Sunshine Abroad
I wrote a review of the really gorgeously written and translated "To the Spring, by Night" recently. It's by Seyhmus Dagtekin, translated by Donald Winkler. The review is up at Three Percent. Go check it out!
Hopefully, it persuades you to read the book. Because it's a really good book.
Oh hello there, stranger. Happy merry holidays!
St. Jerome was very good to me this year. (What? St. Nicholas can't have the monopoly on Christmas, especially where translators are concerned.) As usual, I got books, books, and more books. Also, the promise of books--apparently, two more (two!) are still en route. The ones that have already arrived are stacked neatly in descending size order on my desk, with two titles upside down: the French ones.
Curious? Here they are, from largest surface area to smallest:
Stylistique comparée du français et de l'anglais, Vinay et Darbelnet (review in English here)
Beyond Words: Translating the World, ed. by Susan Ouriou, from the Banff Centre
The Sonnets: Translating and Rewriting Shakespeare, ed. by Cohen and Legault
The above awesome book, from my thesis author.
Insiders' French: Beyond the Dictionary, Eleanor Levieux and Michel Levieux (example entries here)
Logodaedaly, or, Sleight of Words, Erzsébet Gilbert
Some of these books have been on my I-want-more-money-so-I-can-buy-all-these-books list for months, or even a couple of years. Here's to winter break and the ability to read as much as I want!
I loved them all so well. Moon Child, the gem, the dragon, the musty bookshop, the fire dashing from the sphinx's eyes, and the letters, the wordplay, the child of three B's, the old man of three C's, each chapter begun with the elaborately-drawn next letter in the alphabet...
"The Neverending Story" was one of my favorite books as a child. I crawled under my desk on the second reading to be like Bastian, curled up in the gym mats in the school attic. I made lists of character names for every letter in the alphabet. I tried to craft my own world for a neverending story. I cried. So many times.
It was probably the first exposure I had (or consciously remembered having) to meta-literature, reading about reading, being stuck in an endless loop of recording and reciting with the Old Man of Wandering Mountain.
But in all the dozens of times that I read and loved this (by now very well-worn) book, I never knew.
Guys...
Friends, Romans, countrymen...
Dear readers...
This book is a translation.
Yes. A translation. From German into English, by a man named Ralph Manheim.
This is why translations are important. Because a little girl who reads voraciously will fall in love with one of the greatest stories ever written, and will love the characters and the magical places, and will notice the language--the way the story is told--for the first time. And it will be the beginning of her wish to avoid movies based on books, because she'll realize that she can't bear to see someone else's imagination take the place of her own. And she'll learn how to notice more things, after it takes her at least five readings to see the two snakes from the cover of The Neverending Story on the cover of her own copy of "The Neverending Story."
And through all of that, she'll never notice it was a translation. Never stop to consider that it might be bad, or lesser, because it wasn't originally written in English. Because the mastery of the translator and the mastery of the author combine forces to make a brilliant book. And even though she's shocked, frankly rattled to the core fifteen years later when she discovers that this book has been all along what she now practices, that her eyes as a child must have skipped over the translator's name on the cover (ON THE COVER! of a Penguin book!) in favor of Bastian on the dragon in Fantastica, it only makes her more pleased. Here, finally, is the proof that translations can and do sell. Publishers will understand that, right?
Right?
The Genesee Country Village and Museum is awesome.
Just putting that out there.
I finally got to go see the historic village yesterday for the Smithsonian Magazine Museum Day , and I learned so much in three hours about life in the 18th and 19th centuries in Western NY. The most interesting bit to many people (including Mr. C) was the Civil-War-era replica of the Intrepid, a helium balloon used by the army.
The most interesting bit to me was the printing press.
Courtesy of the Genesee Country Village and Museum
Of course it was fascinating: the history of an industry that led to my own career, the typeset itself, kerning...everything. (On a side note: search Google for "kerning" and enjoy. You won't be disappointed.)
But something the printer said surprised me...and then again, it didn't. He explained that being a printer was a white-collar job, much like a doctor or lawyer of the day. But unlike those other white-collar jobs, there was no profit in printing. A printer did his work out of a sense of duty to his neighbors and fellow townsfolk, to bring them the local, national, and even international news that they would never otherwise receive.
Huh. Sounds a bit like today's publishing and journalism, doesn't it?
I showed up to Open Letter's first fall event in their Reading the World Conversation Series (more info about the next free event on Oct. 1 here, if you're in or near Rochester) . Chad Post, Open Letter's director and soccer aficionado, had warned me that his guest, the French author Jean-Marie Blas de Roblès, spoke English fine, but might need a little help.
I hadn't realized that was code for "Allison, you should grab a mic and sit on stage with us to interpret as necessary."
It's no secret that I will never be a professional interpreter. I'm too much of a perfectionist, and I don't think quickly enough on my feet. Both well-known facts. At least to me. The world at large must have missed that memo.
Because there I was, sitting on a little elevated platform with a warm, funny, and world-renowned French author, trying to keep up with Chad's rapid-fire English and catch any sudden switches of Jean-Marie's speech from halting English to fluid French, fielding questions from the audience. And none of it was perfect.
But it was good enough.
It didn't matter that I gave two or three English choices for the one French word Jean-Marie queried me on. It didn't matter that I didn't have more context than "La preuve est...?" because the odds of "preuve" being "proof" were heavily in my favor. It didn't even matter that I couldn't perform as a professional interpreter would, because in the end, he didn't really need me. I was there as a crutch, a cushion, a smiling safety net. And if that provided enough comfort for him to tell his wonderful stories of falsified biographies, hypocritical publishers, and thinly-veiled dick jokes, then I did my job right.
Still, I'm not ever going to add "interpreting" to my list of professional skills. I have too much respect and awe-filled admiration for interpreters to do that.
Two unpaid interns sued Fox. And won.
Yep, it's true. As this Washington Post article describes:
"a federal judge in New York ruled this week that Fox Searchlight Pictures violated minimum wage and overtime laws by not paying interns who worked on production of the 2010 movie 'Black Swan.'"
Now of course, this ruling could get overturned by a higher court. Don't think for an instant that Fox won't appeal the ruling.
But for the moment, let's discuss another facet of the ruling; namely, the current legal test for employers to determine if their interns can go unpaid (from The Atlantic, emphasis mine:)
On first glance, these criteria seem entirely reasonable. But then we have internships with publishers. If employers are required to gain no advantages from the interns' work, then would interns be allowed to use and hone their writing skills in such a position? Because in a good publishing internship...
And what about other creative internships? Journalism, graphic design, anything with creating copy or images. It's all fine and well to have interns practice creating such things, but it just makes more sense to let them practice on real projects. Higher stakes, more realistic working environment, and undoubtedly better guidance, as their work reflects directly on their boss.
Unpaid internships are unquestionably abused by some employers, but the line between useful and exploitative is a bit murky. By these criteria, the only unpaid internship I ever worked would have been illegal. Except it was not only the best job I ever had, but it gave me an invaluable wealth of experience and connections for the publishing industry. You can't get that in many places.
Granted, the only reason that internship at The New Press was unpaid was because I worked it after the economy crashed, when they almost had to shutter their entire press. But they didn't. They still hired interns, gave them a travel stipend, and fed them lunch once a week for a seminar. And they were committed to starting to pay interns again as soon as possible.
As it happens, they've delivered. If you're looking for a publishing internship in NYC, go apply here.
There's no way this book could be that bad. One of my best friends, a great reader who also happens to be an indie bookseller, recommended it to me. Maybe I'm just really tired and thick-skulled right now. I'm sure it'll get better in the next chapter.
Seriously?? Am I really reading this?! These characters are so flat I can't picture them in my head, little details are being introduced for no reason, the exposition is too dramatic for what follows, the sentences are simple enough a fourth-grader could understand everything, even the explicit and highly inelegant sex, and oh my God now there's Internet dating. I can't read this. You can't make me!
If I can just finish the next five pages, the writing will get better. This cliche has already been used twice, so the next time will be the last. Maybe if I skim ahead to part three, I'll skip all the stuff that's putting me to sleep.
Why? Why does this book exist? It's 11pm on a Friday night and I'm curled up alone in my bed reading a book I don't like. What have I done with my life? What has this author done with her life? Oh no...she's from the town next to my hometown. Its reputation is now ruined. And I can't do anything about that. How did this author even get published? *sobs*
Option #1: Yep. Screw this. The book is actually just that bad. Bye-bye. See ya. It is gingerly placed back on a shelf, never to be touched again. At least not before the next yard sale/book swap/donation.
Option #2: Yep. Just a bad book. Oh well. I'm already two-thirds of the way through. May as well finish it.
UPDATED FOR 2021
As important as it is for literary translators to read widely in their source languages, French literary magazines are hard to find in the States. Pretty thin on the ground. ("Just generally pretty trim," as Eddie Izzard would say.) I found several magazines and literary reviews the last time I was living in France in 2013, but a lot has changed since then. And on the other hand, the Internet is even more wonderful, and there are many things that are now much easier to find, read, or subscribe to online.
After reading many things, over many years, please allow me to present to you my highly skewed, biased, and unscientific reviews:
Still running
Welcome to the weird times that are the plague years. Here’s a fun result: these first two magazines have merged! “LiRE magazine littéraire” now lives online here. And it’s pretty good. (Original reviews here:)
LiRE (March issue): This magazine has it all. Released by the same company as L'Express (a weekly news magazine), it's bursting with news, features, thematic segments, reviews, five excerpts from upcoming novels, a couple interviews, and editorial content. It covers French books, foreign books, historical non-fiction, scientific books, essays, graphic novels, YA and children's lit, paperbacks, the works. And everything in this issue is well-written, engaging, varied, intelligent, and well-thought-out, no matter how short. It should be extremely useful both in following industry trends and reading new fiction.
Le Magazine Littéraire (March issue): Maybe I shouldn't have read this directly after LiRE. All I could do was compare the two, as they both purport to serve the same purpose...and this one fell at the other end of the spectrum. The content wasn't as varied. There was only one excerpt, and it was middling. The news seemed stale, or not expansive enough, or devoid of emotion. The thematic content (this month: vampires....wheee.....) overshadowed everything else, and didn't leave enough room for what I really cared about. Even the layout was grating. I was disappointed when I tossed it into the trash can (no recycling here), but not too sad.
Longcours (Spring issue): A very pretty, thick journal. But, as I realized when I started reading it, dedicated almost exclusively to long-form journalism. Very well-done long-form journalism, from what I've read. But only one short story. And although it was fascinating, that one thing is not enough to warrant a subscription. Still, I'll be flipping through it whenever I walk into a French bookstore.
XXI (Winter issue): Ditto the above, with a heavy sigh. Really well-done long-form journalism (has apparently won scads of awards), including graphic novel journalism, but not what I'm looking for right now. Kudos to them on their Manifesto for a new media, though (if you understand French, it's a good read).
A new tip from commenter Jason: Transfuge, which as he says, has “lots of interviews with artists whose work I then seek out.” It is really well done! I think I’m in love with their covers.
New arrivals
As my focus has become more Francophone than just French, so too have my reading practices. The good folks at Boutique Laterit have been invaluable in actually being able to get some of these gems to my door in the States. (And not just magazines, either! Books, DVDs, graphic novels, music… They’re really wonderful. Go buy things from them.)
Indigo Magazine (4 issues so far): A magazine of Madagascar, Réunion, and the rest of the Indian Ocean. Books, art, theater, poetry, culture in general…it’s packed with interviews, criticism, and creative works. It’s beautiful and has some powerhouse editors behind it. Well worth the cost.
Lettres de Lémurie (also 4 issues so far): Begun in 2018 by Malagasy-Réunnionais-French publishing house Dodo vole, it is perfect. (Perfect for me, at least. Maybe just perfect in general?) All literature, all Indian Ocean, French and Malagasy and Créole and translations, publishing new and already-successful authors alongside each other, with the most gorgeous covers… It’s the best. If you want to support the publication of the latest issue, check out their crowdfunding page.
The party’s over
Le Tigre ended in early 2015. But all their archives are STILL free online!
Le Tigre (March issue): This is an interesting magazine. I almost didn't grab a copy because their editorial mission includes the warning that they don't publish fiction. But no matter; this is a fantastic selection of artistic prowess. Wordplay, photojournalism, illustrations, and twisted essays thrive alongside each other. One spread takes a roadmap, marks out a few towns that have "real word" names, and makes sentences out of them, haunting and sad. I've also just discovered that all their archives are free online. Looks like I won't be reachable for the next week while I read ALL OF THEM.
Oof, friends, this was a hard one. Muze ended in 2009, tried a new format the following year, and ended for good in 2017. And now its publisher is…ultra-religious? I miss Muze.
Muze (Spring issue, April-June): Oh, how lovely this thick tome. Technically a female-oriented cultural revue, this journal really has its finger on the pulse of life. It seems. Everything includes a healthy dose of analysis, which I started skimming when it turned too philosophical, but it doesn't detract from the wonderful behind-the-scenes look we get at every single topic the journal undertakes. Every theme includes current happenings, cultural tie-ins, movies, psychology, art, poems, and fiction. And the physical thing is a beauty to behold. The cover is even embossed. A tactile and visual dream. Definitely going on the list of not-expensive-enough-to-prevent-me-from-ordering-an-international-subscription.
What else, friends? I’ve been stuck at home for two years now, so there has to be more that I don’t know. What have you found?
If you found this post helpful, you can buy me a tea (although it might say “coffee”).
You and I have been partners for a long time. Some might even say friends. (Maybe frenemies.) But we have a decent, cordial, mutually respectful relationship, and have for years. But enough with the formalities. You and I need to have a heart-to-heart. Right here, right now.
See, there are times when I feel you're limiting me. Like you're cornering me into a little box of conventions and traditions, of the way it's always been done, perhaps even the way it's supposed to be done. Says you. I come to you with a question, an open-ended question. This is not a yes or no, black or white question. There are shades of beautiful gray, shadows in the dark and streams of dust-filled light. This question invites research, discussion, discovery. I'm looking for the many different facets and shades of meaning, the many different turns and tunes of how to say something, how to sing or mumble or cry or shout or threaten something, in my own tongue. I come to you on my knees, ready to learn.
And lately, it seems that you see this delicate and luxurious Fabergé egg that I present before you, a treasured gift on a velvet pillow, and you just slap it out of my hand. And then you shove a dull cube of lead in front of my face, and I almost choke on this unimaginative, unpolished lump. Too familiar. I've seen it dozens of times before. The one word that is the only possible translation of this word I've brought before you.
But no. No. NO! Never! There is not ever only one right answer! This translation I am doing, it is not a machine, a mechanized process that takes input and spits out deadened, predetermined outputs out, day in and day out, forever until the end of time, never changing, never growing, never creating things of beauty. This is a creative process, a process of creation, of breathing new life into something already lovely, of using a new prism of clear cut glass to catch the sunlight in a new way and spurt forth new colors to send out into the world, scattering and dancing as they go. This is not a process of boxing in, of limiting the possibilities, but one of springing the lock on Pandora's box, and watching as all the wonderful and strange and unknown and terrifying and beautiful things go flying out of your control.
The paths that have been trodden before me are good, and solid, and reliable, and have their place. I pad and stomp over them often myself. But you must not build fences of cold steel and barbed wire, penning me in from ever leaving them! I will be forced to break free, tearing down the iron gates much as I tear apart your whisper thin papyrus sheets.
So I will slam you shut, and I will shove you off of the table in a fit of frustration, and I will curse as I stub my own toes in an attempt to injure your pages and your pride.
And yet.
Although. Still.
As it happens, lumps of lead can be beautiful, too...if combined in a new way, stacked on top of each other in precariously swaying towers, sculpting the likeness of a new creature that no one has ever seen before, nor even imagined. Even as a limited and limiting tool, you are useful. Of constant, and yes, essential use.
We shall remain partners.
Warily and forever yours,
Allison
P.S. I did not originally mean for this to be an ode to this creative process, something dearly loved. I have learned something new, that you are inspirational in a muse-like way I did not imagine before. You still have some surprises and tricks up your binding.
or: I'm glad I don't have to be an investigative journalist, when there's plenty of other people who will happily do that for me
Everyone in the publishing industry has been hearing about Bookish for quite some time. It had gone through a lot of leadership changes (3 CEO's before even launching?), but it finally went live a couple of months ago.
For the blissfully unaware, it was supposed to end up replacing Amazon and Goodreads, giving people a new/better/different/sparkling way to discover and share books. But it's not homegrown or built around the community like Goodreads, and it's nowhere near vast enough to rival Amazon's scope.
Also, there's a bigger problem that people have been complaining about: conflict of interest. Bookish's editorial team is supposed to be completely neutral and open to anything, thus making it easy for people to discover books they otherwise wouldn't. But Bookish is run by three of the Bix 6 publishers (the mega-houses that have all the books and all the clout): Simon & Schuster, Hachette, and Penguin.
Peter Winkler started talking about it over at Huffington Post:
"The exclusive author content Bookish offers, consisting of canned interviews with authors, book excerpts, and short essays, which gets refreshed periodically, is invariably written by or about authors whose books are published by Hachette Book Group, Penguin Group, and Simon & Schuster, or one of their imprints."
But the cooler part was when The Digital Reader picked it up. Winkler hopped over to thank them for picking up his story, but then Rebecca Wright showed up, and started defending Bookish. Which makes sense, because she's their executive editor.
Go there, scroll down, and read the comment exchange. It's pretty cordial, and she convinced me not to out and out hate Bookish.
I personally still won't be using the site anytime soon -- look, I just got on Twitter last autumn, and I'm barely on Goodreads yet; I can only do one social media site at a time -- but if they actually manage to diversify their content, like Wright is claiming they already are, then it won't be terrible. Benefit of the doubt, people.
