{"id":145747,"date":"2020-06-25T10:24:53","date_gmt":"2020-06-25T14:24:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=145747"},"modified":"2020-07-06T09:22:29","modified_gmt":"2020-07-06T13:22:29","slug":"the-untranslatable","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/06\/25\/the-untranslatable\/","title":{"rendered":"The Untranslatable"},"content":{"rendered":"

The poetry in the Summer 2020 issue<\/a> hails from Portugal, Uruguay, Iran, France, India, China, Lithuania, and the United States. To celebrate the range of this work, we asked the translators responsible for bringing these poems to our pages to explain a particular challenge they faced in the process of translation. As Margaret Jull Costa says in her Art of Translation interview<\/a>, \u201cThere\u2019s something so very intimate about poetry and about the process of translating it.\u201d The following essays in miniature attest to this delicacy.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Translating from a Romance language (Portuguese) to a Germanic one (English) always involves the choice of how Latinate to sound. The English language derives\u00a0both\u00a0<\/em>from Latin and German and often offers two words for every idea. One can say \u201cHoly Spirit\u201d or \u201cHoly Ghost,\u201d \u201csacred\u201d or \u201choly,\u201d as Jorge Luis Borges reminds us, and most words representing abstract ideas stem from the Latin while the majority of words exemplifying concrete ideas come from the Saxon. In a newspaper article, the choice may be irrelevant; in a poem, the choice matters.<\/p>\n

One such instance in our translations of Ant\u00f3nio Os\u00f3rio is the noun serpente<\/em>, which may be rendered as serpent<\/em> (from Latin) or snake<\/em> (from Proto-Germanic). In the poem \u201cCrater of the Beginning<\/a>,\u201d we chose the former, whereas in \u201cThe Circus<\/a>,\u201d we opted for the latter. In \u201cCrater of the Beginning,\u201d the serpent is a mythological symbol in the biblical sense, so it is obviously the tempter in the book of Genesis that best fits the translation. In modern English, the word snake<\/em> gradually replaced serpent<\/em> in popular use, so we considered snake<\/em> the more appropriate noun in \u201cThe Circus,\u201d given the poem\u2019s modern-day context. Our choice of the monosyllabic word snake<\/em> also accomplishes three things: it renders the sense of immediacy, it fills the reader\u2019s imagination with circus-related stunts, and it acts out onomatopoetically the hissing sound (the sn- <\/em>consonant cluster) of the limbless, scaly, elongate reptile.<\/p>\n

Finally, the Portuguese verb estava<\/em> (meaning \u201cwas\u201d) in the last line of \u201cThe Circus\u201d provides another example of the Latin-versus-Germanic choice. Unlike English, the Portuguese language has two separate verbs for to be<\/em>: ser <\/em>and estar<\/em>. If we were to succeed in transmitting the intensity of the poem\u2019s final image, we needed an alternative to the ordinary meaning of estava<\/em>. We needed a muscular verb capable of specifying the seductive nature of the scene. By opting for the verb stand<\/em> to refer to the position of the snake, we conferred strong physicality to an otherwise lukewarm verb, and we let its presence assume an upward movement within the poem itself, as if it would spiral up through the preceding lines of the poem and subsume it all into itself. In addition, the sibilant consonants (snake<\/em> and stand<\/em>) enact the hiss, which in turn enhances the uneasiness, thus making vivid what is only latent in the Portuguese. \u2014Patricio Ferrari and Susan Margaret Brown, translators of Ant\u00f3nio Os\u00f3rio\u2019s \u201cCrater of the Beginning<\/a>,\u201d \u201cSeptember<\/a>,\u201d and \u201cThe Circus<\/a>\u201d\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018Adam<\/em> is an Arabic word (\u0639\u062f\u0645) that signifies the absence of existence or being; it lends itself to being translated as nonbeing<\/em>. While the word \u2018adam<\/em> itself isn\u2019t particularly untranslatable, centuries of religious, literary, and social history are shorn off in the seemingly simple journey from \u2018adam<\/em> to nonbeing<\/em>. \u2018Adam<\/em> was a source of dispute among Islamic theologians who debated whether it is a space that exists separate from God or whether it is the liminal space in which God holds his creations before they become manifest in the world.<\/p>\n

On the other hand, Sufi mystics flirted with the idea of transcending wuj\u016bd<\/em> (existence) and passing into the realm of \u2018adam<\/em>, rendering earthly existence immaterial. What, then, was the relationship of this realm to a union with God, they wondered? In mystical poetry, \u2018adam<\/em> came to signify an ontological paradox\u2014a space defined by its absence and perhaps inhabited by the mythical, fabulous bird, the \u2018anq\u0101<\/em>, which exists only in nonexistence. Mirza Ghalib, the foremost nineteenth-century Urdu poet, uses \u2018adam<\/em> in his ghazals to describe a lover\u2019s state of metaphysical despair that exceeds the bounds of this world.<\/p>\n

In \u201cNonbeing<\/a>,\u201d a strikingly new and modern take on \u2018adam<\/em>, Miraji builds on seven centuries\u2019 usage of the word to explore man\u2019s relationship to existence. He deploys an ontological paradox, meditating on the idea of existence by focusing on nonexistence\u2014that is, \u2018adam<\/em>. Unlike in its previous usage, Miraji personifies \u2018adam<\/em> as \u201calive and breathing,\u201d and in another unprecedented departure, he also makes it dependent on the speaker (presumably a human) for its existence.<\/p>\n

The title of this poem in Urdu is \u201cAdam k\u0101 khal\u0101<\/em>\u201d\u00a0(\u201cThe Void of Nonbeing\u201d). The khal\u0101<\/em>,\u00a0or void, houses \u2018adam\u2014<\/em>that is, nonbeing exists in a nonspace, which is simultaneously material and immaterial. The poem collapses the distinction between \u2018adam<\/em> and khal\u0101<\/em>; therefore, as translators, we make an artistic and literary choice of using only \u2018adam<\/em> in the English title of the poem to signify nonbeing. While it is not possible to convey the textures and history of this word in the poem\u2019s translation, we hope this explication of the various metaphysical, theological, and philosophical underpinnings of \u2018adam<\/em> will allow the reader to appreciate the complex ways in which Miraji reinvents it.\u00a0\u2014Krupa Shandilya, Zara Khadeeja Majoka, and Noor Habib, translators of Miraji\u2019s \u201cNonbeing<\/a>\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The word Spring<\/em>\u00a0(Manantial<\/em>) appears in the third stanza of Silvia Guerra\u2019s \u201cPresumption of Heaven<\/a>\u201d: \u201cThe clear water spills over\u2009\/\u2009and sinks into the Spring itself, water in water.\u201d This word draws attention to itself due to its capitalization. After accepting the poem, one of the editors asked us to make it lowercase\u2014in The Paris Review<\/em>\u2019s house style, seasons are lowercase. The thing is, Spring<\/em>\u00a0is not a season here (primavera<\/em>)\u2014it\u2019s a spring of water (manantial<\/em>). For us, this was a delightful \u201cfound in translation\u201d moment, as the double meaning of the word spring<\/em> does not exist in Spanish. However, evoking the season of spring makes sense in the context of the poem, which begins with \u201cthe dry, black branches of winter seen in flight\u201d that \u201crun singing.\u201d We are invited to \u201cCome here to drink\u2009\/\u2009translucent drops on fresh leaves.\u201d It is a springtime invitation, even though the season is never named in the original.<\/p>\n

Our conversation with the editor about the word also signals another \u201cuntranslatable\u201d feature of Guerra\u2019s work: her tendency to capitalize certain words\u2014often nouns but sometimes verbs or adjectives\u2014in the middle of a phrase. In publishing her work elsewhere, we have found that editors often ask us to lowercase her words, to normalize them somewhat. Indeed, the sudden capital letters are jarring, and they are even stranger in the original Spanish, a language that uses capitalization much less frequently than English. They are simply a part of the author\u2019s poetics, causing certain words to jump off the page and draw attention to themselves in unexpected ways. This stylistic feature seems unique to Guerra and, in that sense, untranslatable. \u2014Jesse Kercheval and Jeannine Marie Pitas, translators of Silvia Guerra\u2019s \u201cPresumption of Heaven<\/a>\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Forough Farrokhzad\u2019s \u201cAfter You<\/a>\u201d is a love elegy addressed to the year she turned seven, a year that marked the loss of childhood and its innocent joys. It\u2019s a set of scenes and images that describe a collective descent into the darkness of experience, in Blake\u2019s sense of the word. The poem\u2019s vocabulary and syntax are largely straightforward.<\/p>\n

The word m\u012bz<\/em>, table, and its plural form, m\u012bz-h\u0101<\/em>, appear in six of the fourth stanza\u2019s seven lines. Although the word repeats in each line, its meaning and connotation shift in ways that reflect the evolving sophistication of the speaker\u2019s younger self. Farrokhzad anchors these lines on the recurring word m\u012bz<\/em>\u00a0and marks the evolution of the girls\u2019 lives with only adverbs and prepositions. English can\u2019t replicate that. A literal translation of the lines would be as follows (in Persian, the verb arrives at the end of a clause or sentence):<\/p>\n

After you our play area that had been under the table
\nfrom under the tables
\nto behind the tables
\nand from behind the tables
\nto the tops of the tables moved
\nand on the tops of the tables we gambled\/played cards
\nand we lost, your color we lost, O seventh year<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The word m\u012bz<\/em> is more fluid than the word table<\/em>. Embedded in phrases, it can also mean desk or dinner place, but such clarifying words are missing in lines two through five. In English, m\u012bzh\u0101<\/em> had to change from tables<\/em> to desks<\/em> as the little girls grow up and go to school; and to remain desk<\/em> of a different sort as the girls go to work; and then, when they are adults, to become card or gaming tables\u2014by which time the word play<\/em>, from the stanza\u2019s opening line, has acquired a different, less innocent meaning. The speaker has witlessly gambled away the colors of her childhood, and from here, the poem moves from innocence into the dark world of experience, a world of protest, repression, violence, and death. \u2014Elizabeth T. Gray Jr., translator of Forough Farrokhzad\u2019s \u201cAfter You<\/a>\u201d and \u201cWindow<\/a>\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In Baudelaire\u2019s \u201cLa fausse monnaie<\/em>,\u201d which I have rendered as \u201cFake Money<\/a>,\u201d the poet is outraged when his companion gives a counterfeit coin to a beggar. Translating the poem, I aimed for a coherent and well-written narrative rather than a literal version.<\/p>\n

The phrase la criminelle jouissance<\/em> in the last paragraph is difficult to translate because we have no English equivalent of jouissance<\/em>. The standard definition, enjoyment, leaves out the secondary sense of the word, sexual climax. Critical theorists have made much of jouissance<\/em>\u00a0and connected the term itself with a transgressive impulse.<\/p>\n

My initial solution: \u201cjoyous criminality.\u201d Thus, for the French Je lui aurais presque pardonn\u00e9 le d\u00e9sir de la criminelle jouissance dont je le supposais tout \u00e0 l\u2019heure capable<\/em>, I had: \u201cI might almost have acquitted him for desiring the experience of joyous criminality that I once supposed him capable of.\u201d This is exact, if clumsy, and on further thought, I concluded the clause with the word criminality<\/em>\u00a0and dropped the rest: \u201cI might almost have acquitted him for desiring the experience of joyous criminality.\u201d<\/p>\n

All along, I was undecided between this formulation and one that put a greater value on narrative speed. In the end, I decided on the latter: \u201cI might almost have acquitted him of the criminality I have charged him with.\u201d In tonality and succinctness, this is superior, though the gain in clarity sacrifices the concept of \u201cjoyous criminality\u201d or perhaps \u201ctransgressive joy\u201d that Baudelaire champions in a number of his prose poems (gathered under the title Spleen de Paris<\/em>). Were I to publish a group of my translations, it would be with notes and an introduction addressing just such an issue as this.<\/p>\n

I keep making changes in my translations, even after they have been published, as it is the bane of the translator\u2019s life to keep discovering ways he or she can improve upon what he or she has done. The work is endless. But if we can communicate something of the flavor of a great writer, even at the cost of a significant nuance, the gain is great.\u00a0\u2014David Lehman, translator of Charles Baudelaire\u2019s \u201cFake Money<\/a>\u201d and \u201cGet Drunk<\/a>\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Among nontranslators, there appears to be something of a fascination with the \u201cuntranslatable,\u201d and yet a translator cannot really entertain the possibility that there are such things as \u201cuntranslatable\u201d words because, apart from anything else, we don\u2019t translate just words<\/em>; we translate voices and soundscapes and rhythms. Anyone with a smidgen of Portuguese will doubtless ask: \u201cWhat about saudade<\/em> then? Is there an exact English equivalent for that?\u201d Well, yes, there are various possible translations depending on the context in which the word is used. But I digress.<\/p>\n

To return to the three poems by Alberto Caeiro included in this issue, I don\u2019t think there was anything I felt to be untranslatable. What is perhaps difficult about Caeiro generally is his unnervingly plain language; one has to rein oneself in and respect that plainness. One instance when I perhaps departed from that is in the seventh line of the first poem<\/a>, where I have translated Toda a paz da Natureza sem gente<\/em>\u2014which means, literally, \u201cAll the peace of Nature without people\u201d\u2014as \u201cAll the peace of peopleless Nature,\u201d thus inventing an adjective, peopleless<\/em>, to replace sem gente<\/em>. Too poetic? In my defense, I would say that this version has a voice and a rhythm that the literal translation lacks. It also has the bonus of adding alliteration (so key to English-language poetry), as well as echoing the susurrous quality of paz<\/em>\/Natureza<\/em>\/sem<\/em> in the Portuguese. Maybe this illustrates what I meant when I said that translators don\u2019t just translate words. Each line requires the translator to make decisions not just about meaning but, above all, voice. Is this translation true to the author\u2019s voice? Answers to that question will vary with each translator.<\/p>\n

Another example of the kind of choices the translator has to make is the forty-ninth line of the same poem: \u201cSa\u00fado todos os que me lerem<\/em>\u201d becomes \u201cI salute all those who\u2019ll read me.\u201d My cotranslator, Patricio Ferrari, pointed out that when Fernando Pessoa was working on the Caeiro poems, he had already read Walt Whitman, and salute<\/em>\u00a0is, of course, one of Whitman\u2019s favorite words. Indeed, Walt stands before us in the very next line: \u201cTaking off my broad-brimmed hat to them\u201d! The translator is, first and foremost, a close reader of a text, and untranslatability is not the issue uppermost in our minds, but, rather, the adventure and privilege of carrying that text over into our own language. \u2014Margaret Jull Costa, cotranslator of Alberto Caeiro\u2019s \u201c1.<\/a>,\u201d \u201c68.<\/a>,\u201d and \u201c93.<\/a>\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Explore the Summer 2020 issue.<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We asked the translators responsible for our Summer 2020 issue\u2019s poetry to explain the challenges they faced in the process of translation.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[18642],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-145747","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-inside-the-issue"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Untranslatable by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"We asked the translators responsible for our Summer 2020 issue\u2019s poetry to explain the challenges they faced in the process of translation.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/06\/25\/the-untranslatable\/\" \/>\n<meta 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