Haiku
I’ve always found the act of translating Japanese poetry to be one of immense difficulty. Perhaps it’s due mainly in part to my studies being focused on prose, thus giving me a weaker foundation when it comes to understanding poetry in the first place. Still, I believe that two of the most important aspects of Japanese poetry, more specifically haiku and tanka, are the atmosphere and aesthetic principles which govern the pieces. Translating those alone is a monumental task in and of itself, not even taking into account the linguistic challenges.
Machi Tawara’s use of both classical and contemporary language in her tanka reminds us that poetry is as much about reinvention as it is about preservation. It also highlights one of the central challenges of translation: how do we render not just the words, but the layered nuances, intertextual echoes, and historical resonances embedded within a poem? With forms like haiku and tanka, where brevity is paramount, this challenge becomes even more pronounced. What gets carried over? What remains untranslatable?
Matsuo Bashō’s work often hinges on subtle natural imagery, seasonal references, and the evocative power of empty space. When these poems are translated, some of their essence risks being lost. Not just in meaning, but in rhythm, visual shape, and cultural subtext. Yet, as Beichman notes, haiku’s minimalist nature allows for expansive interpretation. A single image, an octopus pot, for instance, can spark a range of associations, even for those who have never encountered one. It is for this same reason that I resented the use of English onomatopoeia when translating his famous “Old Pond” haiku.
Juliet Winters Carpenter’s points made me reflect on how much shape matters in poetry. Would Bashō’s haiku have the same impact if they were printed in block paragraphs? The choices a translator makes, from formatting to word choice, ultimately shape how the poem lives in a new language.
The Vegetarian
The question of fidelity in translation is fascinating. What does it mean to be "faithful" to a text? Faithful to whom? The author? The original language? The intended audience? The cultural context? Fidelity in translation is never simply a one-to-one exchange of words. It's an interpretative act.
When Deborah Smith’s translation of The Vegetarian was scrutinized, she was said to have altered key elements of the text; smoothed out the rawness of Kang’s prose, amplified feminist themes, and omitted certain nuances. Critics labeled these as betrayals, while others argued that such transformations are an inherent part of the translation process.
At first glance, it may seem that a translator’s primary duty is to adhere as closely as possible to the original work. But as many translation scholars and practitioners argue, a strict adherence to linguistic fidelity can sometimes miss the deeper, emotional, or thematic truths of a text. Although, as we saw through the deeper dive into Smith’s translation, there are cases of translators taking this idea too far, bringing to light the idea of a translation versus an adaptation.
Yet, translation doesn’t happen in a vacuum. The global literary market is dominated by English-language publishing, which means translations are often shaped by the demands and expectations of Western audiences. This raises critical questions: When translators adjust texts to be more "palatable" or "accessible" to English-speaking readers, are they making the work more widely available or are they distorting it to fit dominant cultural norms?
Translation is not a mechanical process, nor is it purely an act of fidelity; it is an act of creation. S.K. Yoon describes translation as a process that inherently involves rewriting, adapting, and interpreting. The idea that a translator is merely a neutral vessel could never be true in practice. It wholly ignores the work and creativity involved in rendering one linguistic and cultural reality into another.
All in all, while I personally believe Smith’s translation to break cardinal rules of my personal translator’s code, it does raise many intriguing questions surrounding the job of the translator and the power they hold.
Nineteen Ways
Lydia Davis in her essay Loaf or Hot-Water Bottle offers an intimate look at the translation process, full of self-awareness and even contradiction. She admits to early missteps in her approach to translating Proust, recognizing the limitations of her own reading and interpretation. This kind of vulnerability is admirable in discussions of translation, where the pressure to produce a “faithful” or “correct” version often overshadows the deeply human aspects of the process. Davis' willingness to reveal her own doubts and decisions reminds us that translation is not about mathematical precision. It’s about judgment, intuition, and compromise.
In Nineteen Ways of Looking at Wang Wei, we see this idea reinforced by exposing the nuances of how meaning shifts depending on the translator’s choices. Weinberger critiques some versions for inserting too much of the translator’s own interpretation, yet he favors others that take similar liberties. This raises an important question: Can translation ever be truly objective? If interpretation is inherently personal, then every translation is an act of subjectivity, one that reveals as much about the translator as it does about the original text.
This ongoing evolution of translation is what makes it such a rich field of study. Returning to a text over and over, across decades and centuries, allows us to see how language, culture, and literary values shift over time. The act of retranslating, rather than being a sign of failure, is a testament to the enduring complexity of the original work. No single version can ever fully encapsulate a text’s meaning, but each attempt brings us closer to a fuller understanding.
Evan
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