http://images.amazon.com/images/P/1590171780.01.MZZZZZZZ.jpgTHE WORLD: Karen S. Kingsbury Interview" />
(For Reading the World, I conducted a number of interviews
with translators of RTW books. These interviews are meant to get a
variety of translators' opinions on matters common to all
translations, and to let each translator discuss their particular
book. These will be posted throughout the month. This is the
second.
The first was with Katherine Silver.)
1. How did you discover the work of Eileen
Chang?
I first encountered Chang during my graduate studies in
Comparative Literature. I was reading modern
Chinese fiction, sometimes in the original but often in
translation, and keeping an eye out for works that would appeal to
English-language readers. Reading in Chinese was
still very difficult for me, and “Love
in a Fallen City” was the first piece of modern Chinese
literature that really grabbed me. I stumbled
through the story, pulled along by the sheer power of the drama,
the fantasy, and the ironic undercutting. I soon
became so convinced that Chang's stories should be translated that
I had a hard time concocting and completing the scholarly
argumentation needed for a dissertation--translating her work
seemed so much more urgent and useful.
2. Why were you interested in bringing Chang's writing
to a wider audience? What in particular about this book do you
think is worth bringing to English-language readers?
I think that Chang is a world-class talent, the sort of writer
who ought be known to every reader who aspires to
cosmopolitanism. Some aspects of her significance
don't easily lend themselves to translation: her
implication in and reflection of mid-20th century Chinese history,
for instance; and her distinctive style in Chinese, the way she
turns a phrase, or plays on a word. But the human
content of her work--the psychological insights, the sensory
richness, and the overall philosophy of life--all of this does
translate quite well and is very much worth translating because it
is subtle and deep, and offers English-language readers
surprisingly easy access to large swathes of Chinese culture and
sensibility.
I might add that I don't personally subscribe to all of the
views that she exhibits in her work--perhaps because I've been more
fortunate than she, in terms of familial and personal
relationships. But I've learned a great deal from studying her lush
and yet dispassionate storytelling; it has taught me the value and
use of emotional detachment, confirmed my view of money's
inexorable influence, and helped me understand a bit more about
egotism, suffering, and desire. Having benefited
so greatly, I simply assume that other
English-language readers would benefit too, if they had the
opportunity to see the world as she's described it.
3. Is there anything about Chang's writing that you
think is difficult to translate into English?
Most of the difficulties are not peculiar to Chang alone; they
are the usual problems encountered by Chinese-to-English
translators. Chinese names are a headache because
they look silly and quaint if we translate them, but are largely
incomprehensible if we merely romanize (which is what we usually
do). Kinship terms are also a
problem. Members of an extended family, at least
in the traditional households that Chang describes, rarely use each
other's given names, and a great deal of subtlety is conveyed
through the kinship relation through which the family members
define one another. But there's a limit to how
often we can use terms like “Sister, Brother, Cousin” in English,
and a much smaller number of relationships that we view as
familial. (These problems often coincide: for instance, what is the
appropriate English form of address if you are an unmarried younger
sister speaking to your older brother's secondary wife, i.e.
concubine?) Then there are the contrasts between fairly obscure
dialect words, classical phrases, and plain, pure daily vernacular:
it is very difficult to convey those distinctions in another
language. But the most difficult items are always
the allusions and puns, especially if they are used ironically or
as part of witty repartee. In cases like that, I
spend an inordinate amount of time searching for something that
will replicate the experience for the English-language reader, and
usually have to give up anyway.
4. In translating, do you tend more toward trying to
make the reader forget that this isn't the original, or toward
trying to actively remind the reader that the book is from a
different language?
I simply try to cram into the translation every bit of nuance
and feeling that I found in the original, and let the rest take
care of itself. I used to be a bit of a “slave to
syntax,” trying to replicate Chinese phrasing, but Edwin Frank, my
editor at NYRB, helped me look beyond the trees and thereby bring
the forest into clearer focus. In the end, I have
no doubt but that the situations described in an Eileen Chang story
will be sufficiently removed from the daily life situations of my
likely readers that they will always remain aware that this is
foreign literature in translation.
5. Can a translation be as good as the
original?
Yes, in theory (and sometimes in practice too); it can even be
better than the original, depending on the criteria you are
using. It's not all that
different from the way in which a movie can be as “good” as the
story on which it is based. If the failure rate
seems high, that is because the factors required for success--time,
adequate preparation, and cosmic luck--are hard to come by.
6. Can you explain
further? What concept or model of translation are
you implying here?
Linguistic translation is not mechanical transfer, like the
transposition of a melody from one key to
another. It is instead interpretation, which
means that a particular, subjective mind is moving artistic
material from one medium to another. From the
perspective of the target-language audience (in this case,
English-language readers), a translator is like a pianist who reads
sheet music that, for the audience, is indecipherable, and changes
those written marks into an aural performance that they can
appreciate and begin, at least, to understand.
Their understanding will of course be very much influenced by the
pianist's understanding of the score, especially in those passages
that are especially ambiguous or difficult. From the perspective of
the translator, however, literary translation is a bit like taking
a piece of prose fiction, mentally projecting it as a film, then
turning that cinematic material into a written story again--this
time in entirely new words, of course.
These two analogies appeal to me because written Chinese
probably looks, to most English-language readers, a bit like a
musical score--a busy sequence of squiggles and dots; and because
cinematic references and highly visualized scenes are ever-present
in Eileen Chang's work. But further consideration
shows that these analogies are complementary, not parallel, and
that this complementarity is worth exploring. The
cinematic analogy works because literary texts are usually loaded
with visual and aural imagery: we can think of this material as
existing “inside” the text. The musical analogy
works because even a silent reader voices a text internally, and
thus hears some set of phonic qualities, which usually have a
considerable, though subtle influence on whether or not the
literary experience is “good” or not. This phonic
experience is largely, though not entirely “outside” the
text. Thus, a literary translator has to go
“inside” the original text, grab all those images and ideas and
whatnot, then come back out and set up another “external”
linguistic structure that that can contain and convey that material
while still sounding good. And the goal, of
course, is to not only “sound good,” but to sound somehow similar
to, or at least analogous to, the original.
Working along these various fronts at once, the literary
translator is trying to create a whole “world” that sounds, looks,
and means in ways that are somehow equivalent to the
original. But because of the different cultural
contexts (the readers' worlds) that frame these fictional worlds, a
translation will always be qualitatively different from the
original. It will make different references, and
readers will therefore draw different inferences--not radically
different, we hope, from the inferences drawn by the readers of the
original text, but still always subtly inflected in a different
direction, due to the “displacement” from one cultural/linguistic
medium to another.
7. And lastly, do you think it's important to read works
in translation? What part of your own reading do works in
translation make up?
Reading in translation is not merely important--it's essential,
once one grasps the fact that there are social worlds on this
planet that don't operate in English. What's
important is recognizing how much of what we read is translated,
and developing some awareness of the mediations implicit in those
texts. (I'm thinking of course of the Bible, but also the many
works in translation that are used in introductory college courses
in the humanities.)
I personally have only two usable reading languages, so what
little I know of the literatures of Latin America, Continental
Europe including Russia, non-Anglophone Africa and the Middle East,
and non-Chinese East Asia (except for some Indian and Southeast
Asian novels written in English) comes to me through
translation. And a considerable extent of my
reading about China is through translation.
Overall, as a percentage of my lifetime fiction-reading, I'd guess
that translations comprise 30-40%. As a way to
see the world, it's quite cheap, convenient, eco-friendly, and Fair
Trade–like.
Source:
http://esposito.typepad.com/con_read/2007/06/reading_the_wor_6.html