#translationquery: The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

Well what do you know, more random thoughts about form in translation...

This spring I read David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet - absorbing, absolutely unputdownable book by a preposterously gifted writer - and as I laid into chapter 39, I found this:

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunchbacked makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed from kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries' vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers, heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters' sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etiolated lacquerers; mottle-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men's wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of the Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night's rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself. 

The rhyme sneaks in so sweetly that it was several lines before I realised what I was reading. And then it disappears again as seamlessly as it appeared. The use of rhyme in the passage doesn't seem structurally or thematically motivated, as far as I can see - it is not repeated elsewhere in the novel, it apparently just happens, because of reasons.

I am curious to know how the translators rendered this amazing passage.
If any well-disposed readers of this blog happen to have a copy to hand of the French translation by Manuel Berri (Éditions Alto, 2012)

or of the Italian translation by Maurizio Bartocci (Frassinelli, 2010) (not that I would know the translator's name from the publisher's website because it appears not to be listed, tsk)

or of the German translation by Volker Oldenburg (Rowohlt, 2012)

or of the Spanish translation by Víctor V. Úbeda (Duomo Ediciones, 2011) (not that I would know the translator's name from the publisher's website because, grrrrrrrrr, etc......)

please feel free to get in touch with a comment about it - or better yet, share it. Indeed, if you have access to any translation of this passage please do feel free to write in; although I would need a back-translation into English to make any sense at all of translations into other languages, I am still curious. 

Poems about translation 8: Twm Morys, 'To My Translator'

Les Murray is a very difficult act to follow, so it's been an (a)eon since we had a Poem About Translation. But lo, here is the Welsh poet Twm Morys with a series of poems, all of them presented as being in some way concerned with translation. First is Morys' poem 'CV' in Welsh, French and two different English versions. Then follows a number of poems with literal and more 'polished' English translations, and notes by Morys.

'To my Translator' is the one which caught my eye. In his notes, Morys says of the poem that:

This is a poem about a poem about to be translated! By the time it lands on the translator’s desk, it will have been prepared already for the operation by being put into English. The poem in English is like a note for the surgeon attached to the (dead) body. But in the original language, this hasn’t happened yet, of course! The poem in Welsh tells us what the surgeon will do to it, after it’s been “prepared.”

So it's a poem about translation which is first presented in a literal translation, in order that it can be translated by some eager-beaver non-Welsh-speaker, and then actually translated. (I think). The prickly literal translation, which I hope Mr Morys will not mind us reproducing in full, reminds us by its strangeness how much interpretation and rewriting takes place between the poem and its translation. Is it just me, or does it also act as a mischievous reminder to those of us who don't read Welsh that we have to take it on trust that this is actually a translation at all...?

To the One Who is in My Translating

By to him my receiving,
my brain and my insides
after going, without blood (any) more,
without breath, in ice,
this one will-be-able, like a surgeon,
to my opening without nausea.
And without mess, transplant,
put himself into the hole black.
After doing (of) the needlework,
Not you-will-see trace (of) his hand, either.
May-put the doctor then
On me the name which he-wishes.

Click here to read Morys' more fluent English translation, and wonder. Click here for another piece by Morys on Welsh prosody (but be warned that it may make your head chime).

For more information on the EmLit project, of which these translations were part, click here.

(Btw the workshops run by the Poetry Translation Centre at SOAS also work by means of literal translations into English. Their excellent site has lots of poems in the original, juxtaposed with the working literal and the polished 'final' draft, for your reading enjoyment.)

Journal of Italian Translation

Italianists might like to check out the Journal of Italian Translation. It publishes English-Italian-English translations of dialect literature and poetry and looks full of goodness. My favourite bit so far is the 'dueling translators' feature. In each issue readers are invited to submit their own translation of a set text and have the possibility of publication and odious comparison! Why not give it a go... :)

Translation Slam and other literary tidbits

I like the idea of a translation slam - see here for head-to-head, specially commissioned competing translations of Chinese, Portuguese, Spanish, Catalan, Persian and English poems. Lots more goodies at the PEN translation site including an interesting email correspondence between the translators Anthea Bell and Doris Orgel.
For those of you with unpublished translations in the drawer, a new literary translation journal from Australia, the AALITRA Review, with a distinguished international editorial board, is accepting submissions. Unusually and pleasingly, submissions are published in both languages.