Friday, 18 July 2008
That List... and Advice for Neophyte Literary Translators
Top US translation person Esther Allen has added her take on the UK Translators' Association list of fifty outstanding translations at the Guardian's book blog. She's not the first person to comment on this list by far, so I'd say it's certainly achieved the aim of provoking debate.
My favourite bit in Allen's piece is this:
The British list of top translations includes many, many American names, some of them overwhelming me with nostalgia: (...) the astonishingly polyglot Michael Henry Heim, whose enormous talent and generosity has inspired generation after generation...
I'm with her all the way there - Michael Henry Heim once sent insignificant little me a wonderful little document entitled "Advice to neophyte literary translators". And I am hugely impressed by what I've read of his translations. For more advice, neophyte literary translators could also look at the "Translators' Tips" at no man's land.
My favourite bit in Allen's piece is this:
The British list of top translations includes many, many American names, some of them overwhelming me with nostalgia: (...) the astonishingly polyglot Michael Henry Heim, whose enormous talent and generosity has inspired generation after generation...
I'm with her all the way there - Michael Henry Heim once sent insignificant little me a wonderful little document entitled "Advice to neophyte literary translators". And I am hugely impressed by what I've read of his translations. For more advice, neophyte literary translators could also look at the "Translators' Tips" at no man's land.
Bribery or Subsidy?
Remember that forthcoming collection of extracts from the German Book Prize longlist I mentioned? Well it turns out they asked the German publishers to pay a "voluntary" contribution towards the printing costs - but only if their book ended up on the longlist. Begging the question, of course, of what they would have done if anyone refused to pay.
But the publishers kicked up a stink - and rightly too - and now the organisation behind the Book Prize has decided to scrap that print costs subsidy. The book will be free in selected bookshops (which do have to pay...).
But the publishers kicked up a stink - and rightly too - and now the organisation behind the Book Prize has decided to scrap that print costs subsidy. The book will be free in selected bookshops (which do have to pay...).
In Other Words
Estelle Gilson has written an interesting piece for the Boston Globe on the art of literary translation, focusing on "that easy Italian pun, 'traduttore/traditore,' by which the world knows us. Toss the term into Google and it turns up a website that declares: 'Translator, you're a traitor!'" Interestingly, she points out that War and Peace has been translated into English 12 times over the past 140 years.
Translators in Germany, at least, can get a bit touchy about these re-translations. They argue that nobody re-writes Goethe, so why is it general consensus that translations "age" and become dated? I suspect a secret desire to render oneself immortal with a "definitive" translation of a certain work might be behind this argument. But whatever the reason, I think it's wrong. Because firstly, as Estelle points out, writers, directors and dramatists do of course re-jig Mozart, Shakespeare and Dante all the time. And secondly, as she also says, there can be no perfect translation.
She also touches on the way our expectations of literary translation have changed over the years, using the example of Constance Garnett. Nowadays, no one but the most romantic soul would expect a literary translator to work among the buzzing of bees in a beautiful garden, as D.H. Lawrence leads us to believe Garnett did. Nor would we expect translators to skip parts, clean up the dialogue or smooth texts over. But this was all standard practice until fairly recently - the first German translations of Shakespeare by Schlegel and Tieck being prime examples. Yet these Romantic and Victorian translations remain the only quotable versions we have, as they were "good enough" to establish Shakespeare, Tolstoy and many others outside their own languages.
Now, of course, literary translators are true professionals with years of training and experience, working under the pressure of market conditions but with the advantages that technology offers us. We can research at the touch of a button or simply ask a range of native speakers around the world if we come across something we don't understand. If we are puzzled by an architectural description or a botanical detail, we can call up a photo to help us get to grips with it. We have excellent dictionaries for many languages and if we are re-translating, we also have the benefit of being able to look at how those before us have dealt with the text. So it's three cheers for modern life from me - and I even know one translator who genuinely does work in his garden, albeit on a laptop with wireless LAN.
Translators in Germany, at least, can get a bit touchy about these re-translations. They argue that nobody re-writes Goethe, so why is it general consensus that translations "age" and become dated? I suspect a secret desire to render oneself immortal with a "definitive" translation of a certain work might be behind this argument. But whatever the reason, I think it's wrong. Because firstly, as Estelle points out, writers, directors and dramatists do of course re-jig Mozart, Shakespeare and Dante all the time. And secondly, as she also says, there can be no perfect translation.
She also touches on the way our expectations of literary translation have changed over the years, using the example of Constance Garnett. Nowadays, no one but the most romantic soul would expect a literary translator to work among the buzzing of bees in a beautiful garden, as D.H. Lawrence leads us to believe Garnett did. Nor would we expect translators to skip parts, clean up the dialogue or smooth texts over. But this was all standard practice until fairly recently - the first German translations of Shakespeare by Schlegel and Tieck being prime examples. Yet these Romantic and Victorian translations remain the only quotable versions we have, as they were "good enough" to establish Shakespeare, Tolstoy and many others outside their own languages.
Now, of course, literary translators are true professionals with years of training and experience, working under the pressure of market conditions but with the advantages that technology offers us. We can research at the touch of a button or simply ask a range of native speakers around the world if we come across something we don't understand. If we are puzzled by an architectural description or a botanical detail, we can call up a photo to help us get to grips with it. We have excellent dictionaries for many languages and if we are re-translating, we also have the benefit of being able to look at how those before us have dealt with the text. So it's three cheers for modern life from me - and I even know one translator who genuinely does work in his garden, albeit on a laptop with wireless LAN.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Julia Franck, Anthea Bell and the Silly Season
The school holidays have started in Berlin, officially ringing in the silly season - or the "summer hole" as German-spakers call it. I rather like the idea of us all falling into some gaping chasm entirely free from news and culture as the summer unfolds. In fact, a lot of the papers in Germany (and the UK) are recommending light summer reading, but the Tagesspiegel has gone against the grain with its seasonal lit-supplement Alpha. Unfortunately it doesn't seem to be available online.
But never mind. Along with a profile of Cees Noteboom and six beautifully illustrated pages of international crime writing tips, they've run a piece by last year's German Book Prize winner Julia Franck. Entitled My Life as a Nomad, the essay basically lists all the different places in Berlin where Franck has lived since she was born and explains how she came to be there and what they were like. She certainly has moved around a lot. What struck me was how open and apparently honest and revealing she is.
Particularly at the beginning, a picture shines through between the lines of a busy mother who had little time for her children - yet Franck never accuses her mother of treating her and her sisters badly. These were different times, after all - Franck is originally from East Germany, where working mothers were the norm and children's homes flourished. And it would be all too easy to join the chorus of "bad mother" cries that some Germans like to launch into at every opportunity - perhaps a legacy from the days of the Mother's Cross and certainly the bane of many working mothers' lives here. In Franck's writing, mothers don't tend to come off too well - particularly in Die Mittagsfrau, where there are two mothers who don't fit into the roles society allots them. The novel looks for explanations, although not exonerations, for these womens' behaviour, and is a fascinating read. The Alpha piece should be available online in a longer version (plus audio) at Literaturport from 24 July.
By the way, a couple of regional papers have also reported on a fasinating seminar that's just taken place at the EUK in Straelen (watch out for the crude national stereotyping in that linked article though - "schmachtet der Bulgare" - good God). Franck met up with eighteen translators working on the book. One of whom, of course, is my idol Anthea Bell. It looks like the English title will be The Blind Side of the Heart, rather than the carefully researched Lady Midday (sigh). I can't help thinking it sounds slightly Barbara Cartland-ish, but at least people will understand what it means. Apparently even German readers have trouble with the title, which refers to a mythical Sorbian lady in white. And at least they rejected The Lunch Lady.
Unfortunately, none of the articles go into great detail, presumably because the journalists didn't spend three days following the conversation. So I'm feeling all hard done-by and miserable now. I'd love to hear from anyone who attended the reading at the local high school though...
But never mind. Along with a profile of Cees Noteboom and six beautifully illustrated pages of international crime writing tips, they've run a piece by last year's German Book Prize winner Julia Franck. Entitled My Life as a Nomad, the essay basically lists all the different places in Berlin where Franck has lived since she was born and explains how she came to be there and what they were like. She certainly has moved around a lot. What struck me was how open and apparently honest and revealing she is.
Particularly at the beginning, a picture shines through between the lines of a busy mother who had little time for her children - yet Franck never accuses her mother of treating her and her sisters badly. These were different times, after all - Franck is originally from East Germany, where working mothers were the norm and children's homes flourished. And it would be all too easy to join the chorus of "bad mother" cries that some Germans like to launch into at every opportunity - perhaps a legacy from the days of the Mother's Cross and certainly the bane of many working mothers' lives here. In Franck's writing, mothers don't tend to come off too well - particularly in Die Mittagsfrau, where there are two mothers who don't fit into the roles society allots them. The novel looks for explanations, although not exonerations, for these womens' behaviour, and is a fascinating read. The Alpha piece should be available online in a longer version (plus audio) at Literaturport from 24 July.
By the way, a couple of regional papers have also reported on a fasinating seminar that's just taken place at the EUK in Straelen (watch out for the crude national stereotyping in that linked article though - "schmachtet der Bulgare" - good God). Franck met up with eighteen translators working on the book. One of whom, of course, is my idol Anthea Bell. It looks like the English title will be The Blind Side of the Heart, rather than the carefully researched Lady Midday (sigh). I can't help thinking it sounds slightly Barbara Cartland-ish, but at least people will understand what it means. Apparently even German readers have trouble with the title, which refers to a mythical Sorbian lady in white. And at least they rejected The Lunch Lady.
Unfortunately, none of the articles go into great detail, presumably because the journalists didn't spend three days following the conversation. So I'm feeling all hard done-by and miserable now. I'd love to hear from anyone who attended the reading at the local high school though...
Friday, 11 July 2008
Wetlands on Stage
A brief virtual flick through Bild (not a newspaper, it's official) shows three new "stories" about their favourite bugbear, Charlotte Roche's Wetlands. First off, it's going to be adapted for the stage in Halle. The director is quoted: "If it's sex you're after don't go to the theatre. You're better off having it at home." A wise woman. I'd adapt that slightly to "If it's novels you're after..." after seeing a very dull adaptation of Raul Zelik's Berliner Verhältnisse on stage. At one point I amused myself by pulling faces at the actors.
Next, readers have voted for who could play the leading role. I don't know who the "scandal noodle" is who won this dubious honour, though.
And finally, Roger Willemsen has slagged Charlotte Roche off - apparently. The author, whose book An Afghan Journey comes out in paperback in September (trans. Stefan Tobler), calls Wetlands "the most disgusting book by a long way" that he knows. He doesn't find it erotic at all.
I suspect Bild might be twisting the guy's words ever so slightly, not that they'd do that kind of thing on purpose, of course. Why do I think this? Well, it's just the small fact that Willemsen is quoted on the back of the actual book in question. Here's what he says:
Radical, drastic and just as tender. I can't recall having a debut manuscript in my hands as self-assured, as courageous and as full of the present day as this.
Someone is getting a wee bit muddled, I suspect.
Next, readers have voted for who could play the leading role. I don't know who the "scandal noodle" is who won this dubious honour, though.
And finally, Roger Willemsen has slagged Charlotte Roche off - apparently. The author, whose book An Afghan Journey comes out in paperback in September (trans. Stefan Tobler), calls Wetlands "the most disgusting book by a long way" that he knows. He doesn't find it erotic at all.
I suspect Bild might be twisting the guy's words ever so slightly, not that they'd do that kind of thing on purpose, of course. Why do I think this? Well, it's just the small fact that Willemsen is quoted on the back of the actual book in question. Here's what he says:
Radical, drastic and just as tender. I can't recall having a debut manuscript in my hands as self-assured, as courageous and as full of the present day as this.
Someone is getting a wee bit muddled, I suspect.
Trojanow Again
Speak of the devil... that Ilija Trojanow gets everywhere these days. The really rather excellent Booktrust translated fiction website now has an interview with him online, conducted by the site's editor James Smith. Asked why he thinks British readers are, ahem, slow to catch onto foreign-language writing, he gives the perfect answer:
The polite answer would be: as with the cuisine it takes time to discover and cherish the marvels of the diverse. And the impolite: a postcolonial mindset that still harbours illusions of grandeur and superiority. But then again, without the imported literatures within the English language, there wouldn’t be that much of a British literature to talk about. Forgive me, AL Kennedy!
You tell 'em, Ilija! (or Iliya, as he now seems to be transliterated)
The polite answer would be: as with the cuisine it takes time to discover and cherish the marvels of the diverse. And the impolite: a postcolonial mindset that still harbours illusions of grandeur and superiority. But then again, without the imported literatures within the English language, there wouldn’t be that much of a British literature to talk about. Forgive me, AL Kennedy!
You tell 'em, Ilija! (or Iliya, as he now seems to be transliterated)
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