the side of me that loves the topic of spirituality would love to take this into an enormous digression about people taking the Bible literally, but I’ll spare you that here. It’s worth thinking about, though.)

Now let’s imagine this example starting from the other direction. Our translator friend comes across “!Estas tomando mi pelo!”

Ideally, when we pick up the English translation of this book, we’ll see, “You’re pulling my leg!”

If instead, though, we see, “You’re pulling my hair!” (and, from context of the passage, we know that this is a prank story being told, etc.)…well then: we have a bad translation on our hands. The translator should have changed “hair” to “leg,” right? – since that’s the English expression and all.

Surely you see what’s interesting about this:

Reading this, we can tell there’s something wrong with this translation even if we don’t speak a word of Spanish.

For all you grammar-lovers, you’ll know that what I’ve just described is called an idiom (a commonplace expression that has a meaning other than the literal definition of the words).

And idioms, it turns out, are a good clue when identifying the strength of a translation, even when we aren’t familiar with the work’s original language.

Neat.