"The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase" (113). I'd like for you all to consider that comment, particularly in light of Schleiermacher, Borges, Jakobson, and Eco. For haven't most of them championed translations that defy literalness, that even presuppose its impossibility (or at least illegibility)? What particular baggage does Nabokov (an emigre' Russian polyglot and literary provocateur) bring to bear on this argument? What does he mean, for example, by a literal translation's supposed "use" value? What, in other words, lurks behind that comment? What does it tell us about Nabokov's theories of translation?
So, the thing that killed me about Nabokov, was the fact that the man was a tennis pro in France, a translator and writer in three languages (Russian, French and English), and an amateur butterfly collector (or something like that.) That baggage, the knowledge of so many things, is what Nabokov brings to this argument of literality. For him, it seems that so much of translation comes from learning about what is happening and giving that to his reader. He brings up the question of “can a translation…keep the form of the original, its rhythm and its rhyme” while being faithful to the whole text (119). He believes it can happen, since above that question he mentions the idea that literal translation is redundant because anything that is not literal is not a translation. I think, for Nabokov, the translation is supposed to bring the reader into the world of the writer. Footnotes are utilized to explain things to the reader, since twentieth century English readers would not understand aspects of ancient Greek works. I think his idea of a literal translation’s use value speaks to what it offers the culture it is going into. For instance, the use value of a Dante translation would only work if it was a literal translation with numerous footnotes about the allusions and references. The translation’s use directly correlates to what it teaches a culture. That’s the reason for footnotes. That’s the reason for literality. That’s the reason behind usefulness. Everyone else (translators) don’t teach us with their translations because they make translations too accessible by already shifting the piece to fit the culture. Mary Jo Bang and Nabokov wouldn’t get along at all.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Junkyard Post Four Week Three
In the church of St. Ignatius there is a painting in the left chapel by the door. I don't know the name,
or the painter, but what I do know, what I do see first, is the cherub in the bottom left corner, clutching the leg of the man closest to her. I can't help but stare at the blood red cloth covering her backside, as the white cloth of the man covers her face, blending into the flowers above her head.
I follow the cloth up to the haloed man's face, staring up at the cherubic group gathered around what looks to be a glowing post on a cloud. The other cherubs wave their hands and lie on clouds underneath the post, all but the one at the bottom. It's me.
I'm sitting in this chapel while all the other students are staring at a piece of artwork above them: the dome that's not a dome, Pozzo's fresco of the ascension of St. Ignatius, the four corners of the Earth, and I'm in the far left corner, huddled against a wooden pew. This piece, dark but welcoming, with the two centered men facing the audience, a space just for me, for you. I don't have to look too closely to see what's happening, unlike Pozzo's ceiling fresco I'm able to come close and see the feet of the men, see the astonishment on their faces, see the fallen crown in the bottom right.
To be that cherubic girl means I must sacrifice some happiness to be left here on the ground. To be that cherubic girl, I must veer off the road, veer into the corner where I watch the rest enjoy the art we must know, must feel. Half naked, stripped of the American "godliness," failing to ascend into Spoleto, or Rome's, eternal romanticism. Am I destined to cling to the leg and white robe of some haloed priest? Why can't I stand? Why can't she?
or the painter, but what I do know, what I do see first, is the cherub in the bottom left corner, clutching the leg of the man closest to her. I can't help but stare at the blood red cloth covering her backside, as the white cloth of the man covers her face, blending into the flowers above her head.
I follow the cloth up to the haloed man's face, staring up at the cherubic group gathered around what looks to be a glowing post on a cloud. The other cherubs wave their hands and lie on clouds underneath the post, all but the one at the bottom. It's me.
I'm sitting in this chapel while all the other students are staring at a piece of artwork above them: the dome that's not a dome, Pozzo's fresco of the ascension of St. Ignatius, the four corners of the Earth, and I'm in the far left corner, huddled against a wooden pew. This piece, dark but welcoming, with the two centered men facing the audience, a space just for me, for you. I don't have to look too closely to see what's happening, unlike Pozzo's ceiling fresco I'm able to come close and see the feet of the men, see the astonishment on their faces, see the fallen crown in the bottom right.
To be that cherubic girl means I must sacrifice some happiness to be left here on the ground. To be that cherubic girl, I must veer off the road, veer into the corner where I watch the rest enjoy the art we must know, must feel. Half naked, stripped of the American "godliness," failing to ascend into Spoleto, or Rome's, eternal romanticism. Am I destined to cling to the leg and white robe of some haloed priest? Why can't I stand? Why can't she?
Response to Blog Week Three
This is in response to Gabby's post here.
Original Post:
Yes or no,
take my hand or let me go.
Careless grasps and empty
words have made me feel like i'm
the only one who's hurt.
I'm sorry.
Blame me and we can move on.
"It's not you it's me" is what I've heard for so long.
But it's not.
You were the one who cheated,
or have you forgot?
Pulling me this way and that,
feeling the venom of your love
paralyze me while i gasp for a breath
when my chest is caving, sinking.
I love you.
That's what you told me
but how can that be so when
i'm holding on for dear life and your
barely even touching,
me that is.
So don't throw shade into my face
and give me a fake embrace.
"It's not you it's me".
"It's not you it's me"
But you're wrong, because it is me.
I gave you something desperately,
and yet you couldn't see how strong I clung.
I held on to you like nothing else had meaning except to see
you smile like the sun.
I gave my soul to someone who had conditional love.
I was the fool, not you.
I am a queen and I deserve to be cherished
and put first,
Not thrown in the alley like scraps that cats
can scratch and match their trash with.
Never again can you turn this sunlight blue.
So let me tell you something baby,
I don't deserve you.
My Response:
Gabby,
This piece is extremely intriguing because it’s got a clear sense of narrative. It’s very telling, in a good way: in the way that allows the reader access into this personal experience. Now, however, it is time to think about inserting images for the narrative. One place I can see a cool image occurring: “I’m holding on for dear life and you’re/ barely even touching.” What happens if this turns into some image of animals or an instance you’ve seen outside in Italy? Think about what kinds of images might punch harder than narrative. I’m really interested in the “don’t throw shade into my face/and give me a fake embrace.” Is shade the literal shade from a tree? That’s a really cool image that I think might be expanded upon…you could play with the idea of being in the shade of mountains or something like that. Also, I love the images that you pull at the end: “not thrown in the alley like scraps that cats/can scratch and match their trash with./ Never again can you turn this sunlight blue.” I think the most intriguing part of that image is turning sunlight blue. I have no idea what that means, but I love it. So, basically what I’m saying is: allow yourself more of the opportunities to be surprising. Allow your narrative to dive off a cliff and do something super crazy. I’m working on that myself…I like control and little wrapped up packages of poems and I’m working on surprising myself and the reader. You do it with your images. So bring more images in and let them talk as well.
Original Post:
Yes or no,
take my hand or let me go.
Careless grasps and empty
words have made me feel like i'm
the only one who's hurt.
I'm sorry.
Blame me and we can move on.
"It's not you it's me" is what I've heard for so long.
But it's not.
You were the one who cheated,
or have you forgot?
Pulling me this way and that,
feeling the venom of your love
paralyze me while i gasp for a breath
when my chest is caving, sinking.
I love you.
That's what you told me
but how can that be so when
i'm holding on for dear life and your
barely even touching,
me that is.
So don't throw shade into my face
and give me a fake embrace.
"It's not you it's me".
"It's not you it's me"
But you're wrong, because it is me.
I gave you something desperately,
and yet you couldn't see how strong I clung.
I held on to you like nothing else had meaning except to see
you smile like the sun.
I gave my soul to someone who had conditional love.
I was the fool, not you.
I am a queen and I deserve to be cherished
and put first,
Not thrown in the alley like scraps that cats
can scratch and match their trash with.
Never again can you turn this sunlight blue.
So let me tell you something baby,
I don't deserve you.
My Response:
Gabby,
This piece is extremely intriguing because it’s got a clear sense of narrative. It’s very telling, in a good way: in the way that allows the reader access into this personal experience. Now, however, it is time to think about inserting images for the narrative. One place I can see a cool image occurring: “I’m holding on for dear life and you’re/ barely even touching.” What happens if this turns into some image of animals or an instance you’ve seen outside in Italy? Think about what kinds of images might punch harder than narrative. I’m really interested in the “don’t throw shade into my face/and give me a fake embrace.” Is shade the literal shade from a tree? That’s a really cool image that I think might be expanded upon…you could play with the idea of being in the shade of mountains or something like that. Also, I love the images that you pull at the end: “not thrown in the alley like scraps that cats/can scratch and match their trash with./ Never again can you turn this sunlight blue.” I think the most intriguing part of that image is turning sunlight blue. I have no idea what that means, but I love it. So, basically what I’m saying is: allow yourself more of the opportunities to be surprising. Allow your narrative to dive off a cliff and do something super crazy. I’m working on that myself…I like control and little wrapped up packages of poems and I’m working on surprising myself and the reader. You do it with your images. So bring more images in and let them talk as well.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Reportage Post One Week Three
This originally was a prose-ish reportage post, but turned into a poem...I'm justifying it as reportage because it lays out things I've witnessed this week.
Translating Italian
While you're standing in line
at the one fast food place,
I sit, waiting for you and your friends,
dressed in running shorts and wife beaters,
to finish ordering pizza and cheeseburgers
in Charleston accented Italian and leave.
I know enough Italian to know that you don't know
enough. I'm all about voyeurism these days.
We're all observing a life we're not supposed to.
All allowing ourselves to be a part of some Carravaggio,
like the "Burial of St. Lucy," and the grave diggers
of Spoleto aren't letting you in, unlike me.
It's all about respect here. All about that outfit of black,
the costume of provincial life that the teenagers can't grasp.
I walked past a man with a Frosted Flakes shirt and yellow
jeans, something you can't buy for less that 89 euro here.
The city blocks it's own from economic prosperity.
Stuck in limbo, between city and country, Spoleto
and I waver--not American, but not fully Italian,
stripped of whatever culture I'm supposed to be defined by,
not quite naked, but not covered in the cotton of Thailand
either. It's a charade, like the one we played in language class,
where I pulled scrivere and started to scribble waves of blue
on the board. Can you guess the word, the translation, and
the person I'm supposed to be after this?
Translating Italian
While you're standing in line
at the one fast food place,
I sit, waiting for you and your friends,
dressed in running shorts and wife beaters,
to finish ordering pizza and cheeseburgers
in Charleston accented Italian and leave.
I know enough Italian to know that you don't know
enough. I'm all about voyeurism these days.
We're all observing a life we're not supposed to.
All allowing ourselves to be a part of some Carravaggio,
like the "Burial of St. Lucy," and the grave diggers
of Spoleto aren't letting you in, unlike me.
It's all about respect here. All about that outfit of black,
the costume of provincial life that the teenagers can't grasp.
I walked past a man with a Frosted Flakes shirt and yellow
jeans, something you can't buy for less that 89 euro here.
The city blocks it's own from economic prosperity.
Stuck in limbo, between city and country, Spoleto
and I waver--not American, but not fully Italian,
stripped of whatever culture I'm supposed to be defined by,
not quite naked, but not covered in the cotton of Thailand
either. It's a charade, like the one we played in language class,
where I pulled scrivere and started to scribble waves of blue
on the board. Can you guess the word, the translation, and
the person I'm supposed to be after this?
Memory Post One Week Three
I'm not even in the car ten minutes when someone tells me I should stay an extra day.
I'm home for two nights to watch my sister walk across a stage
and become an adult, but all anyone cares about is who's going to sit where
and where I'm going to be staying. My parents, divorced a year, planned back to back
events. My grandparents, separated since my dad's 30's, brought their own travel buddies
and staying in separate camps. I cried myself to sleep that night.
Half from the anxiety of sitting cross legged in front of the gate to Atlanta
for three hours and half from the railroading in an Acura.
I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing, her calm in and out breath,
mirroring three years ago, when she watched me walk across a similar stage
on a similar field, and sitting in front of the similar turf the next morning,
wearing a red and black polka dotted dress and staring at a picture of me and my friend,
I'm not really here. I'm there, on the field at the 50 yard line, imagining college,
aching to be away from high school but not home. She's aching to be away from both,
but not me. I'm her rock, and she's mine. Remembering her feet off the ground, my hands
at her shoulders, screaming about some small s and t pronunciation, grates at me now.
Grateful for the separation, she runs to me, but I'm running to her, to that green gown
that clashes against her blue dress and my shoes, to that cap with an Alabama A.
I'm home for two nights to watch my sister walk across a stage
and become an adult, but all anyone cares about is who's going to sit where
and where I'm going to be staying. My parents, divorced a year, planned back to back
events. My grandparents, separated since my dad's 30's, brought their own travel buddies
and staying in separate camps. I cried myself to sleep that night.
Half from the anxiety of sitting cross legged in front of the gate to Atlanta
for three hours and half from the railroading in an Acura.
I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing, her calm in and out breath,
mirroring three years ago, when she watched me walk across a similar stage
on a similar field, and sitting in front of the similar turf the next morning,
wearing a red and black polka dotted dress and staring at a picture of me and my friend,
I'm not really here. I'm there, on the field at the 50 yard line, imagining college,
aching to be away from high school but not home. She's aching to be away from both,
but not me. I'm her rock, and she's mine. Remembering her feet off the ground, my hands
at her shoulders, screaming about some small s and t pronunciation, grates at me now.
Grateful for the separation, she runs to me, but I'm running to her, to that green gown
that clashes against her blue dress and my shoes, to that cap with an Alabama A.
Translation Problem Week Three: Article
My original Italian:
"A Venezia mi accorgo di uno stato d'inversione di quasi tutti gli elementi. Mi è difficile distinguere tra ciò che esiste e ciò che sembra un'illusione, un'apparizione. Tutto mi sembra instabile, mutevole. Le strade non sono solide. Le case sembrano galleggiare. La nebbia può rendere invisible l'architettura. L'acqua alta può allagare una piazza. I canali rispecchiano una versione inesistente della città."
A translation:
"I notice a state of inversion for almost all the elements in Venice. It is difficult for me to distinguish between what exists and what seems to be an illusion, an apparition. All seems unstable, changing. The streets are not solid. The houses seem to float. The fog can render the architecture invisible. The high water floods the piazza. The canals reflect a non-existent version of the city."
What I find most interesting about this piece is that the words are extremely easy to translate (if I ended up doing this correctly). Yes, I did utilize some online dictionary action, but for the most part, I just read this and recognized a few things. Some of my classmates and I were talking about how Jhumpa Lahiri's writing style is very simplistic and easy to understand. It makes it easy to translate because not a whole lot is complicated. What I found most interesting while translating was the fact that she writes very poetically while still maintaining comprehension with the languages. I admire this for many reasons: one being that, as a creative writer, I imagine that meaning is easily lost in translation, but I don't believe that occurs. I found this piece, as I've said before, easily translatable, and I believe it is because she translates her own work, or at least that is what I remember being prefaced to this assignment. She is able to modulate the work herself, so that might aid to the translation's accessibility.
"A Venezia mi accorgo di uno stato d'inversione di quasi tutti gli elementi. Mi è difficile distinguere tra ciò che esiste e ciò che sembra un'illusione, un'apparizione. Tutto mi sembra instabile, mutevole. Le strade non sono solide. Le case sembrano galleggiare. La nebbia può rendere invisible l'architettura. L'acqua alta può allagare una piazza. I canali rispecchiano una versione inesistente della città."
A translation:
"I notice a state of inversion for almost all the elements in Venice. It is difficult for me to distinguish between what exists and what seems to be an illusion, an apparition. All seems unstable, changing. The streets are not solid. The houses seem to float. The fog can render the architecture invisible. The high water floods the piazza. The canals reflect a non-existent version of the city."
What I find most interesting about this piece is that the words are extremely easy to translate (if I ended up doing this correctly). Yes, I did utilize some online dictionary action, but for the most part, I just read this and recognized a few things. Some of my classmates and I were talking about how Jhumpa Lahiri's writing style is very simplistic and easy to understand. It makes it easy to translate because not a whole lot is complicated. What I found most interesting while translating was the fact that she writes very poetically while still maintaining comprehension with the languages. I admire this for many reasons: one being that, as a creative writer, I imagine that meaning is easily lost in translation, but I don't believe that occurs. I found this piece, as I've said before, easily translatable, and I believe it is because she translates her own work, or at least that is what I remember being prefaced to this assignment. She is able to modulate the work herself, so that might aid to the translation's accessibility.
Translation Response Week Three
This is a response to Ashley's translation problem from last week regarding Moira Egan's back-translation project. Find the whole post here.
" Parthenocissus tricuspidata
I see another
tree in the dark garden and
I think it must be
a weeping willow,
but when I ask, he says: No,
it is a laurel
bound in an immense tangle
of ivy that from it is hung.
one that does not do
harm to the host, but hangs
symbiotically, and that’s enough
for posing poetic.
There goes
another dismal illusion,
I say, and he laughs. "
My response:
I find a lot of the choices here extremely interesting, especially what to do with lugubrious. I, too, changed the word because it sounded too clunky, too syllabic. But the interesting question here, is why we both kept “symbiotically” and not “lugubrious.” For me, “symbiotically” was much more of a technical term that offered more to the piece than “lugubrious.” It offered something about the speaker, that they would know a lot about symbiosis and how it works. But in the same sense, lugubrious does that as well. I liked the fact that you chose “dismal.” It offers another connotation to the illusion that one may not get from lugubrious. Dismal makes the darkness continue. It allows for a sense of sadness that comes from your word “tangle,” which I admire as well. Tangle and maze are two very different words and I like the confusion and frustration that comes from “tangle.” I kept “maze” because it made this relationship seem orderly, and that’s a reason why I chose “elegiac” to replace “lugubrious.” You mentioned changing to “tangle” for that chaotic connotation, but doesn’t that directly contradict the idea of symbiosis? The “pose poetic” was rough for me. I like what you did with the “posing poetic,” making it seem like it’s a facade, but that also kind of contradicts with tangle, while still working with dismal and symbiotically. I really admire the fact that you stayed really close to the transliteration. I think the poet in me tried to go crazy. I also admire the fact that you kept the title. I forgot all about the title, and I really enjoyed your rational for keeping it. Personally, I agree with the idea that it offers a commonality across all translations and languages. I like the fact that most languages derive from one…It makes everything seem so much more accessible and that, in a way, everything is within our reach.
" Parthenocissus tricuspidata
I see another
tree in the dark garden and
I think it must be
a weeping willow,
but when I ask, he says: No,
it is a laurel
bound in an immense tangle
of ivy that from it is hung.
one that does not do
harm to the host, but hangs
symbiotically, and that’s enough
for posing poetic.
There goes
another dismal illusion,
I say, and he laughs. "
My response:
I find a lot of the choices here extremely interesting, especially what to do with lugubrious. I, too, changed the word because it sounded too clunky, too syllabic. But the interesting question here, is why we both kept “symbiotically” and not “lugubrious.” For me, “symbiotically” was much more of a technical term that offered more to the piece than “lugubrious.” It offered something about the speaker, that they would know a lot about symbiosis and how it works. But in the same sense, lugubrious does that as well. I liked the fact that you chose “dismal.” It offers another connotation to the illusion that one may not get from lugubrious. Dismal makes the darkness continue. It allows for a sense of sadness that comes from your word “tangle,” which I admire as well. Tangle and maze are two very different words and I like the confusion and frustration that comes from “tangle.” I kept “maze” because it made this relationship seem orderly, and that’s a reason why I chose “elegiac” to replace “lugubrious.” You mentioned changing to “tangle” for that chaotic connotation, but doesn’t that directly contradict the idea of symbiosis? The “pose poetic” was rough for me. I like what you did with the “posing poetic,” making it seem like it’s a facade, but that also kind of contradicts with tangle, while still working with dismal and symbiotically. I really admire the fact that you stayed really close to the transliteration. I think the poet in me tried to go crazy. I also admire the fact that you kept the title. I forgot all about the title, and I really enjoyed your rational for keeping it. Personally, I agree with the idea that it offers a commonality across all translations and languages. I like the fact that most languages derive from one…It makes everything seem so much more accessible and that, in a way, everything is within our reach.
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