Poetry's "parasitical in-law, translation"

Clare Cavanagh's "The Art of Losing" is a beautiful ode to translation as a process of trying. She reminds us that there is a lot to be gained, in addition to lost, when translating poetry. So what if it's impossible?

Her final analogy of her son's game of running around covered in a blanket, laughing when he hits a wall, as a lesson about enjoying the failures as much as the process, reminds us of the poetic nature of translation, and existing within and outside of its confines.

Cavanagh's writing is light, and it is enjoyable, so it reflects her ideas of what translation should be. It seems that in these theories we read, the translators who write about translation as a more strict process, lose this lightness, and perhaps lose the image of translation as art. However, as Cavanagh would remind us, those translators would have also gained other aspects to their writing in the process.

- Lila

Poetry as Translation: Translation as Poetry

 While I am not a poet myself, the closing paragraph of Cavanagh's article touched on one aspect of translation in relation to creative writing that I have previously struggled to articulate. She mentions "the impulse that drives one to try" after "you see a wonderful thing in front of you and you want it". While Cavanagh uses these ideas to connect the motivations for translating poetry to those for writing poetry, this comparison also resonated with my experiences writing vs. translating fiction. The writer is grasping at something, at their inspiration; for the translator that inspiration is the source text, while for the author that may be less definable. But in both circumstances one approaches the empty document with the same will, the same "impulse that drives one to try" to translate that sense, that mental image of the work they are trying to create. Essentially, as Cavanagh says, translation is just as impossible as any other creative act.

The article about the French translations of Szymborska's poetry confronted me with my own lingering prejudices towards translated poetry. Despite everything I have learned, I avert my eyes from the world literature section at the bookstore like an ex at a party. How do you change someone's mind about translated poetry? How do you change a country's mind about translated poetry? I think the exception to this case would be cultures where poetry is already inherently avant-garde and inaccessible such that translated poetry would simply extend this trend.

Grace Ashton

Landscape of Loss: The Personal is Universal?

Landscape of Loss: The Personal is Universal?

by Meghan Miraglia

 

In workshop last semester, one of our poetry professors made a comment about poetry and translation. They said something along the lines of, “The end goal is to have your poetry translated into other languages. That’s how you know it is great.”

I’m not sure how I feel about this sentiment, but I was reminded of these words when I came across this quote from Piotr Wojciechowski from this week’s reading: “[Wislawa Szymborska’s] poetry…was as if made to be translated, […] it [was] a deep penetration into human situations, full of wit and at the same time philosophical reflection.”

In my attempt to cerebrally knit these thoughts together, I wonder if “the point” is to write poetry that, like Szymborska’s, deals with “universal” themes – things that all humans are haunted/consumed by. Passion, grief, anger, joy, despair. I suppose most poetry is, in its own way, universal. The personal is political; the personal is universal. In specificity, there is universality.

I’ve been thinking a lot about form, too. I spoke with a new poet friend over break, and we discussed my skepticism of form, which I often link to conservativism, “tradition”, patriarchy, and control. Also a feminist, my poet friend suggested that learning the rules is necessary in order to break them. I take this to mean, I must understand the tradition I’m “talking back to.” I agree.

To that end, I very much liked Cavanagh’s thesis that, in modern Polish poetry, the lyric is a trauma response of sorts, “creating lyric forms to take the place of the domestic shapes and human habitations shattered by one atrocity or another” (6). Another poet friend of mine once titled a project “Forms of Shelter” because she found she was using forms to make sense of nonsense. Last semester, I wrote a poem in syllabics (alternating between lines of 7 and 9 syllables before the “volta”, after which, all lines were something like 8 syllables each); I used the form because the content was too emotionally troubling for me to explore in free-verse. I needed the scaffold. I needed the habitation, the shelter, the domestic shape.

As I’ve progressed in my final project, I’ve found this statement by Cavanagh too true: “translating poetry is impossible: all the best things are” (12). Whatever I lose in the process of translating (and, I also believe, in the process of writing) is a gain. Loss generates "creative possibility" (8); I find myself meandering through Cameron's "landscape of lost things" (8), wandering, always, toward a poem. Running, always, into myself (or the very thing I was too afraid to face. And often, these are the same things).

The Art of Losing

 I continually appreciate the reality check: there is no such thing as a perfect translation. There is a continual loss in the space of translation, but it makes it no less worthy or important of a task. The distinction between "faithful" and "literal" continues to be a helpful conversation as well. This notion of loss and gain, and faithful being far more accommodating than we may have anticipated, seems to tie in with how much we seem to like "correcting" translations or making them "better." I think of the over 20 ways a singular Wang Wei poem was translated amongst all the poems and texts that have been translated over and over and over again. If a translation was perfect, there would be no need for new attempts, or if people understood a text in the same way, perhaps a single translation would do, but because of the nuances of language (and its continued evolution that continues to spark modernized translations), the invitation is extended to try again and to capture a different angle of the piece. 

I think another part of translation is how it inspires new work. It was cool to hear about Baranczak and how he translated Bishop's "One Art" and then used that form to work within his own language, not just in translation. It's kind of a two-for-one deal, in a way. I find myself experiencing a similar kind of inspiration as I have been working on my own translation project, which I think is a really cool side effect! 

Lauren

Nabokov Continued: Authority in Translation

I found this week's readings incredibly interesting, specifically in how they provided more insight into Nabokov's personal philosophy when it comes to translation and writing. While he was the staunchest advocate for strict fidelity with the source text, in his correspondence with Pertzoff, he makes several changes to the original which seem to directly oppose that idea. This presents a fascinating question-- seeing as Nabokov himself is the one rewriting this, does this really oppose his philosophy of fidelity? After all, he's the original author. While many aspects of the translation rewritten by him would seem to go against his desire for 1:1 accuracy, given the fact that the original author is the one rewriting these things, it could be argued that he is creating a new original. This is discussed heavily in conversations of self-translation where a bilingual author translates their own work into another language and in the process of doing so, makes hefty changes to their work. Is this still a translation? Or is this just a furthered version of the original text?

I thought this paired very well with the Kundera reading as well, discussing "authority" in translation. These collaborations between the author and the translator can serve to create something that perhaps even transcends translation entirely.

-Evan

The author as both limiter and freer

I have previously considered translation theory as considering loyalty to the authors of the original works, but these readings made me think about loyalty to the authority of the translator. While I believe that access to the author of the original work opens up a world of understanding of the original language that could not begin to be grasped otherwise, a lack of access to the author frees the translator's abilities and thoughts in the target language and culture. 

It is a nuanced consideration. Seeing the correspondence between Nabokov and Pertzoff made me feel a little cramped for Pertzoff. It remained Nabokov's work, but then what was Pertzoff's role in it all? I understand Bensoussan's quote in the Vanderschelden reading: "Translators work better when the author is not present" (25) as much as I understand Levine's "I wouldn't be accused of profaning a sacred script, because the author himself would be the first traditore" (26). If a translation is always a new work by the translator, then there has to be a limit to the role of the original author, unless the original author wants to be their own translator.

It's clear that translating is an emotional process that requires a lot of confidence in oneself to make the right choices, and having the author as a resource is a tool but not the solution for an effective translation. 

-Lila

Conflict or Collaboration?

 

Vanderschelden’s “Authority in Literary Translation” explores the varying levels of authorial involvement, ranging from minimal interest to complete engagement. Some authors, like Marguerite Duras, adopt a non-possessive perspective, viewing the translated text as belonging to the new language context and becoming “another book.” In contrast, authors such as Andre Brink choose not to interfere, believing that the target text is the property of the translator.

The correspondence between Vladimir Nabokov and Peter A. Pertzoff, detailed in “Nabokov: Letters to the American Translator,” serves as a compelling example of intense authorial involvement. Nabokov’s approach, which he famously referred to as “dragonizing,” involved extensively revising Pertzoff’s literal translations, sometimes rewriting up to 80 percent of the text. This illustrates a significant level of control and a clear vision of how he wanted his work to be represented in English. Nabokov’s detailed directives, including a request for a “precise and competent translation,” underscore his commitment to maintaining both accuracy and stylistic elegance in the English versions of his stories.

Vanderschelden’s article further examines the concept of “authority” in translation, highlighting its dual connotation related to authorship and a more dictatorial power. Milan Kundera’s response to an “unfaithful” English translation of The Joke, which led him to veto its sale and personally revise subsequent translations, exemplifies a firm assertion of authorial authority. He even regarded revised French translations as holding “the same level of authority as the original.” However, the relationship between authors and translators is not always characterized by strict control. Many instances reveal collaboration and mutual respect. Authors may provide clarifications, discuss translation strategies, and share insights into their intentions. The article cites several examples of such partnerships, including Thomas Mann and Helen Lowe-Porter, Umberto Eco and William Weaver, and Jorge Luis Borges and Norman Thomas di Giovanni. These collaborations often evolve into personal friendships, fostering a cooperative environment.

The benefits of author-translator collaboration can be quite substantial. Such partnerships can lead to greater accuracy, a better understanding of the author’s intentions and style, and a reduction in errors. Authors can offer invaluable references and clarify ambiguities, saving the translator considerable research time. William Weaver’s experience translating Umberto Eco illustrates this advantage—Eco provided sources and even encouraged deviations from the literal text to enhance the English flow.

 

 

 

 

 

Despite the benefits, authorial intervention raises questions regarding the translator’s status and autonomy. Translators may feel embarrassed or relegated to a secondary role in the presence of the author. The perception that the author knows best can create a dynamic where the translator’s independent interpretations and creative contributions may be undervalued.

Interestingly, some authors, like Borges, view translation as a “more advanced stage of writing.” His collaborative work with di Giovanni involved significant rewriting and adaptation, occasionally resulting in changes to the original Spanish text. This perspective challenges the conventional view of translation as a derivative work and highlights the potential for the author and translator to co-create a new, equally authoritative text.

To sum up, the author-translator relationship is a dynamic and complex interplay of power, collaboration, and creative interpretation. While some authors exert strong control to ensure fidelity to their original vision, others embrace a collaborative approach, recognizing the translator’s crucial role in bridging linguistic and cultural divides. 

                                                                                                                                        ~Ibrahim