Lost and found in translation, 2006 Video, 700k |
Previous | 1 of 2 | Next |
|
|
small (250x250 max)
medium (500x500 max)
large ( > 500x500)
Full Resolution
|
This page
All
Subset |
-
Lost and found in translation, 2006 Video, 700k
File Format:
Link to Web File
There is no text for this item.
Object Description
| Rating | |
| Title | Lost and found in translation, Iowa City Public Library, September 22, 2006 |
| Creator |
Kareva, Doris Muiʺ Hinʻʺ, 1942- Çoçoli, Gentian, 1972- |
| Creator - Nationality |
Estonian Burmese Albanian |
| Contributor | Merrill, Christopher |
| Date Original | 2006-09-22 |
| Description | Doris Kareva discusses her belief that literary translation is akin to alchemy, being about creation and recreation, and that transformation is only possible through passionate people taking on texts that are absolutely necessary for them to translate. Moe Hein speaks about how good translation blesses language, going beyond the mere challenge to teach someone what was previously unwritten in his or her own tongue. Gentian Çoçoli's relationship to translation has been shaped by the cultural oppression of Albania by communist powers in the second half of the 20th century, describing how his generation rediscovered the works of more than a thousand translators who were imprisoned due to the charge of translating Western authors, and how those translated works brought Albanians out of their cultural isolation. |
| Venue |
Iowa City Public Library |
| Geographic Subject | United States -- Iowa -- Iowa City |
| Chronological Subject | 2000-2010 |
| Transcription | Doris Kareva Lost and Found in Translation Translation seems to be an excellent metaphor for consciousness. From time immemorial, when we have been trying to understand and be understood, we have been trying to translate. Since different languages offer different possibilities, something always has to be lost in the process of translation—and sometimes, something can also be found. It even happens that, when being translated, the author discovers something within his or her text of which he or she was not aware before. For example, witnessing my poetry translated into a ballet by a Canadian choreographer, into music by a Dutch composer, and into a play by a Thai theatre group, was quite an amazing experience, reaching beyond not only the borders of language, but also of cultural expression. I truly believe that translating has an element of alchemy in it; it is complete transformation—or, as the alchemists say, transmutation. And it is not only the text that is transformed. Within the process something changes also in the translator. For translating is first and foremost a deep experience of understanding; therefore it has a strong transformative influence on the one who takes on the responsibility of translation. Needless to say, I am not speaking here about technical translation, or interpretation. The example of this, as the story goes, is that when testing the first translation machine, a sentence from the Bible: “The spirit is ready, but the flesh is weak,” was given for translation from English into Russian, and back again. The final sentence received was: “Vodka is good, but meat is rotten.” And sadly enough, translations like this occur very often. Sometimes they can even create a rather comical effect, as when “Bye-bye, baby, goodbye” is understood as “Buy, buy the infant, that's a great purchase!” However, there are much more subtle, yet no less sad misinterpretations. Like our fingerprints, our personal languages within any language, or idiolects, are unique. They contain vocabularies, intonations, rhythms and silences. In order to translate a literary text—particularly poetry—one must commit oneself quite like an actor does. One must let go of all habits and one’s ego. One has to enter the imaginary state of the mind of the author, to experience the urge to create this particular text as painfully and passionately as the author did—only then can he or she start with what is called translating. Translation is never about the words. It is not even about choosing between meaning and music, sacrificing one for the other. Translation is a creation, recreating something that has the same effect as the original. Mathematically, if A is the original text, and X is the language in which it written, B the translation, and Y the language into which it is translated, then B’s relation to Y has to equal A’s relation to X. That is, the translation’s relation to the language into which it has been translated has to equal the original text’s relation to its original language. Naturally, in order to achieve this, one has to thoroughly understand not only the language, but the cultural context. What is a very simple everyday phrase in one language may become grandiose or awkward, incorrectly symbolic or senseless, in the other language. For example, “sitting 1 in the sun,” in Estonian, is literally “sitting in the hand of the Sun;” “visiting someone” is going “into his or her root.” In poetry one can use everyday meaning blended with the metaphorical—but this double meaning is always puzzling for a translator, just as the use of various homonyms as puns is. However, the more challenging the process of translating poetry from one language to another is the more fascinating it is as well. It also takes a lot of empathy. One always has to consider which words the author would have chosen if he or she had the original author’s mother tongue as his or her tool. Sometimes, however, it is possible to achieve a good translation even if the translator does not know the original language. But then it takes two—the translator and an interpreter or transliterator—and good cooperation. If the author and translator share at least one common language it is possible to work together. Listening to how the author speaks, his or her tone of voice when reading, his or her explanations of the text, can give a very valuable insight into his or her poetry. Not always is the translator lucky enough to meet the author, so he or she has to rely on the written word, guessing all the time and discussing—even if only in his or her mind — the matter with various scholars who have done this before the translator or have shared common experiences and difficulties. I remember when I translated Shakespeare I could not help talking in his meter for months. At first people were puzzled, but then they got used to it and sometimes even replied in the same way. It was only when my body had adjusted itself to Shakespeare’s rhythm that I could talk and write naturally in it, and that puns came to my mind without thinking. This is what I call transformation—the same happens to actors. The character they have created continues to live on in their bodies. Like languages we have once learned and then forgotten, we may, all of a sudden, have flashes of remembering and understanding. For a time, even if only in our imagination, we have lived in the skin of the other writer and we will never be who we were before this experience. I am not a professional translator; I am a passionate one. And I really believe that such people—in Estonian we have a beautiful word for them, “lovers of the thing”—should only translate texts that are absolutely necessary for them to translate; that the particular text exists in his or her mother tongue must be of vital importance. Only then is transformation possible—or maybe only then should translation of a literary text be allowed at all. 2 Moe Hein Lost and Found in Translation Fortunately—or unfortunately—I have been assigned to speak on a broad topic titled, “Lost and Found in Translation.” Imagine the aspects I had to consider for this topic: the pleasures and challenges, the politics of writing and reading, global English. Wow! What a thing to scan in some 25 minutes or so. It was as if I had to measure Mount Everest with a 12” ruler. Anyhow, given the time frame, the most I can do is to put translation in a nutshell, and speak about it generally. Translation, to me, is the most challenging art of writing. During the presentation of the Truman Capote Award for Literary Criticism, in the introduction of the winner, Geoffrey Hartman, a statement was quoted: “Language illuminates literature, rather than literature illuminating theory.” If that is the case, may I add: translation illuminates language? And to go further, translation (if good) blesses language. Now, I am obliged to mention the great American novel, Gone with the Wind, which was penned by Margaret Mitchell, and translated into Burmese by the writer, Mya Than Tint. The translation was so well received that many fellow writers and critics praised Mya Than Tint, saying, “If Margaret Mitchell were alive today and understood Burmese, she would have definitely said, ‘Hey, this reads better.”’ Such can be the blessing of translation. It can be a pleasure indeed. That is the bright side. On the other side, translation is a path full of hurdles—challenges we may say. As you all know, the task of translation is to enable someone to know something previously unwritten in one’s own language. And the subjects—oh, they can be about anything from A to Z—they are very diverse. Translation takes a trio: the writer, the translator and the reader. People who have a good understanding of the original language can enjoy a text written in that language without much difficulty. But for someone who does not know the language the text is out of reach. So much depends on the skill of the translator, who will, of course, adopt, adapt or interpolate as according to each given case, offering many explanations. These explanations of the original come usually in the form of footnotes, provided so that the reader can understand very easily. The text’s settings, similar conditions (between the two cultures), environments, and similar thinking, all add to a greater understanding of the text. These are common characteristics of fellow beings that live in the same planet, and it is upon this that the translator capitalizes, making the reader entirely immersed in his work. The clearer the work; the better the reading. Credit should go to the translator for his painstaking work when the challenges are surmounted. Now come the challenges. There are several matters that make translation very hard. Sometimes the original is so subtle and profound that it is hard to understand even in one’s own language, let alone in another language. As a poet, I find it almost impossible to translate some Burmese poems of the classical type. I have to admit, I am at a loss for the words to represent the original. To use the nearest equivalent English word would amount to lessening the impact of the tone and tempo, as well as the atmosphere reflected in the original piece. The work is lost. And another thing, all the common pronouns: “you,” “I,” “he,” “she,” etc. used in English have no specific meaning other than to identify the person. But in Burmese, the pronouns 3 “you” and “I”, cannot be used in conversation or writing easily, in the way that “you” and “I” can be in English. We can’t talk to our parents, elders, and superiors, using “you” and “I.” This ethic has to be observed for polite address. So, when translating English into Burmese, we have to take into account a person’s age and social status. Needless to say, the pronunciations, syntax, semantics, etc. place hurdles in our path. There are things, though possible, that should not be translated, especially from novels. The social framework of our country—largely influenced by our culture and our religion—has no room for obscenity in literature. Western novels of the day lavishly entertain the reader with explicit sex scenes and vulgarity. When these novels are translated into Burmese the sex scenes and vulgarity are entirely omitted or toned down. Literature is regarded as public education, especially for the youth as a source of mental and physical progress. Moreover, Buddhism encourages education to attain knowledge from the fields of art and science; this is simply stated in the “Mingala Sutra”, the “38 Blessings.” Thus, in Burma, literature’s importance is measured more as a means of education and enlightenment than as a means of entertainment. Speaking of literature, I would also like to mention, with great pleasure and admiration, the writers who have translated American literature into Burmese. American literature is not alien to Burmese readers, but rather Burma is well-acquainted with the famous authors—to mention some: Edgar Allen Poe, Mark Twain, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Washington Irving, Herman Melville, O. Henry, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemmingway, Jack London, Upton Sinclair, Frost, Longfellow, and also the writers of the bestsellers of today. Since long ago, American works have caught the attention of our reading circles. The International Magazine, of which I am an advisor, has been featuring American authors and their works both in prose and poetry for many years. The Shwe Hin Thar publishing house has also translated a great number of American novels, publishing reinterpretations suitable for younger readers to study. This constant flow of translation enables the readers to know the background of American history and its society in general and all that shapes the America of today. Our Burmese works have also been translated into English. Here, as I am in America, please let me mention two books by my mother, Journal Kyaw Ma Ma Lay, which have been translated into English and published in America. The first is titled Not Out of Hate, translated by Margaret Aung-Thwin1. It is known to be the first Burmese novel to be translated into English and published outside of Burma (Myanmar). This novel offers a remarkable series of insights into the social history of the late colonial period and into the conflict between Western and Burmese cultures. The second one is Blood Bond, translated by Than Than Win2. This story is an indictment of war and what it does to individuals and societies. Never would I have dreamed that I would be in this country, America, where my mother’s work has become a subject for academic study. Coming back to the topic of translation, the next thing one should discuss is the politics of translation. One famous Burmese writer and journalist named Bhamo Tin Aung wrote, “Men are political creatures living in society, which cannot be free from politics.”—true enough. Literature reflects, or even represents, politics in one way or another—concerning 1 Edited by William H. Frederick and published in 1991 for the Center for International Studies by the Ohio University Press, Ohio University. 2 Center for Southeast Asian Studies, University of Hawaii, 2004. 4 the individual, then the nation, then the region, and further to a global level. Some people attempt to classify politics as “party-politics” and “national politics.” But politics is politics, and once it enters the literary field the demarcation disappears, centering only on man as a political creature, whatsoever the values and interests may be. Politics is a product of society; just as a translation is the product of a language. It is no wonder they merge frequently. I should also say that in countries where there is full freedom of expression, politics is explicit and heard aloud in all the media, and the writer is at liberty to exercise his work as he wills. But where there is too much censorship and hyper-sensitivity, virtually, either the ink entirely dries up or the words are softened—shrinking, twisting, and losing effect. As for global English, I have not much to say, only that although there is a great vogue for learning it, still “local English” will prevail for a long time, especially in the underdeveloped and developing countries if they cannot catch up with the “Information Technology Age,” I regret. 5 Gentian Çoçoli (Albania) Lost and Found in Translation The history of the written language of Albanian, as is maybe the history of many other languages, begins with a translation. It is just a partial translation from the Old and New Testaments of the Bible. This very important linguistic act modeled, in a way, the shape of all the future of the Albanian language, as well as its culture, its spirit, its identity, and its opportunity for a real dialog with the world around it. This fundamental act anticipated the cultural model that Albanians chose to have in their future. Despite being a small country, with a tragic history of wars, and the irony of fate in a wonderful geographic position, Albania has survived. Each epoch, Albanians found themselves shipwrecked, but at the end, alive—with their language, their land, their culture. In a long battle for the survival of their culture and identity, the great minds of the Albanian people found translation as a strong and secure arm. Clear-minded, with their persistent longing to be culturally European, our great illuminists discovered translation to be a most important key to being contemporary, and being part of the same cultural climate as their old continent. They realized a highly ambitious project: translation of great classics of philosophy and literature for a population that was less than a million habitants. But they had known that this cultural exchange—literature, arts, philosophy, science, religion—could keep the Albanian spirit alive and fresh. The darkest time for Albania was the second half of 20th century when the communists came to power. They chose isolation as the best tactic to hold their power for as long of a time as possible. Unfortunately it worked for fifty years. And it was a dark time, even for translation and translators. More than one thousand translators were imprisoned, absurdly, being accused of translating contemporary western authors. In their time, in prison, they furtively continued their old noble job, translating poets, classics, great mind of the past and present world culture. Their works never saw the light of publishing until the breakdown of communist power in 1990. But, alas, it was too late, most of them were dead or near death. It was our generation who rediscovered these translators and learned from them and honored them. We were isolated for more than fifty years from European and world culture To understand how isolated not just Albania, but all East Europe, was, it is worthy to mention what John Steinbeck said when he met and talked with some of most cultivated people in his visit to the Soviet Union: “Their English was so old fashioned it resembles the English of the Victorian epoch.” Watching how deep the gap between Albanian and Europe was dug over the years, what could the young generation, highly ambitious and talented, do for their life and for their future?—nothing less than what their ancestors did so well decades ago, redeeming the Albanian spirit, lost in the darkness of isolation: to translate, to write, to dialog with European and world culture. Indeed, in just fifteen years, twenty-four thousand titles were published in Albanian, which means eight new titles each day. (Today Albania has a population around three million 6 people). This is an extraordinary detail of what is happening in Albanian intellectual culture right now. In a way the cultural history of the 20th century was repeated in Albania in just fifteen years, the most important time to heal the wounds of isolation and to see towards Western values and civilization. So my generation, after so many years, discovered the pleasure of reading and the pleasure of translating, which is the deepest reading. We discovered great authors that for many years were banned and not translated, whose writing was, maybe, equal or a little bit more important than what we were doing in those years. There are moments in the history of any literature when the translation, paradoxically, is much more important than the original writing. There are many factors that can explain this situation; the most important is a total need of the language itself, which after such isolation, is a need to communicate with the surrounding language systems. Giving and taking—this is how languages live, this is how literature lives and this is how civilizations live and are inherited and “translated” into other civilizations. As George Steiner has observed, “languages are timid organisms, they can grow, live and die … but what harms them is being isolation …they crack under the weight of their old syntax …” What is happening in Albania now is a typical post-colonial crisis, the crisis of identity: who are we? do we have a culture? can we be contemporary citizens? can we be as civilized as any European, or any other? Some academics and writers and some poets began to dig in “the glorious past” to praise our oldness, and our “extraordinary language so old and so powerful.” And they began what they called “the purification of our language from the pollution of other languages.” For us it was clear that this tended to be another kind of isolation, as harmful, in a way, as the other. It is a provincial viewpoint of contemporary Albanian society and its relationship with Western civilization, stemming from an inability to realize, and to be integrated in, what is happening in Albania now—their inability to be contemporary. One must be contemporary. “It’s a necessity,” said Arthur Rimbaud in a letter, “for a writer and a translator to be contemporary. He must be.” So diving in the depths of reading in foreign languages and foreign minds, little by little, we realized that the way to be contemporary is not only to read and to translate contemporary writers. It is not enough. We must update the language with which we speak and write every day. One can’t be a contemporary writer if his language couldn’t response to the cultural dynamics around the world. On one point the Albanian writers and translators agreed with the academics: the language must be clean. Yes, but must clean from ideological shadows of the past, by slogans and schematics, linguistics idioms. So the process of translating, in a way, began changing even our language. The touchstone for a good translation is when the new change becomes, little by little, a natural part of the language, of the spoken and written language. We, in the words of Walter Benjamin, “Italianize Albanian, Germanize Albanian, Anglicize Albanian, and so on.” All this is related to the talent for catching the new idiom, the proper idiom. 7 The writers and translators must sharpen their ear in everyday language and find, there, the new stuff which will refresh the language and the consumer of this language. And in this complex process of translating and changing each Albanian writer is an actor, and at the same time, an audience; it is a producer, and at the same time, a consumer. And his hard job, keeping fresh and in move with the waters of speech, is worthwhile. It is in this watery mirror of speech where each of us, writers and non writers, poets and non poets, translators and non translators, find reflected their real face, their real identity, inscribed and translated. Thus, the spirit of a people becomes fresher than ever, more communicable than ever with itself and his neighbors. 8 |
| Type (DCMIType) | Moving image |
| Type (AAT) |
Presentations (Communicative events) |
| Language | English |
| Digital Collection | Virtual Writing University Archive |
| Contributing Institution | Iowa City Public Library |
| Subcollection |
International Writing Program Collection |
| Rights Management | Educational use only, no other rights given. U.S. and international copyright laws may protect this digital object. Commercial use or distribution of the object is not permitted without prior permission of the copyright holder. |
| Contact Information | Contact the VWU Webmaster: http://www.writinguniversity.org/index.php/main/info/25/ |
| Date Digital | 2006-09-22 |
Description
| Title | Lost and found in translation, 2006 Video, 700k |
| Type (DCMIType) |
Moving image |
| Type (IMT) |
mp4 |
| Duration | 01:32:13 |
| Digitization Specifications | Received as MPEG2 and converted to mp4 for streaming. |
| File Name | iwp-icpl_09-22-06.mp4 |
| Original File Name | iwp_09-22-06.mpg |
Tags
Add tags for Lost and found in translation, 2006 Video, 700k
Comments
Post a Comment for Lost and found in translation, 2006 Video, 700k
