Devil's Advocate

Here's a not-so-popular idea: translators should have the visibility of editors, not authors.

There was a whole uproar on a literary translators forum a while back about an article in the NYTimes, where David Gordon, an mid-range American author wrote about his strange and unexpected success in Japan. Translators were getting their panties all in a twist because said author never once mentioned his translator, who was probably single-handedly responsible for said Japanese success. Some even took him to task on his own blog for it, where he responded quite gracefully:

My translator's name is Aoki Chizuru and I certainly have thanked her, in person, in print and in public, in English and in Japanese, and have also expressed gratitude when receiving the awards for those who even made it possible for me to read the books I loved from Japan and elsewhere. She translated my second book as well and is working on the third. So don't worry!

Either way, it sparked a couple of comments from translators lamenting about the fact that authors and reviewers not only didn't mention their translators in print, but editors were also left out.

Editors are pretty much universally left out. As are publishing houses. And agents. And publicists. And foreign rights directors. All the damn time.

Far from being something to moan and whine about, this is instead just the normal course of business. There are always the players in the limelight, and the dozens of other people behind each one of them that makes everything happen. And it's not just in the book industry, either. How many producers do you know in the music industry, besides Brian Eno and Timbaland? How often are screenwriters publicly thanked and acknowledged for their work, besides the credits at the end of a movie and the Academy Awards (and even then, those awards might not be shown in the main broadcast)? How many times have you wandered through an old European city without knowing the names of any of the artists who sculpted the half-naked marble beauties in the park?

I'm not arguing that translators do unimportant work. Far from it. Translation is some of the most important artistic work out there, if such things can even be ranked on some sort of scale. But how do you compare a translator's importance and artistic merit with the original author? Or with an editor's influence?

And what if, as was mentioned in one of my classes recently, a book reviewer is working with an extremely limited word count -- 500 words, maybe even 300, a mere blurb. Feel free to take such reviewers to task if the translator's name is not mentioned in the metadata listing of the book, but if the translator gets glossed over in such a bite-sized review, it's not such a crime, really.

Related to that, there was a time when PEN's Translation Committee sent strongly-worded letters condemning a reviewer if they neglected to mention the translator in their review. Far from bringing about the expected change, many reviewers bristled quite a bit at such an attack. Their reasoning was that at least they were reviewing any translations in the first place. Which is a fair point.

There's a time and a place to thank everyone involved in a bringing a book to life, and hopefully, everyone all gets their proper due. But normally, the spotlight is fixed entirely on the author and his or her words, no matter how much revising or rewriting or writing their editor actually did throughout the whole process. Why should translators be treated any differently?

Whew. End thought experiment. For now.

(Disclaimer: as you can probably figure out by the title, I'm playing devil's advocate here. I'm not at all convinced by my own argument, but it's an interesting idea.)

(Also, there are plenty of articles out there playing rebuttal to this. See Words Without Borders and Asymptote's blog to start.)

Next Idea in Reviewing Translations

How in the world does one actually review translations?

I think the better question is, why is this such a hard question?

I propose a new way of reviewing translations, by considering two questions:

FIRST: Is the book a good book, in a vacuum?
Does it weather the normal storm of questions asked when reviewing a "normal" book, the questions of style, pleasure of reading, intriguing ideas, and the like?
The trick when answering this question is to credit both the author and translator with any successes and pitfalls. Although the translator has less influence over certain aspects (like plot and general structure), both writers are still responsible for the book in the translated form you are reviewing. Credit them both.

SECOND: How important is this text, in the context of the target language's literature, the source language's literature, and literature as a whole?
Again, this is a similar question to what is asked of "normal" books. How does it fit into the grand literary tradition? Does it introduce something new, is it heavily influenced by other works, is it a breath of fresh air or a clever reinterpretation of something else?
Granted, the middle part of this question may be difficult for some reviewers to answer regarding some books. I myself have no idea what the state of literature is in Kazakhstan, but I also have the ability to use Google, and might be able to figure it out in less than five minutes.

I guess what it boils down to is that I am very confused as to why translations have to be treated differently than a country's own fiction. Why does the exoticism of translated literature scare people away, when we have writers like Zoë Wicomb, Kiran Desai, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie writing IN ENGLISH about their "exotic" experiences from South Africa, India, and Nigeria, respectively, including italicized foreign words in their manuscripts that readers do actually learn to understand, and garnering both critical and popular acclaim?

Look. Translated books are just like regular books, except they have two (or more) writers to thank for either their brilliance or their failures.

Or is this overly simple, too simple? Is there more to it than just this?

Review Up on Three Percent

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.

Leadership

When I was a freshman in high school, we were shepherded into the auditorium one day to convince us why we a) shouldn't drop out of school, and b) should actually try, should put forth some degree of effort to succeed. Now, I didn't need any convincing. Earlier, in grade school -- at a time when I feel like most kids should have still liked school -- one of the class troublemakers had taken a highly official class poll when the teacher had been called out of the room: who actually likes school?

I was one of two who had raised my hand, purely on instinct. I was shocked.

(The second, another girl, had advanced to Regionals in the Spelling Bee that year.)

So in our high school auditorium, I was the choir that the program was preaching to.

But there was one part of the program that was slightly interesting, if only for the visual it presented. They called ten random volunteers up on stage and lined them all up. "Imagine these ten people join a club next week, at the beginning of their freshman year." I don't remember if they specified a club. Let's say fencing, because I've always wanted to learn fencing. Also, fencing = awesome. "These ten people are all going to join fencing. They represent all of you, 100% of freshman joining some club or team."

Then, they had three of them step back. "Only 70% of you will still be in that club by October."

Two more stepped back. "Only 50% of you will still be fencing by Christmas break."

Two more stepped back. "Only three out of ten of you, 30%, will still be fencing at the beginning of your sophomore year."

"And what about by senior year? That's a long ways away. Let's pick one of you at random." A boy holding his baseball cap, a defiant nod to the no-hats dress code policy.

"By senior year, you start taking on a leadership role. You'll help out with the club, even become its president, or be team captain of your fencing squad." Now it's a team? Whatever. "But that will be less than 10% of you. We just can't cut this young man into pieces to show it."

(That's only on average, though, of course. Some of my friends and classmates were captain of Varsity Golf, president of Speech team, and first chair cello, all at the same time. W00t, go us, right?)

"So, why is this important? If you step up and take a leadership role in a club or team, your college applications will stand out from the crowd. It'll make you look great when you're applying to your dream school." Sigh. You're not allowed to screw up in high school, because your life will be ruined.

But they were all talking about college . . . no one mentioned life. Leadership roles in high school (and, let's be honest, college) do so much more than help you get into your dream school. It's a trial run for how to deal with things that come up when you invariably lead new organizations as an adult. When you have to make decisions that impact other people, in the real world. When you have some semblance of power, that you're actually expected to use, even if you still feel like you're faking your way through your entire career.

Turns out, all the months as president of my high school women's rights group (which was awesome, thank you very much) was actually preparing me for life. Who knew.

Feeling Dumb

Recently, there was a forum conversation on the precise meaning of "Tu parles!" as an exclamation. This is something I heard quite often the last time I was in France, being around two adolescent boys (or rather, being around the mother of two adolescent boys), so I know what it means.

"Dude, you're gonna ace that test!" "Oh, tu parles! My science teacher gives the hardest tests, this is gonna be rough."

"Mom, I'm going outside!" "Tu parles! Not without your coat, you're not!"

I know how to use this phrase. So does almost everyone else who speaks French on that forum.

But then, as we started talking about it, we came up with about two dozen different translations for it. High register, low register, sarcastic, joking, ironic, disbelieving, scoffing, wishful... By the end, we all ended up more discouraged than anything else. I kept reading through everyone's responses again and again, thinking, do I really know how to speak French at all??

That's how translation works, though. You read a word that you know, you know what it means...just not in that particular context. You find a word that you could use everyday in any foreign conversation, but you have no idea how to express the same thought in English. Or you drag out your thesaurus to read through all the synonyms of "indolent," only to decide that the best word for the circumstance is "lazy." Nothing fancier.

Do really know how to speak English?

The debate rages on.

Holiday Haul

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!

RIP André Schiffrin

André Schiffrin, a pioneer of independent publishing, has passed away.

There's a NYTimes obit, but I like this one from Melville House better.

This man left a profound imprint on the entire world of publishing, in more ways than I could possibly list. But most importantly for this translator's story, he founded The New Press with Diane Wachtell (now its executive director). The two of them decided that it was important to publish good books as an independent press, but they also decided that it was important to help young people get into the publishing industry. Hundreds of people have gone through their internship program, starting with the woman who first got me interested in translation, Emmanuelle Ertel.

I got my turn from Nov. 2011 to Mar. 2012, and it's the reason I know anything at all about how publishing works. It's why I had the opportunity to receive guidance while writing my first reader's report. It's how I found the contacts to get my foot in the door at a rich handful of other publishing houses and agencies. It's how I've gotten jobs, and learned how to act as a writer and translator so that your editor (and managing editor and accountant and production head and everyone else) doesn't hate you.

I also was privileged enough to work a couple of TNP shindigs that André and his wife hosted at their apartment in New York City. Even if I hadn't known the man, his penthouse apartment would have been legacy enough. There were no walls. Well, no bare walls. Every single wall -- including part of the kitchen, and except for the formal salon -- was made of bookshelves. Sagging bookshelves, crammed with everything he ever wrote or edited or studied or published or enjoyed, in several languages. My then-fiancé was so impressed that it's become a permanent part of our dream house.

So, André, although I knew you for a very brief time, and although you probably didn't remember my name (but you would have remembered that I spoke French), and although we weren't close colleagues or good friends or even from the same era, you have my deepest gratitude and utmost appreciation for everything you did for me and for all of us in translation and publishing. Thank you. Rest in peace.

Not here today, either.

Guys, grad school is tough. End-of-semester is starting to kick my little patootie.

Anyway. ELTNA is still going strong, and word is spreading! I guest-posted on Lisa Carter's fabulous Intralingo recently about how it all got started and what we're hoping to do.

And why don't you check out some of her other posts while you're there? This one and this one are some of my personal favorites.

See you on the flipside.

Not here today.

But on Tuesday, I was writing over on Three Percent about a particularly wonderful panel during last month's ALTA conference. It's all about awesome Japanese sound poetry. Go check it out!

I never knew.

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?