Morderás el polvo (Roberto Osa)

Published by Fundación José Manuel Lara/Planeta, 2017 (2nd edition, 2018), 176 pages

Synopsis

Águeda has just turned thirty, she’s eight months pregnant, and lives alone in a flat furnished with cardboard boxes. She is missing one eye. She has a perfect boyfriend, and a father she hasn’t spoken to for years. Her life is monotonous: she works a night shift, sleeps a little, talks less, and bottles up her rage as best she can. But this routine will be shattered when she receives a phone call. In the novel’s very first sentence, Águeda declares that she is going to kill her father. She isn’t going to wait until she’s given birth, and nor will she ask for anyone’s help. She’s going to do it alone, and she’s going to do it now. The story takes place over the course of little more than a day. A desperate journey from Madrid to La Mancha – from a city whose streets are overflowing with garbage to a small town in the harsh, arid landscape of the Castilian plateau, in search of a past that is full of violence – will culminate in a final showdown between father and daughter. The hostile geography of abandoned houses, empty reservoirs, out-of-hours brothels, cemeteries that look like building sites, and stones – so many stones! – is the setting for a powerful tale tinged with rural drama, drawing on the Spanish tradition of grotesque realism, suffused with the aesthetic of the western, and framed as a timeless classical tragedy.

Biography

Roberto Osa (Cuenca, Spain, 1981) graduated in Audiovisual Communication from the Complutense University of Madrid in 2004. His creative work encompasses a range of artistic disciplines. He has worked as a television scriptwriter and editor since 2007, and also contributes regularly to a number of online publications and cultural magazines. He teaches on the Master in Literary Creation at the International University of Valencia, and has given talks at literary festivals and led workshops for students. In 2017, he was selected to participate in the CELA Programme (Connecting Emerging Literary Artists), a European Union project to promote some of the continent’s most exciting new writers, and under its auspices he has attended the Pisa Book Festival, the Hay Festival Segovia and BookFest Bucharest to publicize his work. Osa’s first novel, Morderás el polvo [You will bite the dust], won the 36th Felipe Trigo Prize for Fiction, and was shortlisted for the 2017 Nadal Prize, one of Spain’s most prestigious literary awards.               

Style and benchmark texts

Morderás el polvo is a contemporary novel that draws on a literary tradition that goes all the way back to Ancient Greece, offering a 21st-century take on myths such as the parricide of Oedipus or the return of Odysseus. The setting – Don Quixote’s La Mancha – provides a dusty small-town aesthetic with hints of the American western or Juan Rulfo’s Mexican classic Pedro Páramo, but Morderás el polvo combines this with the narrative drive of a psychological thriller.

Osa’s prose has echoes of a number of post-war European writers: the grotesque realism of Spanish Nobel laureate, Camilo José Cela, the existentialism of Albert Camus, the raw simplicity of exiled Hungarian, Agota Kristof, or the tersely moving style of Austrian novelists such as Peter Handke and Elfriede Jelinek. And he also shares a vision of the world that will be familiar to readers of Cormac McCarthy, Tobias Wolff and Donald Ray Pollock.

Critical reception

“The contrast between the story’s setting and the manner in which Roberto Osa tells it is a deliberate choice. His use of language is highly visual, rapid, brutally direct, shorn of the slightest hint of ornamentation.” Carmen Bachiller. eldiario.es

“A powerful image runs through Morderás el polvo, the narrative debut of TV scriptwriter Roberto Osa: the rotund figure of the story’s protagonist, Águeda. She is eight months pregnant, is missing her left eye and, despite the fact that she is soon to give birth, appears more concerned with death than with life as she returns to her roots to settle a score with the past, determined to kill her father.” Braulio Ortiz. Revista Mercurio

Morderás el polvo is a harrowing tale from start to finish. A story of violence between father and daughter that takes us to the very darkest corners of the human condition. A solid narrative voice, with a powerful rhythm, which has the capacity to hypnotize the reader from start to finish.” Manuel Bravo. OkDiario

“El tono de esta novela, que llama poderosamente la atención, no fue expresamente elegido por el autor. «Si yo tuviera que incluirlo en un género, para mí sería novela contemporánea, a secas. Pero es cierto que tiene tintes de drama rural, de tragedia casi teatral, incluso ciertas reminiscencias al género negro o al western, por la estética de los escenarios y la búsqueda de la violencia que impregna todo el relato», señala Osa.” Mariano Cebrián. ABC

“Roberto Osa’s story mixes rural drama, the western aesthetic and classical tragedy in almost equal parts. But it is not just that. Morderás el polvo is a skilfully written and carefully constructed contemporary novel. The debut from an author from whom, I am sure, we will be hearing much more in the coming years.” Diego Álvarez. OcultaLit

Extract 1: pages 9–14

1

I’m going to kill my father this weekend.

It’s not a decision I’ve reached suddenly, more a question of settling some of the things that went wrong when I was a kid.

We’ve hardly seen each other for the last twenty years.

All this time I’ve been scraping by in Madrid, all knotted up with my memories of him, bounced from social services to support programmes that took me from one job to another until I found this night shift on a telephone helpline, and now I’m going back after seven days off.

My father still lives in Pedregal, the small town where I grew up, and I hadn’t heard much more from him until tonight, when the phone rang. A number flashed green and, when I took the call, all I could hear was breathing, almost a snarl. Nothing else. I know it’s him because nobody else snarls like that, nobody else makes me shake like el Morueco. I’m going to do you in, I swear I am.

I swear, on this belly I’ve been dragging around for eight months, on my one good eye, on all the pain we caused each other back then. I swear on the piles of garbage that cover the city’s pavements, on the overflowing bins, on the rats feasting among the boxes of rotten fruit, on the bluebottles buzzing among the wine cartons and the dogshit. Sometimes, the pavement’s so dirty I have to kick a path through.

I don’t mind the rubbish, the only thing that makes me feel sick is the stink of red wine. It reminds me of my father.

When I arrive at work, I still have ten minutes before eleven o’clock comes round, when my shift starts. I take the time to wipe the sweat from my face with my tracksuit sleeve, particularly around my eyelid; then I get my breath back as I smoke a quick cigarette. I smoke facing the opaque glass that covers the facade. I’m hot but I don’t remove my hood; I know those bastards on the evening shift are about to come out, and I’m not going to show them my empty eye socket. To my left there’s a pile of cardboard boxes. I touch them to check if I could use them in the flat, but they’re soaking wet and smell of entrails. On the other side, there’s a shiny black motorbike, I don’t know how anyone could have parked it there surrounded by filth, or maybe the bike was there before the boxes and the burst rubbish bags, even before the rotting vegetables or the smell of vinegar.

Shadows from the previous shift appear behind the screen.

I always start on a Friday, tonight it’s too hot for May, I try to concentrate on the smoke coming out of my mouth, I have to think about how I’m going to keep my oath, but I’m distracted by something pressing against my leg; a Dalmatian has appeared from among the boxes, it’s got something in its jaws and is squashing it against my leg. It’s a pigeon.

I let out a cry.

The dog’s owner calls it from the corner, the dog stands in front of me with the pigeon between its teeth. On the third call, the dog releases its prey and runs towards the woman.

I kick the pigeon away and take another draw on my cigarette.

If you’re scared by that, just wait till you see your father.

The door beeps six times. Correct code. The door opens and the herd streams out. First are the mothers, hurrying back to their nests. The fat one’s cheeks wobble as she laughs, no doubt the guy with the moustache telling her some lie or other. Then come the ones who are my age, the hipsters, as they call themselves, each of them staring at their phone screens, looking away just long enough to dodge the dead pigeon. Their conversations mix up inside my ears, always the same, I’m going to the metro, are you coming? Sorry, I’m walking, I’m meeting someone near here. The muscly guy and the silly girl with the green stockings walk towards the bike, waiting for me to get out of the way. I stay put. I hear them muttering, leave her, the sad freak. They get onto the bike and their reproaches are drowned out by the roar of the engine, smoke from the exhaust pipe warms my right leg, the fabric of my tracksuit caresses my ankles. The Colombian raises his eyebrows in greeting when he knows nobody is looking, and walks on down the street.

They all swirl around me, turning their back on me, taking out their cigarettes, chatting, asking for a light. A light? I’ll set light to the lot of you. Carry on, turn your back to me, cross the road with your head down, don’t look at the one-eyed woman, it’s bad luck, she’s already looking at you, but she doesn’t care about you, either: the fat girl, the muscly guy, the hipsters, the silly girl with the green stockings, the Colombian. Nothing.

Ernesto – that’s what the rest of them call him – is the last to leave, with his white hair, and his gut bulging against the buttons on his shirt.

I can’t help remembering you, dad. I often imagine what you’ll be like after all these years but however hard I try, I just see you like you were then, when we skinned rabbits in the yard; a punch between the animal’s ears, cracking its skull like a walnut, then a trickle of blood forming a puddle on the ground. I held the hind legs while you cut into the rabbit’s skin with your knife and quickly stripped it naked, pulling off the pelt as if it was a jersey.

When I look up, the evening shift have all gone, and I see the top of Ernesto’s head disappearing into the distance, between the mountains of garbage.

I’m alone in the street. It’s eleven o’clock at night.

The basement is gloomy, there’s just a single point of light at the table where Tariq and me sit, next to the stairway that goes up to the entrance hall, the other tables will remain dark all night. The room is rectangular, at the far end are the toilets and Silvia’s office. When I arrive at my workstation, he’s already answering a call. The first thing I do is take off my shoes and socks. Tariq looks at me, smiling, his brown fingers keying in text as he dictates the hours of some municipal office into his headset mic. He’s unshaven, like he always is when we come to work after a few days off. I throw my bag down next to the keyboard and drop into the seat at Tariq’s side. We sit facing the darkness, our backs to the stairway that leads up to the entrance hall; he’s always on my right, so that I can see him and he can pretend I have two eyes.

We spend a lot of hours below the ground. There are no windows in this place, it’s like working inside a tomb. We call it the coffin.

I punch my code into the keypad and answer the first call, Águeda Pacheco speaking, how can I help you? Of course, just a moment please. The closest metro station is Antón Martín, you can check this month’s events on the website. Thank you for calling. Our terminals beep, sometimes competing or overlapping, we spend a couple of hours answering calls; Tariq explains how to get to the zoo, it’s very easy madam, catch line five or ten, get off at Casa de Campo, or take a bus from Príncipe Pío, the number thirty-three drops you at the gate. Happy to help, goodnight. After all these years, we can recite most of the information from memory. Sometimes, as I listen to the complaints of some pain in the ass, I feel the fingernails scratching inside my stomach and I feel sick. That’s when I let my head fall back against the headrest and look at the ceiling, a ceiling that is nothing more than the floor of a city covered with filth that I have to wade through. I sit listening to the moron who’s decided to do his paperwork in the middle of the night, maybe there’s no other time, but I don’t care what he’s saying, I just want him to shut up before I vomit, and I take advantage of a short pause to unleash my advice: you have to fill out the form, present your ID, your residence certificate, your driving licence and pay the fee, Monday to Friday, from nine till two at the district office, goodnight.

And I hang up.

I tear off my headset and throw it down on the desk.

I need to move, the nausea and the pain in my ankles get worse every minute of every night that I spend buried down here with Tariq. But I sit still, holding my bulging belly between my hands and staring at the rotten wood of the beams above me. A few months ago, when they were making redundancies, they decided to paint the beams blue; they sacked eighty people and they painted the beams, the skirting boards and the corners cobalt blue, and the walls a tone of yellow so sickly it’s best not to look, better just to sit in the dark like vampires. That’s what Silvia calls the night shift workers.

Silvia is… How can I put it? If she was introducing herself, she’d say she’s the coordinator, but she’s just a midget with a raccoon’s eyes, responsible for kicking out all those losers who don’t work here anymore. I escaped by the skin of my teeth, and now she doesn’t know what excuse to come up with to get rid of the Cyclops. There’s just four of us left on the night shift: Tariq and me work seven days on and seven days off, when we’re replaced by two girls that we never see. A few weeks ago, Tariq heard a rumour that they were going to get rid of the night shift and he hasn’t left me in peace since then: the baby, Águeda, what are we going to do with the baby if we’re unemployed? I don’t usually reply. People are shouting in the streets, they want clean pavements – they want someone to give them a job. I’ve got work.

I should feel grateful that this guy, who dreams of working in a museum, has noticed this thing that I am, and I should fight for whatever it is I’m carrying in my belly. But I don’t care about any of it. All I can think about is my father.

Tariq takes out the potato omelette he’s so proud of. He eats it straight from the tupperware, cutting it into tiny pieces, as if for a small child. Sometimes he offers me the fork with a piece of omelette on the prongs, but I always reject it, and he always eats it with a smile and goes on chewing and reading his museum studies textbook.

When he gets tired of the silence, he starts talking about all the things his parents have bought for the baby and how they’re really looking forward to coming back to Madrid to meet me.

They’re intrigued to know what their grandson’s mother is like, Tariq says; it’s better they don’t know, I tell him, and then his eyes bulge until they’re almost touching the lenses of his glasses and he scratches his stubble and tells me I don’t appreciate myself, that I’m very pretty with my flaming hair and my white skin, although the truth is it’s actually yellowish.

And the eye, Tariq? What about the eye? And he wrinkles his nose and touches his glasses, and says don’t start that again, that I should love myself a bit more.

Extract 2: chapter 7, pages 97–101

On the way out of town, the walls of the livestock pens are already covered by the evening shadow. The path to the cemetery is a deep cattle track that would be unchanged were it not for the fact that the cypresses that once lined it have disappeared. In their place are holes a yard deep, the jaws of a digger have cut through the roots, which are dying inside the earth. Every four or five paces there’s a new crater. The holes run the length of the track, like giant bitemarks in the earth, until I come to an old metal sign with the word “graveyard”. The digger is parked at the entrance to the cemetery, the engine still running, the hazard lights flashing. Maybe Gladis wasn’t lying; to my left, instead of the cemetery wall, I see the profile of the burials against the reddish evening light. There are no walls or anything of the sort. The shadows of some workmen wander among the rubble; they’re talking, laughing, their white teeth still visible as they pile up the stones.

The engine of the digger falls silent. The driver calls the rest of the workers, it’s time to leave. When he raises the peak of his cap, I realize it’s the same man we met at the petrol station, the one who helped the fat guy with the coupons to get up. I avoid his eyes, losing myself among the gravestones in the hope that him and the other workers leave as soon as possible, but I know he’s still looking at me. After a few seconds I hear his voice among the marble crosses.

“Hurry up, they’ve been waiting for ages.”

It’s more than ten years since I visited my mother’s grave. With so many stone crosses, without the reference of the walls or the cypresses, the cemetery seems endless, I struggle to locate exactly where she was buried. A good daughter wouldn’t have this problem.

There he is, sitting on a tombstone, his feet resting on a neighbouring grave. He’s smoking, his arms are resting on his knees. His bulging eyes exaggerating his profile against the dim light of the reddish horizon. The noise of the workers gathering their tools gradually fades, or maybe it’s me who can only pay attention to this unexpected family reunion. I approach slowly. I can feel the elastic of my two pairs of socks squeezing my ankles with every step I take. When I’m just one grave away, he speaks. “You’ve forgotten the sickle.”

You go to kill someone and the victim reminds you about the weapon. Typical of a daughter who’ll never live up to her father.

There we are, facing each other, separated by the tombstone that covers my mother’s remains. He looks at the grave. He has a cigar in his mouth, takes short puffs, allows the thick smoke to slide across his face. I should answer, but all I can think to do is look around me: a few yards away is a pile of empty beer bottles that the workers have left next to the statue of an angel.

“What would you know?” I say, without thinking. As soon as the words have left my mouth I regret them, it’s the reply of a snotty kid.

“You don’t know how to hide. You can’t hide from me, however much you want to.”

He talks without looking at me as he rubs the sole of his shoe against the marble to get rid of the earth.

“I came. I’m here,” I say, opening my arms idiotically.

I’d like to be able to tell him that my life isn’t like he thinks it is; that I fall straight asleep, that I don’t work in a basement answering phone calls from insomniacs or have a respectable boyfriend who irons his shirts while listening to some bloke called Bach or wealthy, cultured in-laws capable of indulging every last whim of their future granddaughter. I don’t know why everyone talks about it in the feminine, I’ve never said it was a girl, as far as I’m concerned it’s nothing right now. I’d like to have been strong enough not to answer your call.

The red line of the horizon has almost disappeared, but I can clearly see his half-unbuttoned shirt and the disappointment on his deeply-lined face.

He carries on smoking, lost in thought.

We remain silent, like before. The woodpigeons coo in the distance, perhaps they’re in the cork oaks on the other side of the road. The roar of a lorry helps me not to think. My father strokes the cigar with his fingertips, he paws it, returns it to his month, and a flame from his lighter causes the smouldering cigar stump to glow orange, illuminating his face. I remain standing. The cross on my mother’s grave is barely visible against the black sky. I take out the pack of cigarettes I stole from Gladis. There are still three left. We both smoke in the stillness of my mother’s grave.

“What have they done to the walls?” I ask.

He glances around listlessly.

“This way, there’s more of a breeze,” he says, blowing out some smoke.

“It would have made more sense to have removed the remains before knocking down the walls,” I say.

“It’s not as if the dead are going to run away.”

He takes another draw, opening his eyes wide so they show very white in the darkness.

“The other day they took the cypresses away,” he says after a while.

“Where to?” XXX para break XXX “How would I know? They took them away,” he points at the path to the town. “They didn’t even fill in the holes. They’ll make another cemetery. This one…” XXX para break xxx “What do you want?” Don’t use empty words with me, dad. Not you.

“Did you get married? You need to get married,” he says, looking at my belly.

Pain shoots through my brain, from my false eye to the nape of my neck. I want to tell him that I’ll get married far away from this sick land.

“I should pick up a rock and dash your brains out.”

“Who’s stopping you?” He spreads his arms as if he’d like to be shot. His chest shows through his shirt, open almost down to his belly button. “Do it, and we’ll all be at peace.”

“I’m going to be a mother.”

“I can see that. You should have told me when I called.”

“You’ve got enough with your whores.”

He laughs, the cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.

I hear his back creak as he stands up.

Do you see how smart the girl is, Tránsito?” He’s looking at the marble slab as he talks. “I told you she’d go far.”

“It was you.”

“It was both of us. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, she isn’t going to come back to life.” He stubs out the cigar on the white marble. “That’s the last thing we need.”

My head is spinning. I can feel the elastic of my socks like shackles round my ankles. Don’t fall over, and don’t start crying. He presses his fingers hard against my belly. Hold on. I’d like to hurl myself at your throat, but my arms are too heavy, and a few seconds later I’m sitting on the grave, trying not to collapse as I watch his feet approach.

“Help me die, Jara.”

His voice is so hoarse that I’m not sure if it’s a plea or a threat. I can’t look at you, I’m tired of pretending, I can’t take any more, dad. I’m going to fall.

“Cut your throat, then, you’ve had plenty of experience of that.”

He rests his paws on the grave, his face next to my ear, I feel his breath wheezing against my hair, he’s talking very close to me, as if he was going to swallow me. “It has to be you, Jara.”

I try not to move while he pants.

“Just die and leave me to live in peace.”

“Help me,” he continues panting. “Come to the Lagarto with me, I’ve got my car just on the edge of town. But don’t say anything to the Moor, you shouldn’t have brought anyone, this is just between me and you, Jara. It’s our business.”

You bring me to this pigsty so everyone can see my face when I give in to you.

“For me, you’re already dead.”

His fingers brush my face, the same face his hands hit this afternoon; a coarse hand that smells of rust strokes the swollen cheek, then he runs his fingers roughly through my hair, awkwardly, as if for the first time. I close my eyes. I feel very weak.

He takes a lock of my hair between his fingers, pulls it tight, feels the roots pulling inside my scalp. I’m in his hands. Then he lets me go. I hear him disappear among the gravestones, the ground disappears beneath my feet and I fall, I fall, I fall and I burst into tears with my belly between my hands, all of the darkness of the world is here, in this cemetery without doors, with no beginning and no end, that extends into the night and mixes with life under the gloomy song of the woodpigeons, who laugh at me because I don’t know, I’ve never known, how to laugh in front of anybody.

Pitch Perfect: Is Translating Publishers’ Proposals the Hardest Gig of All?

I’ve just reached the end of my first year of describing myself as a literary translator. This does not, unfortunately, mean that I’ve spent the last twelve months translating high-quality fiction for discerning independent presses. Instead, the bulk of my work continues to be non-literary: academic papers, documentation for NGOs, corporate communications. My literary work, also, has been a mixed bag. I’ve translated my first “proper” book (a piece of narrative non-fiction), had a play performed and published, and churned out a scree of samples (some paid, others speculative initiatives of my own). And sitting in the middle, straddling the literary and the non-literary worlds, is the occasional work I do for agents and publishers, translating book proposals, more commonly referred to as pitches.

There’s a widespread, if largely unspoken, assumption that literary translation in some way represents the pinnacle of the translation profession, if not for the financial rewards it offers then for the satisfaction it provides and, perhaps, the challenges it poses. To put it bluntly, people think not only that literary translation is more interesting than other forms of translation (I’d tend to agree) but also that it is more difficult. Looking back over my translation year, I’m not so sure. It’s true that I’ve faced plenty of literary challenges. In the first chapter of my narrative non-fiction text, I had to master a bewildering range of voices: from contemporary reportage to seventeenth century Spanish colonial chronicles, from the Quechua-inflected voices of Bolivian tin miners to the cadences of a liberation theologian from the Basque Country. For the play, I had to translate a song, sight unseen, to fit music that had not yet been composed, delivering the full script in a fortnight so that the theatre could cast and rehearse actors. And for a commissioned sample, for a chapter of Buenos Aires noir set in the 1930s, I found myself in a state of mild linguistic paranoia as I came to realise that every other sentence of the text concealed a tango allusion.

My non-literary work, too, has thrown up its challenges. There was the analysis of European Union migration policy that I had to rewrite on the fly as part of the translation process. Evidence of a job well done and (paradoxically) of a lot of hard work, was a target word-count that weighed in a full 25% lighter than the source. Or perhaps the delicate letter I had to translate, balancing the cultural sensibilities of Barcelona, Tokyo and Los Angeles. The addressee was unlikely to read the letter, but only because he had died a month earlier. My translation was to be included in the corporate magazine of a pharmaceutical multinational by way of an obituary.

But none of these assignments compares for sheer trickiness with the proposals I’ve translated for a clutch of agents and publishers that I’ve made contact with as a result of my relentless book-hounding. These proposals are the texts that agents and publishers put on the foreign rights section of their websites, include in catalogues for book fairs, and send out to their contacts whenever they have a title they think might work in translation. I’m going to start with a couple of caveats, though. What follows refers to the proposals of the select band of Spanish agents and publishers I work with. I’m sure that other agents do things differently. And I’d be very surprised if things weren’t done differently in other countries, too.

It’s also worth noting that agents have to take a somewhat scattergun approach. Of course there’s the odd safe bet, but most titles won’t be picked up, so agents tend to present a fairly extensive list of potential candidates in the hope that a few of these will appeal to buyers. (One of the side benefits of doing this work is that it helps me to keep abreast of the Spanish publishing industry in general, gives me insights into what agents think is likely to sell, and also allows me to develop a feeling for what does and doesn’t work, which, hopefully, I can apply to any pitching I might do on my own account.) It’s also important to realise that English is a vector language, used to sell on into other languages. And, finally, the deadlines are pretty tight, with proposals generally being put together (and then translated) at short notice.

All of this means that, far from writing bespoke pitches for the English-speaking market, agents have little choice but to cut and paste from existing material, with minimal cultural adaptation or rewriting. And the existing material may have been created for a home audience (Spain, in my case) and with a different purpose in mind (persuading booksellers to give shelf space to a title that has already been published, for example, or facilitating the work of critics and reviewers in the hope of garnering media coverage).

Those disclaimers aside, the typical proposal document I receive looks something like this: a paragraph or two about the author; a paragraph or two about the book itself; and some external validation of the text, in the form of sales figures, prizes and quotes. So, a page in total, which really consists of three rather distinct micro-texts, each of which requires a very different approach.

Author bio

Let’s see what this looks like in practice, starting with the author bio. Here’s the opening paragraph of a pitch I translated recently. (I’ve changed a few of the details for reasons of confidentiality.)

Cristina Jiménez nació en Cádiz en 1990. Es arquitecta por la Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona y tiene estudios en Derecho por la UNED. Ha sido redactora en la revista especializada Arquitectura Hoy y escribe también en otros medios de comunicación y difusión cultural, como la web literaria Letras. Ha traducido textos periodísticos y libros. En 2013 obtuvo una beca de residencia literaria en la Fundación José Martínez para Jóvenes Creadores de Zaragoza, durante la que desarrolló su primera novela, Al otro lado del mar.

Here’s a faithful translation (so minimal adaptation of the content):

Cristina Jiménez was born in Cádiz (Spain) in 1990. She graduated in Architecture from the Autonomous University of Barcelona and studied law with the Spanish national distance learning university, UNED. She has been an editor at the specialist journal Arquitectura Hoy and also writes for other media and cultural outlets, such as the literary website Letras. She has translated journalistic texts and books. In 2013, she obtained a literary residency grant at the Fundación José Martínez for Young Creative Artists in Zaragoza, during which time she developed her first novel, Al otro lado del mar.

And here’s my adapted version:

Cristina Jiménez was born in Cádiz (Spain) in 1990. She holds a degree in Architecture from the Autonomous University of Barcelona and studied Law at UNED. She has worked as an editor for the journal Arquitectura Hoy, writes for some of Spain’s leading cultural platforms, including the literary website Letras, and has translated books and articles for publishers and news outlets.

In 2013 she was awarded a José Martínez Foundation grant for Young Creative Artists in Zaragoza, which funded a residency to work on her debut novel, Al otro lado del mar.

Now, if it was up to me, I’d cut this down further. I can’t imagine any commissioning editor being swayed to buy a comic novel because they are impressed by the young author’s architectural and legal background and, personally, I don’t include this kind of biographical detail in a pitch. But the nature of my relationship with the client and the constraints of time and budget mean that I prefer not to make that suggestion for now. Instead, I focus on cutting out any excess information, making the piece flow, and subtly refocusing it towards the business of writing.

Synopsis

Now it’s on to the next section: the synopsis. The following is from a different novel, which the publisher categorises as “up-market women’s fiction.”

La anodina vida de Samuel y su esposa Carmela cambia radicalmente cuando él recibe una carta anónima en la que se le dice que Rosario no es su verdadera madre y que si quiere conocer la verdad de su origen debe volar a Roma esa misma noche. Hay preguntas que necesitan una respuesta. Aunque los secretos familiares a veces son de los más temibles.

Descubrir que uno tiene a un hermano gemelo desconocido, y que este decida usurpar tu identidad en tu propio matrimonio solo puede provocar una sucesión de terribles acontecimientos… tanto como encuentros inesperados. En el oscuro Berlín de la RDA, ¿todo vale para conseguir la libertad? ¿Acaso Carmela se dará cuenta? ¿Hasta qué punto a ella misma le conviene asumir esa nueva realidad?

Here’s a rather literal translation:

The anodyne life of Samuel and his wife Carmela changes radically when he receives an anonymous letter in which he is told that Rosario is not his real mother and that if he wants to know the truth about his origins he must fly to Rome that very night. There are questions that need an answer. Although family secrets are sometimes the most frightening.

Discovering that one has an unknown twin brother, and that he has decided to usurp your identity in your own marriage can only provoke a succession of terrible events… and unexpected encounters. In the dark Berlin of the GDR, does anything go to achieve freedom? Will Carmela realise? To what degree is it convenient for her to assume this new reality?

We get the gist. There is subterfuge, romance… and melodrama galore. But the job of the synopsis is not just to summarise the plot but to sell the text. So I have to do my best to make this synopsis shine. Some of this is just the usual business of intelligent word choice, taking care not to mindlessly reproduce source structures in the target, and the like.

The mundane lives of Samuel and his wife Carmela change radically when Samuel receives an anonymous letter informing him that Rosario is not his real mother, and telling him that he must fly to Rome that very night if he wants to know the truth about his origins.

Some questions demand an answer. But family secrets can be the most terrifying of all.

And the discovery of an unknown twin brother, one who has decided to steal Samuel’s identity and supplant him in his marriage, inevitably unleashes a succession of terrible events… and unexpected encounters. For someone trapped in East Berlin, is anything fair game in the search for freedom? Will Carmela realise what’s going on? Or perhaps she has her own reasons for accepting the new situation?

I can’t change the content, obviously. Who am I to say whether a commissioning editor somewhere will be intrigued by this tale of identity theft and espionage behind the Berlin Wall? But I do need to make my translated synopsis as appealing as possible. I gently clarify that confusing first sentence by repeating the protagonist’s name, craft a punchy middle paragraph out of the final two sentences of the opening paragraph of the original, and make the final paragraph more cohesive by introducing a hunting theme (“unleash”, “trapped”, “fair game”).

Quotations

And so, fresh from crafting a piece of micro-fiction, I move on to some quotations. These are always tricky. Quotations make people nervous. Understandably, the general rule is to privilege word-for-word accuracy over fluency. I guess that’s why it’s now so common to see Google-translated quotes dropped into newspaper articles. I can see the thinking: who am I to change the speaker’s words? (Although, of course, you’ve already changed them by turning them into English. And happily incorporating the unedited output of Google Translate into your carefully crafted article strikes me as the journalistic equivalent of trailing a pair of muddy boots across an Afghan rug.) But in this context, the quotes are not courtroom evidence, to be tampered with at the translator’s peril. Rather, they are there to demonstrate the credentials of the text, to show that it has been read and appreciated by discerning readers.

Here are a few examples of fulsome praise for a Spanish crime series:

«¡Qué maestría para convertir a Goya en el protagonista de una novela negra del siglo XXI! El lector se emborracha de felicidad leyendo esta novela.»

«La comisaria Figueroa es el mejor ejemplo de novela de procedimiento con ritmo, pulso narrativo, creación de personajes y acción.»

«Ana Cristina Sánchez pinta un Barcelona de espacios míticos y nuevos fantasmas de la ópera. Una novela para el placer y la reflexión.»

«Sánchez ha sabido entender un talante tan peculiar como el de los policías y convertir todo lo que sabe por su oficio en ficción y literatura.»

Here, for what they’re worth, are the direct translations:

“What mastery to convert Goya into the protagonist of a thriller novel of the 21st century! The reader becomes drunk on happiness reading this novel.”

“Commissioner Figueroa is the best example of a procedural novel with rhythm, narrative pace, creation of personalities and action.”

“Ana Cristina Sánchez paints a Barcelona of mythical spaces and new phantoms of the opera. A novel for pleasure and reflection.”

“Sánchez has known how to understand the very particular character of police officers and convert everything she knows from her craft into fiction and literature.”

I hope we can all agree that these are somewhere between unusable and incomprehensible in this form. They certainly aren’t going to help convince a wavering commissioning editor that this is the title they need to add to their list. And here are my adapted versions:

“What a touch of genius to make Goya the protagonist of a thriller set in the 21st century! The reader is in for an absolute treat.”

Harbour of Death is a brilliant police procedural, narrated with rhythm and pace, packed with action, and full of characters who are all too believable.”

“Ana Cristina Sánchez’s Barcelona is a city of timeless spaces inhabited by modern-day phantoms of the opera. A novel that provides both pleasure and food for thought.”

“Sánchez has drawn on her experience as a journalist, transforming her detailed knowledge of the police into fiction and literature.”

Some of this is fairly standard mildly creative translation, so that maestría becomes “a touch of genius” (rather than “mastery”) and espacios míticos are “timeless spaces” (rather than “mythical” ones). But in other places I’ve had to engage in full-blown transcreation, transforming the happily drunken reader of the first quote into one who is in for an absolute treat, or specifying the title of the book in the second quote or, in the final quote, informing the English reader that the author—a well-known Spanish journalist—draws on this experience in creating her fiction.

And there’s one more factor to consider. I already mentioned the tight deadline, which means there’s no question of sitting on these texts for days and going through multiple revisions while you wait for inspiration to strike. But to make this job pay (and I don’t do it just for the love of it), I have to get through about 2,000 words a day. In practice, that means that the work I’ve just walked through here has to be turned around in about 30 minutes, from rough draft to finished product, including any background research.

I think those practical constraints, combined with the conflicting challenges of information transfer, creative translation and cultural adaptation, make this the hardest work I do as a translator. Now could someone please just commission me to translate a big fat novel?

This article originally appeared in In Other Words (Issue 53, Summer 2019), the journal of the Translators Association, published by the National Centre for Writing.

Bad Joke (Jordi Casanovas)

Do you remember, Ernesto asks his best and oldest friend, Oscar, do you remember that time back in our university days when we broke into Felix Goluda’s room and woke him up by slapping him across the face with our cocks, do you remember the look on his face, the surprise, the shock, the fear, that was a laugh, how we fucking laughed, they agree, it was a laugh, a fucking laugh.

Now imagine someone shows up at your dad’s funeral, the body still stiff in the casket if you’ll excuse the pun and this guy, this visitor, a mourner if you like, he whips out his cock, his schlong, and he slaps your old man, your dear dead dad, across the face with his wedding tackle, not so fucking funny, is it? and Anna, Oscar’s wife and Ernesto’s friend, agrees that it’s not funny, not funny at all.

Fuck’s sake, Oscar says, some people have no sense of humour, they’re always looking for reasons to take offence, ruling things off limits or declaring them to be in poor taste, a Bad Joke even, like a misplaced cock at a funeral obviously but they don’t stop there, the list of things you can’t make jokes about is endless: terrorism, feminism, child abuse, and honestly if you can’t joke about those then what can you make a joke about, what is humour even for, next thing you’ll be telling me I can’t make a joke about murder either…

You can see Bad Joke (Mala broma) by Jordi Casanovas, translated by Tim Gutteridge and directed by Dadiow Lin at the Omnibus Theatre, 2 August 2019. Click here for information and booking. Cast: Edwin Nwachukwu Jr., Dilek Rose and David Ahmad.

Out of the Wings Festival 2019

Bad Joke is part of the Out of the Wings Festival 2019, a celebration of theatre from the Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking world, held at the Omnibus Theatre, London. This year’s festival includes six dramatised readings of new English translations, a one-day conference, and three workshops.

Out of the Wings is supported by King’s College London with Goldsmiths University of London and Language Acts and Worldmaking.

Aeolian harps and alien trinkets: talking to Tim Parks about translating style

It often seems as if there is only one debate in literary translation, despite our ingenuity in coming up with new terms to describe it. Is translation a discipline or an art? Are we “text-oriented” or “reader-oriented”? Are we literalists or activists?

Sometimes, this dichotomy is expressed in metaphorical terms. You can choose old-world sexism: “Translation is like a women. If it’s beautiful, it’s not faithful. If it’s faithful, it’s not beautiful.” Or Marina Warner’s recent (and oddly one-sided) musical simile: “Should a translator respond like an Aeolian harp, vibrating in harmony with the original text to transmit the original music, or should the translation read as if it were written in the new language?”

However, while I think there’s a tendency these days to emphasise the creative aspects of what we do and play down the question of language competence, I’ve yet to see the phrase “reader-oriented translator” on any of my colleagues’ business cards.

Aside from which, I’m not entirely convinced by this dichotomy as a description of the translation process. Right now I’m working on the opening sentences of En el cuerpo una voz (In the Body, a Voice) by Bolivian novelist, Maximiliano Barrientos, and have gone through five drafts. At first glance, draft three looks the most ‘creative’ (in the sense of being furthest from the source) while draft five is the most literal. But it’s this last version that has benefited from all the effort of the previous drafts; the original Spanish strains at the boundaries of what Spanish ordinarily does, and I’ve had to attempt something similar to reproduce that effect in English.

In short, the literal versus creative opposition doesn’t strike me as offering a helpful way of classifying translations or of explaining translation as a process. I decided to inflict my musings on Tim Parks, and see if he had any other thoughts about how to describe what’s going on.

TG

What about this distinction between literalists and activists? Are there any other metaphors or frameworks that you feel provide a better starting point for talking about our work?

TP

Let’s avoid metaphors; they tend to take on a life of their own, which is distracting. I’m more intrigued by the five drafts you describe, particularly your rejection of what you felt was the most fluent and savvily English version. It might seem creative, you say, but actually it ignores the specific creativity of the Spanish. And presumably that creativity is integrated with the content of the book, it’s not just a random ‘style element’. I’d really like to see the two versions you mention and the Spanish and have you talk us through them. But before we do that, let me throw in a couple of comments that stuck in my mind recently reading through an anthology of older translation theory to prepare for a teaching course.

Commenting on his translation of Aeschylus, Humboldt remarks: “With every new revision I sought to eliminate more of what was not stated plainly in the text – since the impossibility of rendering the original’s unique beauties tempts one to embellish it with alien trinkets that give it overall a divergent colour and sound.”

That makes sense to me. We come at the original. We’re frustrated that our version doesn’t sound as good. We throw in some tricks to liven it up. Then we realize that we’ve actually written something completely different in feel from the original, and that maybe in the long run it might be better to look for ways to stay closer to it. In general, especially where the prose is unusual, we should remember that, as the pages turn, readers can be drawn into a different kind of fluency. A writer knows this. Translators shouldn’t lose their nerve just because the first sentence sounds odd. Imagine a Spanish, or French or German translator tackling the opening of Henry Green’s masterpiece, Party Going:

“Fog was so dense, bird that had been disturbed flew flat into a balustrade and slowly fell dead at her feet.”

If we turn that into standard fluent French or Italian or whatever, we’re going to miss the whole point of the way the fog seems to have seeped into the syntax so that readers like pigeons are in danger of bumping into things, or having other things fall at their feet. The whole book is going to go on like that. The translator has to take a risk, wait, write quite a few pages, see if some kind of different enchantment can be conjured up. That’s where the creativity lies.

The other thing your musings reminded me of was Dryden’s division of translators into the ‘word-for-word’ brigade, the ‘paraphrase’ brigade and the ‘imitation’ brigade, the last being the ones who simply go for it ‘creatively’ without worrying too much about the original. He remarks: “Imitation of an author is the most advantageous way for a translator to show himself, but the greatest wrong which can be done to the memory and reputation of the writer.”

In short, I suspect Dryden would be with your fifth draft rather than your third, but can we see them?

TG

Here are those opening sentences in Spanish:

Cada vez más pálido, observó por la ventanilla cómo el paisaje se pulverizaba en la velocidad.

Ya no duele, dijo mi hermano.

Literally:

Ever more pale, he observed through the window how the landscape pulverized itself in the speed.

It doesn’t hurt any more, said my brother.

My ‘fluent’ translation came out as follows:

My brother grew paler and paler as, through the car window, he observed the speeding landscape turn to dust.

“It doesn’t hurt any more,” he said.

But by the time I’d reached the fifth draft, it had turned into this:

He was growing paler and paler. Through the car window, he watched the landscape crumble in the speed.

It doesn’t hurt any more, my brother said.

TP

So the problem really is understanding what’s standard and what’s non-standard in the original, where the author is surprising the reader. I’m no expert in Spanish but that cómo el paisaje se pulverizaba en la velocidad looks interestingly odd. Then maybe you want to know why the author went for that non-standard usage, whether there’s going to be more of it, how it fits in with the book’s vision, whether you can do something similar in English. I expect you’d want to translate quite a lot more before you go back and finalize your opening lines.

TG

Absolutely. Sometimes there’s a key word that you just have to resolve for the rest of the translation to work. In this case, it’s the verb se pulverizaba, right in the first sentence. It’s tempting just to get the meaning and then translate that in the most ‘normal’ way possible: ‘turned to dust’, for example. But that shifts the focus of the sentence from the process (the crumbling of the landscape) to its result (dust). If you read on in the novel, you notice the author uses a lot of ergative or reflexive verbs, creating an open-ended atmosphere where nothing is resolved, which is also true of the plot itself. As a theme, then, this issue of disintegrating landscapes is clearly one that interests the author; in fact his latest novel is titled La desaparición del paisaje (The Disappearance of the Landscape).

TP

A good question to ask is how the unusual aspects of the style are linked to each other, how they are working together. For example, in the Spanish we don’t identify the protagonist as ‘my brother’ until the second paragraph, after an unpunctuated piece of dialogue. Even then we can’t be sure that it’s the same person as in the first paragraph because we’ve gone from an undeclared subject to ‘my brother’ rather than vice versa. This disorientation then meshes with the experience of the person watching the landscape dissolve or turn to dust or whatever en la velocidad. We’re launched into the book at speed without any fixed points of reference. That sensation has worked its way into the language.

TG

Yes. Disorientation and loss of reference points occur at every level: it’s a story about a country that has disintegrated, descending into chaos in the wake of a military coup.

TP

In any event, for the purposes of our discussion, what you referred to as your most ‘creative’ version actually only entailed the ‘creativity’ of finding a standard delivery in the English, which would be fine if the Spanish was standard, but it isn’t. So often this ‘radical domestication’ as they now call it is just a way of giving us déjà vu, things like other things we’ve read before.

Two lessons we could draw maybe: first, your Spanish has to be good enough to distinguish the standard from the non-standard, the ordinary from the not. And this means knowing the language so well that you really feel the surprise when there’s something exciting going on. When I ask a class of Italian translators to read Hemingway’s “He thought about alone in Constantinople that time having quarrelled in Paris…” and they aren’t shocked by the odd use of ‘alone’, or don’t even notice it, I know they aren’t going to be able to translate the book’s flavour.

TG

This is probably the hardest thing for people reading in their second language. How do you develop that sense of what is ‘normal’ and what isn’t? Especially since the two shade into each other. There’s no easy solution, though I think active use of your source language, really living in it, probably helps develop that sensitivity. And I agree that it’s not just about identifying it but, as you say, feeling the surprise.

TP

Second lesson. You have to become aware of your own bias toward writing in this or that style and resist it, or at least not mistake it for creativity. I have heard translators talking about their ambition to write “beautiful sentences” when they translate. But what is a beautiful sentence? The attraction of the writing is in relation to the content and the overall project. What works in Proust won’t work in Camus. Your Bolivian author is trying to create a certain feel. We have to trust, at least initially, that when we’ve strung a few paragraphs together the reader will be drawn into this world, even if we find ourselves writing sentences we never expected to. Because the translator – and I think this is crucial – is both server and performer.

TG

I hear so many variants of that attitude: “writing elegant sentences”, “setting aside the source and working on the translation” and so on. It’s easy to get distracted from the original and its style. Aside from my Bolivian project, I’m also working on a historical novel at the moment. It’s set in the 19th century and narrated by a retired slaver with a highly distinctive voice, at once deranged yet sane, inhumane and deeply human. Sometimes I find myself departing from that into a generic ‘nautical novel’ style, but whenever I do, that disturbing voice softens. A reader probably wouldn’t notice. They’d certainly find my generic mode less brutally jarring than the original and might even prefer it. So it’s a problem.

The notion of translator as both server and performer makes sense in a situation like this. Without that commitment to serve, however pleasing the performance, the reader is deprived of something in the original. Of course, a degree of loss or distortion is inevitable, but that seems all the more reason not to advocate approaches that lead to more loss.

TP

To return to your opening question – Can we avoid the “text-oriented” or “reader-oriented” dichotomy? – I think we can now say that that formulation is based on a condescending attitude that assumes we know what readers want, what ‘reader-oriented’ means; essentially we assume they don’t want anything too challenging, and that hence we must give them our ‘generic mode’, as you call it, which in the end is easier for us too, since it frees us from reading the original too closely or worrying whether we’ve really got it. This approach also fits perfectly with publishers’ anxieties that translations be easy to read and hence easy to sell. The danger is that the whole project of bringing people to foreign literature begins to look like an empty piety. As a teacher these days, I must say my focus is all on reading more intensely, in fact I’ll be doing another course at the Fenysia School in Florence soon, this time directed at Italian translators and considering how to read English texts more closely when translating to Italian. My belief is that when one is really immersed in the original and really has it, feels it, then one wants to give that to the reader; at which point the famous dichotomy just dissolves. You trust the original to seduce the reader and you trust the reader to want the challenge.

This is not a beauty contest: some thoughts on the challenge of translating style

Anyone who knows me or is familiar with my work will know that I am not a paid-up member of the literal translation school. I’m also (despite rumours to the contrary!) not a fan of picking over translations in search for what may either be minor errors or sensitive adjustments to carry the original into the target language. However, I worry that the understandable emphasis on producing a translation that is a thing of beauty in its own right can lead to translators depriving readers of some of what is most essential in the source text.

This came home to me last week when I was working on a sample translation of La desaparición de paisaje, a novel by Bolivian author Maximiliano Barrientos. At first sight, the style is plain and the meaning is fairly clear. The following paragraph gives a reasonable taste. (Skip forward if you don’t read Spanish – translations and explanations are provided.)

Horas más tarde, ya bien entrada la noche, no podía dormir. Entré en el cuarto de María, me senté en una silla frente a su cama. Ella respiraba con dificultad por todos los cigarros que fumaba. La observé sin despertarla: la boca estaba entreabierta, las arrugas bordeaban sus ojos. Se ahogó pero luego volvió a respirar sin dificultad, por los movimientos continuos de sus labios. Se podía deducir que sus sueños eran violentos. Acerqué mi cara y sentí su respiración, el aire caliente que exhalaba. La saliva se escurrió por una de las comisuras y manchó la almohada. Había una fiesta en una de las casas del barrio. Las canciones llegaban apagadas hasta el dormitorio de María, hasta el dormitorio que muchos años atrás había sido de mi madre. Observé por la ventana los autos estacionados en la calle. Las risas de toda aquellla gente se mezclaron con las voces de los cantantes mexicanos de cumbias que siempre cantaban sobre amores no correspondidos, amores que acaban mal, amores perdidos.

Before I show you my initial attempt at this passage, I’m going to highlight three of the salient features of Barrientos’ style:

  • the combination of short, grammatically complete sentences into lists that are separated only by commas
  • the deliberate use of ambiguity, as a result of concise – at times almost cryptic – phrasings
  • a description of physical phenomena that is at once very concrete and at the same time slightly abstract: as if the person experiencing them does so at one remove.

As a translator, I always try to get input from colleagues, and I find it particularly useful for this kind of stylistically challenging text. So I sent my first draft to fellow translator Nat Paterson for developmental editing, and here’s what I got back (comments below):

HSeveral hours later, long after night had fallen,I couldn’t get to sleep. I went into María’s room and sat on a chair next to her bed.Her breathing was laborious because of all the cigarettes she smokedHerbreathing was laboured because of all the cigarettes she smoked. I watched her without waking herup: her mouth was slightly open,there were wrinkles all around her eyeswere surrounded by wrinkles. She choked, then began to breathe easily again[JIWP1] , and from the way her lips moved continuously, I could tell she was having disturbing dreams. I brought my face close to hers,let myself feelingher warm breathas she exhaled. Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth, leaving a damp patch on the pillow. There was a party in one of the neighbouring houses. The music was a muffled noise  here, ofthe music could be heard in María’s bedroom, the bedroom that – many years before – had also[JIWP2] been my mother’s many years before. I looked out of the window,at the cars parked in the street outside. The laughter of the partygoers mixed with the voices singing Mexican cumbias[JIWP3] , telling as always of unrequited love, of love affairs that ended badly, of doomed love.


 [JIWP1]Not clear when she was breathing easily before.

 [JIWP2]Or by ‘also’, do you mean that they used to share the room? I take it the music is only muffled here, not where it is being played?

 [JIWP3]The voices of the partygoers or of other people? Are the songs or the voices ‘telling’? Is there any significance to Mexican music in a Bolivian novel?


As you’ll see, Nat picked out a few bum notes in my translation, and also unfailingly put his finger on everything that sounded odd. (That’s exactly what I asked him to do – and I specifically told him not to worry about the source text or attempt to second-guess points where an unnatural phrasing might be justified by the source text.)  He also had a few queries of the sort that will hopefully occur to the intelligent reader when they encounter an unusual or unfamiliar text.

But this left me with a dilemma. Should I attend to these comments and adjust the translation to make it sound less ‘strange’, more ‘flowing’, more ‘natural’? Should I resolve some of the ambiguities? Should I ditch some strange phrasings in favour of more natural ones?

Here’s my final version (draft 5):

Several hours later, well into the night, I couldn’t sleep. I went into María’s room, I sat on a chair next to her bed. Her breathing was laboured because of all the cigarettes she smoked. I watched without waking her up: her mouth was slightly open, wrinkles surrounded her eyes. She choked then began to breathe more easily again, from the way her lips moved continuously I could tell she was having disturbing dreams. I brought my face close to hers, feeling her warm breath as she exhaled. Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth, making a damp patch on the pillow. There was a party in one of the neighbouring houses. The muffled songs reached María’s bedroom, the bedroom that many years before had also been my mother’s. I looked out of the window at the cars parked in the street. The laughter of the partygoers mixed with the voices of the Mexican cumbia singers who always sang of unrequited love, love that ended badly, doomed love.

In some places I simply took Nat’s advice on board, but generally his comments prompted me to look back at the source to see what was going on there. And as I did that, I realized there were a number of points where I’d drifted away from the source text in a desire to make my translation sound a bit more ‘natural’ but where I was, as a result, losing the style of the original.

Let’s start with some minor changes in wording:

long after night had fallen

well into the night

her eyes were surrounded by wrinkles

wrinkles surrounded her eyes

saliva… leaving a damp patch

saliva… making a damp patch

she … began to breathe easily, and from the way her lips moved…

she … began to breathe easily, from the way her lips moved…

In each of these, I’ve replaced something more natural with something that it is more unusual. I wouldn’t die in a ditch for any of these translations, but cumulatively I’d argue that they are actually a better reflection of the style and feeling of the source text – or, to put it another way, choosing the more conventional options would in some sense betray the original.

The following example involved slightly more extensive rewording but the principle is the same. 

the muffled noise of the music could be heard in María’s bedroom, the bedroom which…

the muffled songs reached María’s bedroom, the bedroom which…

The original was “las canciones llegaban apagadas” (literally, “the songs arrived muffled” – although there’s nothing particularly odd about the Spanish structure here). My initial draft was an attempt to find the most natural way to say this in English, while also avoiding a repetition of “song”, which appears in a later sentence. I think it’s not bad at all: a nice example, if you like, of not getting too hung up on the source language structure.

However, I decided to cut it back for two reasons. Firstly, Barrientos’ style is quite laconic, and to capture it one really has to keep the English as concise as possible. Of course, sometimes a bit of expansion is inevitable – but in this case I think it is unnecessary. More importantly, though, my initial version refocuses the sentence, directing the reader’s attention towards the music, introducing an unspecified listener (who hears the music), and distracting the reader from the bedroom, which is actually the real focus of the sentence. So here, my ‘natural’ translation introduces a series of minor shifts which, taken together, significantly alter the focus and feel of the sentence.

In the following example, I had again introduced some stylistic tweaks at first draft – “telling” to avoid repetition of “sang”, omission of the singers (ditto), addition of “affairs”, and repetition of the word “of”:

the voices singing Mexican cumbias telling as always of unrequited love, of love affairs that ended badly, of doomed love

the voices of the Mexican cumbia singers who always sang of unrequited love, love that ended badly, doomed love

Again, I was quite pleased with my initial translation, and in one sense it’s more natural: it avoids repetition (“singing” + “telling” rather than “singers” + “sang”), the addition of “affairs” arguably helps to make “love [affairs] that ended badly” feel a little more at home in English, and adding “of” again helps to clarify that there are different kinds of “loves” (ones that are unrequited, ones that end badly, and ones that are doomed) not one single kind (which simultaneously is unrequited, ends badly and is doomed). But the cumulative impact of this is to rob the original of some of its feeling. There is a repetition of “canciones”, “cantantes” and “cantaban” in the original; if I replace this (as I did at first draft) with “noise”, “singers” and “telling” then the effect is lost.

Now all of these might seem quite minor. Until we remember that this is a short paragraph in a full-length novel. The impact of applying all these naturalizing tweaks throughout the text would undoubtedly be to transform the style of the original (laconic, unusual, occasionally dissonant) into something much more ‘natural’ and flowing. And that brings me onto my main point.

There is an understandable tendency among literary translators to stress the importance of target language writing skills, to argue that the translated text must stand on its own two feet, even – perhaps – to be somewhat dismissive of the whole issue of accuracy or fidelity. That’s all fine, but only up to a point. As translators, we also have a duty to the source text (obviously) and that duty must surely extend to seeking to find ways to carry the style of the source into the target language. But we can only do that if we attend very closely to the author’s specific choices, and at times that must mean that we should reject translations that are natural, flowing or simply ‘prettier’ in favour of ones that are not. Literary translation is not a beauty contest.


Please contact me if you would like to see an extended sample of this translation.


You can find out more about La desaparición del paisaje, and read an interview with the author here.

Entrevista con Maximiliano Barrientos

Maximiliano Barrientos es autor de La desaparición del paisaje (Periférica, 2017). Hablé con el sobre su novela, la traducción y la literatura en general.


TG: La desaparición del paisaje es uno de esos libros que parece sencillo: la historia de un hombre de 32 años, que vuelve a Bolivia después de 12 años en EE.UU. Pero cuando intento describirlo a amigos y compañeros me aturullo. Me doy cuenta de que, a pesar de ser relativamente corto (unas 270 páginas) y tener una trama más o menos sencilla, toca muchos temas. ¿Me lo puedes resumir en pocas palabras?

MB: El más explícito de todos es el del regreso, lo que significa volver al lugar en el que sucedieron las experiencias importantes y también el lugar de donde el personaje huyó, ya que la novela parte de esa huida no narrada. Hay una problemática en todo regreso porque uno vuelve al espacio físico pero no al espacio mental, emocional, donde sucedieron esas cosas. Uno vuelve al lugar, pero no al pasado (este aparece todo el tiempo como un espectro). Por lo tanto, el pasado es otro de los temas importantes de la novela. El tercer gran tema, a mi parecer, es la familia, especialmente la relación entre padres e hijos, y la lucha que los hijos emprenden cuando se ven amenazados por los demonios de los padres. En esa lucha creo que se aborda la construcción de la masculinidad, de cierto tipo de masculinidad, que procesa la pérdida desde la rabia y desde la violencia.

TG: Una de las cosas que me encanta cuando me pongo a traducir un texto -que en este caso solo consiste en una muestra hasta ahora- es que me obliga a leer con mucha atención. Confieso que no soy un lector particularmente atento por naturaleza (¡dicho de otra manera, soy vago!), pero cuando empiezo a traducir me fijo en todo: la puntuación, las ambigüedades, los pequeños silencios, el ritmo de los diálogos. Es como si, por arte de magia, me hubiera convertido de repente en una especie de lector superdotado. Al traducir las primeras 15 páginas de La desaparición del paisaje, me di cuenta de que tu estilo -que a primera vista parece sencilla- también es bastante idiosincrático. ¿Me puedes comentar como concibes tu estilo, en qué consiste?

MB: Concuerdo. Es interesante como traducir nos obliga a ser lectores puntillosos, yo he tenido una experiencia muy discreta y totalmente amateur traduciendo algunos cuentos de autores como Peter Orner, Aimee Bender, Mary Gaitskill y Rick Bass para un taller de creación literaria que imparto desde hace algunos años. Como quería comentar algunas cuestiones estructurales de ciertos relatos, y como no había traducción al español, yo les pasaba el original y adjuntaba la traducción que había hecho.

Creo que el estilo no se escoge, siguiendo a la gran Flannery O’Connor, es un don, algo innato, con lo que uno se topa en algún momento después de innumerables fracasos, después de innumerables lecturas en las que intuyes lugares por los que no querés irte como narrador. Ayuda más al estilo descubrir qué cosas detestas en ciertos escritores que descubrir qué cosas adoras. La educación literaria es un campo de batalla en el que hay que tomar partido por un bando o por otro, no hay neutralidad.

El estilo es un descubrimiento, pero sin el aprendizaje del oficio queda amorfo. Se lo potencia con el oficio, y supongo que ese es el aprendizaje del escritor. A mí me interesa que el lenguaje produzca la ilusión de la experiencia, induzca una vivencia en el lector, y para ello tiene que invisibilizarse y convertirse en una cadencia, en un ritmo, en una respiración que esté al servicio de ciertas imágenes claves. Lo primero y más importante para mí es la imagen: el lenguaje trata de traducirla.

TG: Que yo sepa, antes de leer La desaparición del paisaje solo había leído una novela boliviana en mi vida: Los afectos, de Rodrigo Hasbún (traducido al inglés con el título Affections, por Sophie Hughes y publicado por Pushkin Press). ¿Te sitúas dentro de una tradición literaria boliviana, o más bien dentro de algo más amplio: la literatura latinoamericana o incluso en lengua española, sencillamente? ¿Hay algún escritor en particular que ha tenido mucha influencia en tu trayecto como autor?

MB: Creo que es difícil hablar de una tradición boliviana o latinoamericana ya que bajo esa etiqueta se asocian a escritores que no tienen nada que ver entre sí, que tienen poéticas muy distintas, contrapuestas. Yo me siento en deuda con ciertos escritores bolivianos, latinoamericanos, norteamericanos y europeos. Si tuviera que hacer algo así como una tradición, las puntas de lanzas serían poetas como Jaime Saenz, Viel Temperley y Zbigniew Herbert. Novelistas como William Faulkner, J.G. Ballard, Vladimir Sorokin, Cormac McCarthy y Juan José Saer. Cuentistas como Raymond Carver, Denis Johnson y Mariana Enríquez.

El concepto de tradición estrictamente literario no puede mapearse por territorios sino por afinidades con el imaginario y con la sensibilidad, y por lo tanto no hablamos de estructuras sólidas sino de estructuras movedizas. Un escritor no siempre pertenece a un mismo linaje: se producen rupturas en el tiempo.

Si lo pensamos desde una perspectiva territorial, la tradición funciona más en términos de lobby. Si un escritor mexicano o argentino publica una novela la tendrá mil veces más fácil que uno ecuatoriano o boliviano, eso por el mismo sistema de producción, por la misma infraestructura. ¿Se aborda con la misma expectativa una novela escrita por un paraguayo que una escrita por un colombiano? Sería absurdo pensar que sí. Todo el sistema está montado para favorecer a las tradiciones fuertes.


Este es el texto original de la conversación que mantuve con Maximiliano por email. Figura en inglés en este artículo, que ofrece una reseña La desaparición del paisaje, acompañada por una traducción de las primeras 12 páginas de la novela.

Y aquí escribo sobre el reto que supone intentar captar el estilo de Maximiliano Barrientos al traducirlo al inglés.

La desaparición del paisaje (Maximiliano Barrientos)

Published by Periférica (Cáceres, Spain). 272 pages.

The process by which some books make it into English and others don’t has always struck me as a bit of a mystery. I’ve read a lot of great novels in Spanish over the last year and I’m reluctant to choose favourites but if you allowed me to choose one text that I think really ought to be translated into English, then La desaparición del paisaje by Maximiliano Barrientos would be my selection.

I spoke to Maximiliano about his work, and also about translation and writing in general. The interview is followed by a synopsis of the novel and a brief sample translation. A longer sample is available on request.


TG: La desaparición del paisaje is one of those books that seems fairly straightforward: the story of a 32-year-old man who returns to Bolivia after 12 years in the United States. But whenever I try to describe it to friends and colleagues, I get tongue-tied. I realize that – although it’s fairly short (270 pages) and doesn’t have a particularly complicated plot – it touches on a lot of different issues. Could you sum it up in a few words?

MB: Perhaps the clearest theme is return: what it means to go back to the site where one’s formative experiences occurred, the place from which the character has escaped – and this escape forms the starting point for the novel, even though it is not actually recounted. Returning is always problematic, because the person who has left comes back to a physical location but cannot return to the mental and emotional space where these events took place. You can return to a place but you can’t return to the past (and it is this past that haunts the entire novel). So the past is another of my novel’s key themes. The third major theme, in my view, is the family and, in particular, the relationship between fathers and sons, and the struggle that sons embark upon when they are threatened by their fathers’ demons. This struggle is one of the sites where masculinity is constructed: or rather, a particular type of masculinity, one that processes loss through a prism of rage and violence.

TG: One of the things I love when I sit down to translate a text – which, in this case, is just a short sample so far – is that I am forced to read much more closely. I have to admit that I’m not a particularly attentive reader by nature (to be blunt, I’m lazy!), but when I translate I suddenly notice everything: the punctuation, the ambiguity, little silences, the rhythm of the dialogues. It’s as if I’d been magically transformed into some kind of super-reader. When I translated the first 15 pages of La desaparición del paisaje, I realized that your style – which at first impression might strike the reader as quite plain – is actually full of idiosyncrasies. Can you tell me about your style, what characterizes it?

MB: You’re right. The way that translating a text forces you to become a more attentive reader is interesting. I’ve experienced this even as an amateur, translating short stories by authors such as Peter Orner, Aimee Bender, Mary Gaitskill and Rick Bass for a series of creative writing workshops that I’ve been running for a number of years. I wanted to discuss some structural aspects of several short stories, but they hadn’t been translated into Spanish, so I gave participants the original text along with my own translation.

I don’t think style is something you choose. I’d agree with the great Flannery O’Connor who described it as a gift, something innate, something you eventually discover after countless failures, after countless readings in which you intuit the existence of places that you don’t wish to explore as a narrator. To be honest, it’s more helpful to identify what it is you loathe about some writers than to identify things that you love. A literary education is a battlefield, one where you have to choose sides, where there’s no such thing as neutrality.

Style is something you discover, but if you never learn your craft then your style remains baggy and shapeless. You strengthen it as you practise. I guess you can think of it as an apprenticeship that writers need to serve. I’m interested in how language can produce the illusion of experience, so that the reader feels they have actually lived it, and to achieve this the language has to become invisible, to convert itself into a cadence, a rhythm, a breath which is at the service of certain key images. For me, the image is what comes first, what’s most important: language seeks to translate it.

TG: As far as I know, before I read La desaparición del paisaje I’d only ever read one Bolivian novel in my life: Los afectos, by Rodrigo Hasbún (translated into English with the title Affections, by Sophie Hughes, and published by Pushkin Press). Would you place yourself within a Bolivian literary tradition or within something wider: Latin American literature, for example, or simply literature written in Spanish? Are there any individual writers who’ve influenced you heavily as an author?

MB: I don’t think we can really talk of a Bolivian tradition – or even a Latin American one, in fact, because that’s a label which is applied to writers who really have nothing in common, whose style and poetics are very different, diametrically opposed even. I owe a debt to certain writers, whether they are Bolivian, Latin American, North American or European. If I had to identify with a particular tradition, it would be with poets such as Jaime Saenz, Viel Temperley and Zbigniew Herbert. Novelists like William Faulkner, J.G. Ballard, Vladimir Sorokin, Cormac McCarthy and Juan José Saer. Short story writers such as Raymond Carver, Denis Johnson and Mariana Enríquez.

You can’t map a strictly literary tradition geographically; instead, such traditions are based on affinities around imagery and sensibilities, so we’re not talking about solid structures but ones that are in constant flux. Because a writer doesn’t belong to a single lineage: over time, the line breaks.

And if we look at it in geographical terms, then tradition really operates more like a lobby. If a Mexican writer or an Argentine writer publishes a novel, it will be a thousand times easier for them than it would be for an Ecuadorian or a Bolivian writer, because of the production system and the infrastructure. Does a novel written by a Paraguayan arouse the same expectations as one written by a Colombian? It would be ridiculous to think that was the case. The whole system is constructed to favour strong traditions.


Synopsis

La desaparición del paisaje  (The Disappearance of the Landscape) is set in the city of Santa Cruz, and is narrated by Vitor Flanagan, recently returned to Bolivia at the age of 32, having left his homeland when he was 20. Vitor’s mother died when he was still a child, and as he grew older Vitor gradually realized that leaving was the only way to avoid turning into his father, a violent alcoholic who was overwhelmed by his wife’s death.

However, by the time Vitor returns to Bolivia, after 12 erratic years in the United States, he has lost contact with everyone who loved him: María, his father’s widow, a kind of substitute mother, and a silent witness to the family’s gradual disintegration; Fabia, Vitor’s sister, who harbours a profound resentment towards her brother for disappearing from her life, for having forgotten about the rest of them; Laura, his former girlfriend, who is married to another man; and Alberto, his best friend at school.

Upon returning to Bolivia, Vitor seeks to undo the effects of the past: taking justice into his own hands and exacting vengeance on a rapist whose attack he failed to prevent many years earlier; reviving an old affair only to be abandoned, in turn, by his former lover; and trying to care for the ageing alcoholic uncle who was in love with Vitor’s mother. But the past can never simply be forgotten or undone, emotions cannot simply be overcome, wounds may heal but the scars remain.

Author data

Maximiliano Barrientos was born in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia, in 1979. His short story collection, Diario (2009), received the Santa Cruz National Literature Prize. His first two books – Los daños and Hoteles – were subsequently edited, revised and transformed into the short story collection Fotos tuyas cuando empiezas a envejecer and the novel Hoteles. Both titles were published by Periférica in 2011.

In 2015 he published La desaparición del paisaje, also with Periférica, as well as the collection of short stories titled Una casa en llamas, published by El Cuervo in Bolivia and by Eterna Cadencia in the rest of Latin America and in Spain. His most recent novel is En el cuerpo una voz, a dystopic fable set in a post-civil war Bolivia that has collapsed into chaos and violence. He lives in Santa Cruz. Maximiliano Barrientos is represented by Indent Literary Agency

Sample translation

I hugged María and looked at the armchairs and I realized that it was in one of these that she had found my father dead one morning in 2003.

Your room’s just the same, take your things through and then come and we’ll have something to eat, she said.

I don’t want you to tell Fabia I’m back.

Leave your things and come through here, I’ll cook you up some jerky with rice, you can’t have had majao for years.

I’ll go and see my sister, I said, just not right now.

There’s no hurry, get yourself settled in and then we’ll have some lunch. You must be starving.

I took my bags and went through to the room that had been mine as a kid. The house was in good condition, there were no damp stains on the walls, no peeling paint falling off at the slightest touch, no termites in the timber. Lying on the single bed I listened to María coughing and moving things about, getting the plates out and cooking, doing what she always did, as if this day was no different from any other. I closed my eyes and wished for sleep to come, to blot out everything for a few hours.

The first afternoon following my return to Santa Cruz, when María was out doing the weekly shopping, I let myself into her room and looked through my father’s things. She had kept his clothes on the wardrobe shelves, she hadn’t given them away. There were also bottles with dregs of whisky in his old hiding places. I opened them and sniffed. They smelled of my father. He died of a heart attack. María called me in Chicago to give me the news, I hadn’t spoken to him for two years because of a stupid argument. She said she’d found him dead one morning in the living room. She said my father looked like he was asleep but when she saw him she knew he was dead. I was twenty-one and I’d arrived in the Windy City fifteen months earlier. I didn’t go to the funeral. Instead, I stayed in the States and didn’t talk about his death to anyone. I didn’t speak to María again until a week before I returned, almost ten years after I’d heard the news of my father’s demise.

I lay on the bed and stayed there for a few hours until María found me asleep. She was carrying bags from the supermarket. She said my name. I stood up and apologized.

It doesn’t matter, she said.

I saw his clothes, you didn’t give them away.

I don’t have to, it doesn’t bother me.

And the bottles.

It doesn’t matter, she repeated.

Did he carry on drinking so much, right to the end?

He drank but he didn’t fight anymore. He was old.

When I didn’t reply she said:

Why don’t you try on the clothes? I’m sure they’ll fit, you’re the same size.

His clothes and his bottles were still there. The shoes he wore, his wallets, his cigarette lighters, his old razor. Things that could be piled up, collected, put away in a chest. The same thing happened when my mother died in 1989, when I was nine and Fabia was six.

Please contact me if you would like to see an extended sample of this translation.


If you’re interested in reading about how I approached the challenge of trying to reflect Barrientos’ distinctive style in my English translation, please take a look at my blogpost – This is not a beauty contest: some thoughts on the challenge of translating style.

“Teaching style”: talking to Tim Parks about teaching translation

During the course of this year, I’ve blogged on a range of topics, including translation criticism, collaborative development, theatre translation and client queries. But always, when writing, I’ve had in my mind former translation students from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Although I only taught there for three years, that experience made a huge impact on me, and much of my subsequent writing and collaboration with colleagues is to some degree an attempt to fill the gap that was created when I moved to Cadiz in the south of Spain (which would have made for a rather long commute).

Another inescapable feature of my year in blogging has been Tim Parks. Whenever I’ve talked about translation criticism in particular, his name has cropped up. In fact, sometimes one gets the impression from fellow translators that all Tim Parks does is criticize other people’s translations. I know that’s not true. He also praises them, writes about the business of literary translation in general and reviews both fiction and non-fiction, translated and otherwise. He writes novels and non-fiction of his own. And, of course, he’s translated some of the biggest names in Italian literature: Calvino, Moravia, Leopardi, Machiavelli and, right now, Pavese. He teaches at IULM University of Milan, and I see that in January he’s going to be teaching a new ‘check-up’ course, whatever that might mean, for translators in Florence.  

 So it seemed appropriate to round off my blog for this year by talking to Tim Parks about teaching translation: what can and can’t be taught, how he approaches it, whether it makes any difference…

TG: In your writing about translation, it’s obvious that you set great store by a close reading of the source text, one that pays attention to register, style and nuance. How much of this, I wonder, can be taught?

TP: Well, I wonder that too, just as I always wonder how much one can teach a person to write in a creative writing class. What you can do is invite people to read texts more carefully, with method, being aware of the kinds of pleasure they give the reader and how they deliver them. I’ve always felt it was crucial when translating to have a strong sense of why the work you’re translating is good, why it makes sense that someone wants this in my language. Over twenty and more years of doing this with students in Milan, I’ve noticed that some get the point and learn rapidly, others slowly, others not at all. So although close reading is only a starting point, I think at least that can be fostered in a class. Of course then there’s the problem of how the reading you’ve done is going to drive the writing you have to do when you actually start translating.

TG: I’m intrigued by how that works in practice. Let’s take a concrete example. I’m assuming one of the things you ask your students to do is to translate extracts from novels. Do you talk about the source text independently, requiring students to read the whole book first? Or do you jump straight into the translation but then discuss it, and the challenges it poses, in relation to a close reading of the text? In other words, what is the relationship between reading the source text and writing the translation?

TP: In the second year course I’m teaching now in Milan, second year postgrad that is, I’m alternating between genre and ‘serious’ fiction. We start with chick lit, since after they graduate this is the kind of thing young translators in Milan get asked to do. We read the opening pages of the book we’re looking at. We think about the genre and how it works, above all the relationship of complicity it sets up between narrative voice and reader, the kind of humour, how local or otherwise it is. We translate a page or so and discuss the various versions. Then we look at the first pages of three or four famous chick lit books (on PowerPoint) and see how they’ve been translated and what the publishers want, what the criteria seem to be when it comes to choices about realia and idioms and so on. Then we translate a bit more of our book and go back over what we’ve already done. Each week they do a bit more and send it to me for homework. I put all their versions side by side and send them back to all of them. So they can all see what the others are doing and how I reacted. So they get used to criticism, my famous criticism. I put examples up on a PowerPoint of different versions. And so on. In general, we have fun.

After about a month, that is four or five lessons (three hours each), we shift to a different book, this time literature, but literature dealing with the same issues as the genre fiction. For example, after the chick lit, we look at Letty Fox, Her Luck by the wonderful Christina Stead about a young woman in New York in the late 1940s. Again the same process. But with the added intrigue now of establishing the differ­ence between this and the chick lit: above all, Stead’s far more sophisticated use of irony, far more complex relationship with the reader. We look at a published trans­lation after we’ve done our own version, and think about whether it is as good as it could have been. And the student begins to sense, or some of them do, how their writing strategy has to adapt to the nature of the text they’re working from. For example, maybe they’ve really enjoyed getting the voice of the chick lit, finding the right colloquialisms in their Italian, the right feel, then they try to do the same thing with Christina Stead and it just muddies the waters. It’s still a colloquial voice, but the register and the relationship with the reader is quite different. It’s a different aesthetic. So they have to think again.

TG: I’m going to come back to some of that in a moment. But before we get onto the issue of how students (or any translators) put things into their target language, I’d like to probe you about the role of the source language. My Spanish is pretty good. I’m not fully bilingual but I occasionally ‘pass’ and I’m generally very comfortable in the language. Even so, I’d say that some of the things you mention here – narrative voice, humour, irony, register – are the trickiest things to pick up. (Even native speakers sometime miss them.) How do you address that in your teaching? Obviously you can explain these things for texts you’re working on in class, but you won’t be able to hold students’ hands once they graduate.

TP: Going right back as far as St Jerome or Roger Bacon or Leonardo Bruni, commentators on translation have always pointed out the problem posed by the need for deep competence in the source language. You think you know the language, but you don’t. There are things you’re missing. And yes, of course, even in our native language we miss things; literature is so much less important in our culture now that many readers are only competent up to a point. For sure I can’t give my students in seventy hours of lessons the English they need to translate well. But I can show them some exciting text, let’s say the opening of Middlemarch, and look at a few Italian translations. And they can see who’s got what, who’s missing what and where they’re trying to place the work in the Italian literary context. And they’re alerted to the immense and wonderful problem of language complexity, which is what makes literature so exciting, of course, its depth, subtlety, nuance. Once alerted, it’s up to them. Some of them will run with it, and grow much more aware, learn what they need to learn, others will be daunted. Thinking back on my own years in Italy, nearly forty now, I’m aware of how little at the beginning I really felt or grasped the tone of this or that. Translation is something you grow into.

TG: This is a slight digression, but I have to say I’m envious of the amount of time you seem to be able to dedicate to teaching and feedback. When I was teaching I had to really make a case for the need for individual feedback on everything my students did. And the amount of hands-on translation practice could have been doubled, even tripled, and I still would have wanted more. But I felt I was in competition – a losing battle, even – against institutional pressures, the demands of other courses, theory, research methods…

TP: I hear you. Young people come out of a first degree, do a Masters in translation, hoping to work in the field, and the universities hit them with ‘translation studies’, much of it interesting but a lot of it mere ideology, and very little of it practical. Perhaps this is because they have students from many different countries and it’s hard to work with all of them on the same translation, from this language to that. Plus there’s the fact that it takes a long time to work through your students’ homework. For years I had both first- and second-year classes (all Italian students) and was correcting – yes I’m going to use that word – and giving feedback on around fifty students’ work over the weekend. But it’s the only way.

And it’s important that they see the other students’ work too, and what I said about it. Because that way they begin to see how other people translate in different ways, how each of us has a sort of signature in the way we translate. They understand each others’ strengths and weaknesses. With students obsessively close to the structure of the original, I’ll be suggesting they experiment with something more flexible; with students who love to change everything, I’ll be inviting them to make sure they’ve said exactly what the source text said, and so on. I should say that this degree also has courses in technical and commercial translation. So the students work with a wide range of texts. And this is crucial. It’s a mistake to focus entirely on the literary, at least at the beginning. You want to be exposed to the language across the board. Certainly, the ten or so years when I was translating everything from fashion shoe promos to diesel filter manuals was incredibly useful to me.

TG: Going back to the issue of close reading…  Particularly among literary translators, it’s commonplace to hear people saying “it’s the ability to write in your target language that really matters” or something along those lines. When you teach translation, do you also see yourself as a ‘creative writing’ teacher in any sense?

TP: A translator has the task of reading a foreign text for the home audience and delivering to them what he or she has read. Not creating something ex nihilo. So the creativity of the translator’s writing is not in finding anything new, but in finding a way of getting that original text to happen in the target language. As we all know, when translating, the biggest obstacle to writing well (Luther said this wonderfully) is the syntax, structure and lexical segmentation of the other language. We know that the text won’t go ‘straight’ into our own language. So we have our work cut out. On the other hand, everything we decide to put down, we should do so with our experience of the original in mind. That’s our job. My impression is that many translators write poorly because they haven’t really grasped what the original is saying, or how it is saying it. It’s not easy to write if you don’t know quite what you’re supposed to be doing, if you’re filling in, papering across the cracks in your knowledge.

This was the burden of my famous, perhaps infamous, article on Stuart Woolf and Ann Goldstein’s translations of Primo Levi. Because they didn’t really grasp the idiomatic nature of what they were translating, they were writing poorly too. Once you’ve really understood, it might not be easy to get the text into English, but it’s a lot easier. At least you know what you’re doing. And that’s the kind of writing I’m trying to teach. Let’s focus on what the original deeply means, and the flavour of how it was said, and let’s experiment with different ways of having that come out in our language. Above all let’s avoid adopting a style that we think suits our publisher and our market, regardless of what’s actually in the original. This is all too common today and makes a mockery of the pieties of bringing cultures together.

TG: You probably know from my blog and elsewhere that I’m passionate about collaborative arrangements, with translators critiquing each other’s work, sharing ideas, getting together for workshops and so on. Some of the benefits of that are obvious: you receive constructive input that helps you to improve your translations and hone your skills. But there are also other less obvious benefits. I actually learn a lot from reviewing my colleagues’ work, not just because I’m lucky to work with some very talented translators but also because the whole process of thinking about what does and doesn’t work in someone else’s translations gives you a different perspective. Do you have any thoughts about the less immediate benefits of translation teaching, both for students and for teachers?

TP: For sure it’s good to have a few people you can rely on when you run into trouble with a translation, and you can always learn from looking at other people’s work and seeing what they’re up to. I’ve learned an immense amount from teaching; partly from the need to analyse the texts when I’m preparing lessons – that’s where the book Translating Style came from after all – but also from the students themselves, who often see stuff I’ve missed, and who naturally write far better Italian than I do. Which is chastening! One problem with seeking help from others, though, particularly when you’re translating a difficult author, is that you can’t expect the other person to be as deeply into the text as you are, and you can end up losing evenness of style if you start accepting suggestions left, right and centre.

In this sense it’s a good idea to distinguish between class­room or workshop situations where you’re learning and a situation where you have a serious job to do and you have to be the expert yourself. It’s hard, for example, to ask for help trans­lating Pavese because his style is so strange, so knotty and allusive, that people who don’t know it really can’t help. Then there’s a great difference between collaborating with native speakers of the language you work from and collaborating with native speakers of your own language. I’m used to teaching Italians, but I must say I’m rather excited to see what’s going to happen with this new course in Florence, where I’ll be working with professional translators into English. Hopefully, I’ll have much to give, but also lots to learn. One’s never too old to learn a new trick or two. And it’s only fresh learning that keeps you excited about your work.

Release your inner critic: how embracing criticism could make you a better, happier translator

I was recently invited to take part in a panel discussion organized for the Translators Association* on the topic of reviewing literary translations. Having spent much of 2018 earning myself a reputation as someone who was not afraid to voice unpopular ideas, I had been asked along to ensure that the proceedings were not too sedate.

Translators Association panel discussion. Photo (c) Ian Giles

I have to admit that I was expecting a torrid evening of being grilled for daring to criticize one of Ann Goldstein’s translations in the Guardian or for suggesting that, just maybe, literary translators shouldn’t be monstering Ben Moser on social media because he didn’t like a book that other people had enjoyed. Perhaps I would even be forced to defend the dastardly Tim Parks!

The evening  was expected to address such questions as the following:

“How should reviewers critique translations? Who should do the reviewing? How do you assess a translation without knowledge of the source language? When does constructive criticism become destructive? How do you identify a ‘bad’ translation? What constitutes a ‘bad’ review? Is it pedantic to cherry-pick awkward choices, or necessary to support an opinion?”

I confess that such questions leave me at best indifferent and at worst suspicious. Who are we, as translators, to start issuing guidelines for reviewers? And are these questions, just possibly, merely a thinly veiled attempt to suppress negative commentary of any sort?

My own preference would be for us to embrace criticism, both from reviewers and from colleagues. Indeed, I would actually go further and say that self-criticism, the constructive criticism of colleagues, and the disinterested criticism of reviewers are absolutely essential for our professional development, and for creating authentic relationships with our peers and with our readers. The alternative is to live in a world of puff pieces and phoney praise.

But I knew that things were going to go well when Ros Schwartz, chairing the discussion, kicked off proceedings by quoting approvingly from Tim Parks’ latest article in the NYRB. (Okay. I’ll admit to a slight twinge of disappointment. I rather liked the idea that the English had become so soft that they’d been reduced to flying a Scotsman in from Spain whenever they wanted an argument. You can take the man out of Scotland…)

Instead of grappling with just where to draw the line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ criticism, a consensus quickly emerged that literary translators have been far too sensitive about this issue recently, that it was time to grow up a little (grow a pair, even) and not get our knickers in such a twist whenever anyone says something vaguely negative about our work. (I suspect that if we’d been holding this event in the United States we might have spent longer – or even the whole evening – wallowing around in the swamp of policing precisely what criticism is and isn’t acceptable to the powers that be; thankfully, this was London, not New York.)

My fellow panel members – translator and editor, Sophie Lewis, and book reviewer, Nick Lezard – helped ensure that the debate was not marred by the oversensitivity that so often characterizes such discussion online. And perhaps the biggest contribution of all came from the audience, who moved affairs in a rather unexpected direction, one that just happens to coincide with my own particular passion (obsession even): the importance of peer review and collaborative working, to improve not just the quality of our translations but the quality of our professional relationships.

In that spirit, I would like to suggest three ways in which literary translators could incorporate criticism into their daily practice.

1. Start a three-way collaborative partnership

For the last two years, I’ve had an ongoing collaborative partnership with two colleagues: VictoriaPatience and Simon Berrill. We take turns to review and comment on each other’s work, we get together (via Skype) for a monthly translation slam, and we share advice and support via email and WhatsApp. It’s been a source of training, professional support and deep personal friendship, all rolled into one.

If you’re interested in exploring this idea, I’d suggest linking up with a couple of like-minded colleagues in your language combination. (They need to be people who you trust and respect, people who will share their work and their opinions honestly, people who will take and receive criticism in a constructive spirit.)

I’d then suggest sharing short excerpts from early drafts of your work. (The earlier the better, before you get locked into choices and interpretations.) Comment on these in the spirit of developmental editing – basically, identifying anything that is unusual, strange, interesting, impressive, and using that as the basis for discussion (either in the form of an annotated copy of the translation – or through email or via Skype). Here is an example of the incredibly helpful comments I received from Victoria on a first draft of a sample I translated when I was pitching Potosí for translation. (If you want to see the final English version – The Mountain That Eats Men – you’ll just have to buy the book.)

And, to keep it varied – and also just because it’s great fun – choose a text for all of you to translate once a month or so, then meet in person or via Skype to discuss it. If you love translation and enjoy talking about it but perhaps suffer from the isolation that can affect us all, this is really the best remedy. And there’s nothing like explaining why you’ve made certain choices and defending them against somebody else’s choices to really hone your skills.

We co-authored an article in the ITI bulletin about our partnership. And we also have a Facebook group to provide ongoing support for colleagues who’ve been inspired by our example. If you’re interested, please get in touch with me via my contact form or through social media.

2. Peer review in a safe online forum

This idea came out of the audience, and I think it probably needs a bit of collective input for it to happen. However, I guess it might operate along the following lines:

  • any literary translator working into a given target language (English for most readers of this, I guess) joins a closed online forum, which is lightly moderated and open to approved members
  • my preference would be for a closed group on Facebook, but it could also be a bespoke forum hosted elsewhere or even an email group
  • members post a translation they are working on, along with the relevant source text, and invite comments
  • I’d suggest sharing work at early (or even first) draft stage; obviously this is a question of preference, and I know some translators never share their early drafts, but against that I’d argue that it’s much easier to accept and incorporate criticism of work that is still a long way from being finalized
  • other members of the group post their comments in the form of an annotated version of the translation
  • these, together with the original translation, provide the basis for an ongoing discussion.

We’d obviously need some basic guidelines, but I think you could summarize these as follows: be respectful, be truthful, be helpful. (So no nastiness, but no empty praise either. And suggestions only if you think they would genuinely improve the translation.) Or, if you prefer the short version: don’t be an arsehole!

3. Bringing a critical edge to the translation slam

Translation slams have, quite rightly, grown in popularity over recent years, both for general audiences – at literary festivals and other events – and in more specialist contexts – within the framework of conferences, workshops and summer schools. (For anyone not familiar with the concept, a ‘translation slam’ is where two translators work on the same text, and present the results in front of a live audience, typically with a third translator chairing proceedings to keep the discussion on track. Sometimes with the author also involved. Audience participation optional.)

I think slams are a really powerful tool for engaging with members of the general public, and also provide a great platform for discussing our craft among ourselves. At such events, we generally (and understandably) avoid the notion that a translation slam is about comparison and criticism (whose translation is better, whose solutions are right or wrong), in favour of more open-ended discussion and appreciation.

But I do think that the notion of criticism, in the broadest sense, could help take translation slams to the next level. Here are a couple of suggestions:

Comparing a published translation with an unpublished alternative

When slamming for a general audience (e.g., at a literary festival), instead of just choosing an interesting piece from whatever book fits with the festival’s wider programme, what about comparing a published translation with an alternative version of the same passage? It’s quite likely that the published version (having been through more versions, editing and so on) would be better. And that in itself would be interesting and informative. And it would also be exciting for readers to see how even the ‘definitive’ translation reflects just one possible solution; to see how, in someone else’s hands, the whole book might have come out quite differently.

I know that some translators will be wary of the idea of exposing their work to this kind of scrutiny, but without such exposure it is impossible to truly engage readers. And I think we overestimate the risks. I’m pretty sure any minor loss of face caused by finding an embarrassing slip in your work or just feeling that you weren’t quite on point when producing that particular translation will be outweighed by the kudos and recognition you’ll earn from putting yourself out there in the first place. And that’s before we consider the huge benefits for your own skills and self-confidence that you get from taking part in such events. 

Thematic slams

To add a bit of focus, I’d also suggest selecting a passage that embodies a particular challenge: dialogue, physical description, cultural references or whatever. That would help take the slam beyond just observing that “these translations are different” and would allow the audience to really see how translators solve problems, how these solutions may differ widely and, yes, how some solutions may indeed be more convincing than others. (This thematic slam could be combined with the ‘published vs. unpublished’ comparison suggested above, or used in the more traditional format of two translations which have both been produced from scratch for the purposes of the event.) 

I think the thematic approach could be particularly good for events that occur within a professional context (conferences, workshops) but I also think that general audiences would appreciate it. If general audiences are already impressed by the fact that the different translations are, well, different, imagine how they’ll react if we open up the whole process a bit more, showing how we grapple with particular problems, how these problems are susceptible to different solutions – and how these solutions may vary. Hell, at this rate translators will be the new rock stars!

*Reviewing Translations, Translators Association, Free Word Centre, London. 13 November 2018. Organized by Charlotte Collins, Ruth Martin and Catherine Fuller.

Some people liked a book, someone else didn’t…

Am I the only one to feel uncomfortable with the rather fierce response to Benjamin Moser’s critical review of Katie Briggs’ This Little Art? I understand that people have strong feelings both about the book and about Moser’s review, but much of the response on social media reminds me of seagulls attacking a holidaymaker on the seafront.

And the ‘open letter’ to the New York Times strikes me as – frankly – rather odd: the ‘great and the good’ of the literary translation community declaring one of its members persona non grata. To my mind, an open letter is for an issue of public interest, not because some people liked a book and someone else didn’t. The invocation of status (“even after our many collective decades active in translation and translation studies”), the personal nature of the criticisms (“condescension”, “misogynistic”) and the list of signatures at the bottom all detract from rather than add to the force of the letter’s arguments.

More widely, I really worry for a community that responds to a critical review in this way. It sets up a particular approach and a particular way of writing about translation as an orthodoxy and, worse than that, raises the threat of ostracism against any individual who dares to challenge that orthodoxy. In that context, intellectual debate becomes impossible.

I have no intention of commenting on This Little Art publicly at the moment. I would, however, urge you to read it for yourselves. Support the publisher by purchasing it direct from their website:

https://fitzcarraldoeditions.com/books/this-little-art

I would also encourage people to read Benjamin Moser’s review. For what it’s worth, his review inspired me to read the book:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/28/books/review/kate-briggs-this-little-art.html

And finally, here’s the open letter:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/07/20/books/review/letters-to-the-editor.html