No surprises here then, at least not for German readers. The shortlist for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize is out, accompanied by a rousing article by Boyd Tonkin, who I think has done more for translated literature in the British public eye than almost anyone else. The prize celebrates writing in translation and the people behind it, with the 10,000 pounds prize money shared between the authors and translators. And of course stickers on the books.
Tonkin writes:
Yes, the British book trade should translate more; yes, translators deserve a better deal; and yes, fiction from outside the Anglosphere can meet too much of the sort of prejudice that would outrage young Castorp {a character in another shortlisted book- kjd}. Still, a little celebration might be in order too. The dedicated translators and publishers (often from independent firms) who bring the best of the world's fiction to these shores have helped contribute to another golden age of cross-cultural interchange.
And guess what, Daniel Kehlmann's Measuring the World is on the shortlist. Now I have to say right away that I haven't read it. Unlike everyone else in the German-speaking world, it would seem. It just didn't really appeal to me I'm afraid. But I did attend a seminar at the VdÜ summer get-together, in which we looked at Carol Brown Janeway's translation. Strangely enough, the German natives liked it and the English-speakers didn't. I felt it was rather dull, replacing Kehlmann's colourful verbs with things like "put" and "do". But there you go. The prize isn't about comparing the original and the translation, and the book seems to have enough merits of its own to leap this slight hurdle nonetheless. I wish Kehlmann and Janeway luck.
Friday, 29 February 2008
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Tourette's
Sometimes, meeting the author isn't such a pleasant experience. Yesterday's escapade sent me reeling out into the night, swearing all the way home.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
The Crime Shoe Horn
As Lawrence Venuti points out in an interview on Words without Borders, English-language publishing has embraced foreign crime writing. So monolingual readers can enjoy the delights of Henning Mankell, Fred Vargas and numerous others I can't think of the names of - thus proving people wrong who claim nobody wants to read translations...
Venuti writes:
"This genre is especially fascinating because anglophone readers are likely to regard it as originating in English literary traditions (although there’s a concurrent French tradition as well). As a result, what happens to it abroad can make a difference when it comes back home, can signal a cultural difference for anglophone readers (something that is not amiss in a translation, but crucial, insofar as translation traffics in the foreign). And the fact is that readers are appreciating foreign crime novels against the native ones, partly because they know little or nothing about possible traditions of the genre in the foreign cultures..."
So, if I understand him rightly, Venuti is saying that crime fiction might be a shoe-horn for slipping foreignness into English-language reading habits. We all know what to expect from a detective story and that makes them comforting to read, so we swallow the bitter pill of the book being set in Stockholm or Bogotá and written slightly differently down with the sugar of the genre. At least I think that's what he's saying.
German crime fiction hasn't made all that much of a dent in the British consciousness yet, I suspect. Ingrid Noll and Friedrich Glauser are both high-ranking German crime writers available in English. And the top bestseller Tannöd will be out under the title The Murder Village in June of this year (Quercus). I didn't enjoy it but it's very good. And it won tons of awards, as has the writer's second book. And she's sold half a million copies and knocked Harry Potter off the top of the pops.
Instead of that, I'm going to tell you about a German crime book I did like. It's called Aussortiert by Titus Keller, and you can find a really negative review of it here. Someone really didn't like it. But I did. I'm a sucker for anything set in Berlin, and this is set in Berlin. I loved the attention to detail in the settings - the grungy bits of Berlin with drug dealers and prostitutes. And they get bumped off, and the fucked-up detective has to find out whodunnit. But you probably guessed that - that's because you're familiar with the genre you know.
Anyway, I liked the overtly moralising contrasts between rich and poor, I liked the characters, I even enjoyed the allegedly wooden dialogue. And I liked the end that turns the genre on its head. I liked the fact that the publisher didn't reveal who Titus Keller really is - apparently it's a pseudonym for the writer Helmut Krausser, who I haven't read. But I do appreciate the criticism that a lot of people wouldn't have read it if it weren't for the tagline "famous author writing incognito". Because that's probably what made me buy it, too. I don't regret it though.
But I'm no expert on crime writing, although I enjoy reading it. For excellent reviews go to International Noir.
So here's to translated crime fiction as the shoe-horn for foreignising our reading habits. Long may she reign!
Venuti writes:
"This genre is especially fascinating because anglophone readers are likely to regard it as originating in English literary traditions (although there’s a concurrent French tradition as well). As a result, what happens to it abroad can make a difference when it comes back home, can signal a cultural difference for anglophone readers (something that is not amiss in a translation, but crucial, insofar as translation traffics in the foreign). And the fact is that readers are appreciating foreign crime novels against the native ones, partly because they know little or nothing about possible traditions of the genre in the foreign cultures..."
So, if I understand him rightly, Venuti is saying that crime fiction might be a shoe-horn for slipping foreignness into English-language reading habits. We all know what to expect from a detective story and that makes them comforting to read, so we swallow the bitter pill of the book being set in Stockholm or Bogotá and written slightly differently down with the sugar of the genre. At least I think that's what he's saying.
German crime fiction hasn't made all that much of a dent in the British consciousness yet, I suspect. Ingrid Noll and Friedrich Glauser are both high-ranking German crime writers available in English. And the top bestseller Tannöd will be out under the title The Murder Village in June of this year (Quercus). I didn't enjoy it but it's very good. And it won tons of awards, as has the writer's second book. And she's sold half a million copies and knocked Harry Potter off the top of the pops.
Instead of that, I'm going to tell you about a German crime book I did like. It's called Aussortiert by Titus Keller, and you can find a really negative review of it here. Someone really didn't like it. But I did. I'm a sucker for anything set in Berlin, and this is set in Berlin. I loved the attention to detail in the settings - the grungy bits of Berlin with drug dealers and prostitutes. And they get bumped off, and the fucked-up detective has to find out whodunnit. But you probably guessed that - that's because you're familiar with the genre you know.
Anyway, I liked the overtly moralising contrasts between rich and poor, I liked the characters, I even enjoyed the allegedly wooden dialogue. And I liked the end that turns the genre on its head. I liked the fact that the publisher didn't reveal who Titus Keller really is - apparently it's a pseudonym for the writer Helmut Krausser, who I haven't read. But I do appreciate the criticism that a lot of people wouldn't have read it if it weren't for the tagline "famous author writing incognito". Because that's probably what made me buy it, too. I don't regret it though.
But I'm no expert on crime writing, although I enjoy reading it. For excellent reviews go to International Noir.
So here's to translated crime fiction as the shoe-horn for foreignising our reading habits. Long may she reign!
Monday, 25 February 2008
True Stories
Imagine you're a writer, and you just happen to be bilingual. You've written a book and the rights have been sold to the country whose language you also speak. Let's just say it's what we call a "smaller" language. Being a generally helpful type of person and, of course, interested in making sure your book works well in the other language, you offer to help the translator if he or she has any questions. The publisher umms and ahs and turns your offer down. Would you be surprised?
Then imagine you are a little concerned about the whole situation, and of course, the book is your creation, so you lean on the foreign publisher to get a look at the proofs once the translation is done. And then you read it and discover that the translation is full of mistakes. Not just things you would write differently, but genuine misunderstandings that alter the meaning. What would you do then?
Well, imagine you talk to your original publisher and tell them there is at least one mistake every three pages, and lean on them to threaten the foreign publisher with legal action unless they withdraw the translation. And then they commission someone else with the job, who wisely enough contacts you to start with. And imagine you talk to that translator about the whole story and he or she sympathises and agrees with you, but tries to console you with the fact that translations in their country are always like that, and the Nobel prize winners writing in your language are no better off either. They just can't read the translations.
Living in Germany spoils a person, in many ways. But one of them is that one comes to expect good translations. Over the past thirty years or so, German literary translators have become incredibly professional. They have their own institutions and foundations funding and organising further training, there are degree courses in literary translation, they can apply for grants to visit countries where their books are set, spend weeks or months beavering away at literary translation centres, and so on and so forth. Of course, they're still badly paid and there are still mavericks and beginners out there. And there are still people who think any old graduate in American Studies they meet at a party can translate quality fiction - and give them a contract to do so. But in general, German translators are excellent.
But part of the reason for this is that they've got together and applied for funding, lobbied the culture ministry, set up committees and all those other thankless tasks. Literary translation was once the domain of well-educated housewives and professors during the holidays (and is still paid accordingly). Now, it is a field peopled by experts. Only that's not the case in every country. The Robert Bosch Foundation runs an admirable programme promoting literary translation and translators out of German in specific countries, but that can't reach everyone and will never achieve the level of content offered to learning-hungry translators into German.
Perhaps it's just a question of time until translators around the world reach a high level of professionalism. But as long as literary translation is badly paid, it won't attract as many talented people as it might do, and those talented people it does attract won't be able to devote enough time to it for their work to be as good as it might be. And if you think literary translators are badly paid in Germany or Britain, talk to someone from Albania or Slovenia for a bit of an eye-opener.
But all that is no great consolation for our poor bilingual author, is it?
Then imagine you are a little concerned about the whole situation, and of course, the book is your creation, so you lean on the foreign publisher to get a look at the proofs once the translation is done. And then you read it and discover that the translation is full of mistakes. Not just things you would write differently, but genuine misunderstandings that alter the meaning. What would you do then?
Well, imagine you talk to your original publisher and tell them there is at least one mistake every three pages, and lean on them to threaten the foreign publisher with legal action unless they withdraw the translation. And then they commission someone else with the job, who wisely enough contacts you to start with. And imagine you talk to that translator about the whole story and he or she sympathises and agrees with you, but tries to console you with the fact that translations in their country are always like that, and the Nobel prize winners writing in your language are no better off either. They just can't read the translations.
Living in Germany spoils a person, in many ways. But one of them is that one comes to expect good translations. Over the past thirty years or so, German literary translators have become incredibly professional. They have their own institutions and foundations funding and organising further training, there are degree courses in literary translation, they can apply for grants to visit countries where their books are set, spend weeks or months beavering away at literary translation centres, and so on and so forth. Of course, they're still badly paid and there are still mavericks and beginners out there. And there are still people who think any old graduate in American Studies they meet at a party can translate quality fiction - and give them a contract to do so. But in general, German translators are excellent.
But part of the reason for this is that they've got together and applied for funding, lobbied the culture ministry, set up committees and all those other thankless tasks. Literary translation was once the domain of well-educated housewives and professors during the holidays (and is still paid accordingly). Now, it is a field peopled by experts. Only that's not the case in every country. The Robert Bosch Foundation runs an admirable programme promoting literary translation and translators out of German in specific countries, but that can't reach everyone and will never achieve the level of content offered to learning-hungry translators into German.
Perhaps it's just a question of time until translators around the world reach a high level of professionalism. But as long as literary translation is badly paid, it won't attract as many talented people as it might do, and those talented people it does attract won't be able to devote enough time to it for their work to be as good as it might be. And if you think literary translators are badly paid in Germany or Britain, talk to someone from Albania or Slovenia for a bit of an eye-opener.
But all that is no great consolation for our poor bilingual author, is it?
Being British in Berlin
Just like most Brits seem to think the Germans dream about Adolf every night, the Germans have a good few clichés and prejudices about the British. Here's my top eleven - I had to add the last one because it's such a classic - favourite questions asked of me as a gen-u-ine London lass:
1. I expect you'd like a nice cup of tea, eh?
No, I don't drink tea.
2. What's your favourite food, fish and chips or boiled boar with peppermint sauce?
I am not a character out of a comic. I'll just stick with normal food, thanks.
3. Can you help my son with his English homework?
No, I can't. Or maybe I could, but I don't want to.
4. Why on earth did you move here? London is sooo cool!
Because I prefer to enjoy a decent standard of living with functioning public transport and affordable rents.
5. Did you go back to England to have your baby?
No. I savoured the German hospital system with its clean wards and relatively plentiful staffing.
6. Can you bring me back the English-language DVD of Barbarella when you go back for Christmas?
No. I do not spend all my potential time with my family out shopping for obscure films.
7. Did you have a nanny when you were a kid?
No.
8. Don't you think school uniforms are a great idea? They stop kids from comparing their clothes all the time.
No. Because you can buy navy blue V-necks from Woolworths or Adidas and kids will still always compare the prices of their clothes.
9. Isn't four years old terribly young to start school? I think kids should stay kids as long as possible.
No. Because going to school doesn't make you an instant adult, does it?
10. How's the good old Queen doing?
How the hell should I know? Do I look like a wax-jacketed corgi-owner to you?
11. Were your parents mods or were they rockers?
Neither.
But looking on the bright side, the Berliners have at least read two books to gain this broad knowledge of British culture. And watched one film. Answers on a postcard please.
1. I expect you'd like a nice cup of tea, eh?
No, I don't drink tea.
2. What's your favourite food, fish and chips or boiled boar with peppermint sauce?
I am not a character out of a comic. I'll just stick with normal food, thanks.
3. Can you help my son with his English homework?
No, I can't. Or maybe I could, but I don't want to.
4. Why on earth did you move here? London is sooo cool!
Because I prefer to enjoy a decent standard of living with functioning public transport and affordable rents.
5. Did you go back to England to have your baby?
No. I savoured the German hospital system with its clean wards and relatively plentiful staffing.
6. Can you bring me back the English-language DVD of Barbarella when you go back for Christmas?
No. I do not spend all my potential time with my family out shopping for obscure films.
7. Did you have a nanny when you were a kid?
No.
8. Don't you think school uniforms are a great idea? They stop kids from comparing their clothes all the time.
No. Because you can buy navy blue V-necks from Woolworths or Adidas and kids will still always compare the prices of their clothes.
9. Isn't four years old terribly young to start school? I think kids should stay kids as long as possible.
No. Because going to school doesn't make you an instant adult, does it?
10. How's the good old Queen doing?
How the hell should I know? Do I look like a wax-jacketed corgi-owner to you?
11. Were your parents mods or were they rockers?
Neither.
But looking on the bright side, the Berliners have at least read two books to gain this broad knowledge of British culture. And watched one film. Answers on a postcard please.
Saturday, 23 February 2008
Update Update
Just ignore any "factual" information you may find here. Apparently, Biller's book was on sale for a while, and about 3000 copies sold. So the ex gets € 16.66 per book.
Sadly, most of my ex-boyfriends are only really semi-literate.
Sadly, most of my ex-boyfriends are only really semi-literate.
Friday, 22 February 2008
Being Translated and Being the Translator
Once again, the good old Guardian books blog provides me with fodder: an article by a writer about reading the Russian translation of his own book. Daniel Kalder writes:
"It's an eerie feeling - I can't quite trust this other Daniel Kalder. His eyes are a different colour; I think he has a flick-knife in his pocket. He doesn't always say exactly what I'd like him to. But we're close enough that I'm happy for him to slouch off, provoke, intrigue and entertain that other group of readers I was secretly writing for in his own peculiar way. And also, of course, to annoy and offend the ones I wasn't writing for."
The writer feels alienated from his own writing, because the words have passed through the medium of the translator. He doesn't name the translator, perhaps afraid to offend him or her because some of the article is quite critical of aspects of the translation. But I found it a fairly balanced account of what it must feel like to be translated. I think the moral of the story is that translators need to have some form of communication with the author during the translation process, if only to deepen their understanding of the text. And of course to reassure the writer that you're not just tinkering amateurishly with his or her work of art.
Which brings me to last night. Selim Özdogan's reading in the beautifully decayed Festsaal Kreuzberg was packed! I was lucky my friend had saved me a seat. It was unlike any other reading I've been to, as Selim alternated between reading from the amazing novel Die Tochter des Schmieds, as yet unpublished short stories and short texts, and just talking in what seemed a very self-assured way about himself, the rest of the world and how he sees it. A kind of Selim Özdogan show, and a very entertaining one. You may be relieved to find out that there was no DJ session after all, despite what it said in the listings magazine.
The novel came out a few years ago now, but has been given an unexpected push by its inclusion in the film The Edge of Heaven. Oh, and I just happen to love it. I've translated an extract and am hoping to place it in an online magazine at some point in the near future - more as and when. It's about a father bringing up his children in 1950s Turkey, and his daughter, who leaves Turkey for a future in Germany in the penultimate chapter. It's told in a slightly dreamy style - but without "orientalising" - with what I'd have to call "flash-forwards" for want of a better word - moments when the narrator reveals the future of the protagonist Gül:
"But she will often think back to this first day. She will remember it when she sits at an electric sewing machine in Germany, sewing bras in piecework. Four hundred to four hundred and fifty a day, while her workmates rarely manage more than three hundred and fifty."
In a lot of his short prose, I felt the author reveals a hell of a lot about himself, probably compounded by the chatty bits in between. And translating a text makes you feel even closer to its writer than just reading it. I, at least, feel I have to think about every choice the author has taken, why this word in particular, which rhythm has she chosen, what is he trying to say here? My Özdogan translation is one of the first where I've had proper contact to the author without some middle-man in between, and that was very rewarding. For instance, the book plays a lot with terms of endearment, and it was hard for me to judge whether they were "translations" of things Turkish parents call their children or were originally "thought" in German. So it was very helpful to be able to ask the author directly. And he looked over my translation in the end and made a couple of very useful suggestions.
But despite this communication, the process of translation is still fairly one-way. It's the translator who has to crawl into the writer's head and make herself comfortable in there, after all. Part of what we do is to step into the writer's narrative persona and imitate that in our own language. And in general, the author has little or nothing to do with that process. Add to that the fact that authors are generally fairly high-profile in the media whereas translators lead a shadowy life, rarely venturing from behind our desks into the limelight, and the level of knowledge the two parties have of each other becomes extremely tilted.
So the moment of actually meeting the author is very odd indeed. I often feel like a kind of stalker, having followed someone's often quite intimate thoughts and of course taken a close interest in what they get up to in general. Selim summed it up - unknowingly - for me when he said, "It's strange to put a face to someone you've only spoken to by email." And I had to kind of shrug and say, well, I knew what you looked like...
"It's an eerie feeling - I can't quite trust this other Daniel Kalder. His eyes are a different colour; I think he has a flick-knife in his pocket. He doesn't always say exactly what I'd like him to. But we're close enough that I'm happy for him to slouch off, provoke, intrigue and entertain that other group of readers I was secretly writing for in his own peculiar way. And also, of course, to annoy and offend the ones I wasn't writing for."
The writer feels alienated from his own writing, because the words have passed through the medium of the translator. He doesn't name the translator, perhaps afraid to offend him or her because some of the article is quite critical of aspects of the translation. But I found it a fairly balanced account of what it must feel like to be translated. I think the moral of the story is that translators need to have some form of communication with the author during the translation process, if only to deepen their understanding of the text. And of course to reassure the writer that you're not just tinkering amateurishly with his or her work of art.
Which brings me to last night. Selim Özdogan's reading in the beautifully decayed Festsaal Kreuzberg was packed! I was lucky my friend had saved me a seat. It was unlike any other reading I've been to, as Selim alternated between reading from the amazing novel Die Tochter des Schmieds, as yet unpublished short stories and short texts, and just talking in what seemed a very self-assured way about himself, the rest of the world and how he sees it. A kind of Selim Özdogan show, and a very entertaining one. You may be relieved to find out that there was no DJ session after all, despite what it said in the listings magazine.
The novel came out a few years ago now, but has been given an unexpected push by its inclusion in the film The Edge of Heaven. Oh, and I just happen to love it. I've translated an extract and am hoping to place it in an online magazine at some point in the near future - more as and when. It's about a father bringing up his children in 1950s Turkey, and his daughter, who leaves Turkey for a future in Germany in the penultimate chapter. It's told in a slightly dreamy style - but without "orientalising" - with what I'd have to call "flash-forwards" for want of a better word - moments when the narrator reveals the future of the protagonist Gül:
"But she will often think back to this first day. She will remember it when she sits at an electric sewing machine in Germany, sewing bras in piecework. Four hundred to four hundred and fifty a day, while her workmates rarely manage more than three hundred and fifty."
In a lot of his short prose, I felt the author reveals a hell of a lot about himself, probably compounded by the chatty bits in between. And translating a text makes you feel even closer to its writer than just reading it. I, at least, feel I have to think about every choice the author has taken, why this word in particular, which rhythm has she chosen, what is he trying to say here? My Özdogan translation is one of the first where I've had proper contact to the author without some middle-man in between, and that was very rewarding. For instance, the book plays a lot with terms of endearment, and it was hard for me to judge whether they were "translations" of things Turkish parents call their children or were originally "thought" in German. So it was very helpful to be able to ask the author directly. And he looked over my translation in the end and made a couple of very useful suggestions.
But despite this communication, the process of translation is still fairly one-way. It's the translator who has to crawl into the writer's head and make herself comfortable in there, after all. Part of what we do is to step into the writer's narrative persona and imitate that in our own language. And in general, the author has little or nothing to do with that process. Add to that the fact that authors are generally fairly high-profile in the media whereas translators lead a shadowy life, rarely venturing from behind our desks into the limelight, and the level of knowledge the two parties have of each other becomes extremely tilted.
So the moment of actually meeting the author is very odd indeed. I often feel like a kind of stalker, having followed someone's often quite intimate thoughts and of course taken a close interest in what they get up to in general. Selim summed it up - unknowingly - for me when he said, "It's strange to put a face to someone you've only spoken to by email." And I had to kind of shrug and say, well, I knew what you looked like...
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