{"id":150911,"date":"2021-02-11T09:00:35","date_gmt":"2021-02-11T14:00:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=150911"},"modified":"2021-02-10T18:05:53","modified_gmt":"2021-02-10T23:05:53","slug":"stopping-the-void","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/11\/stopping-the-void\/","title":{"rendered":"Stopping the Void"},"content":{"rendered":"

Ottilie Mulzet on how her adoptive heritage lead her to a life of and in translation.<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Learning a language is a kind of practice, as anyone who\u2019s ever learned one will tell you. It has its own drills, milestones, peaks, and valleys. Its own rituals, such as repeating phrases aloud three times so they will register in your ears, the choreography embedded into the interface of tongue and palate. The reverberations echo in your skull\u2014even if forgotten five minutes later, a residue remains. One ploughs through printed dictionaries and delights in their idiosyncrasies, which are missing from the online versions. There are \u201cfound poems\u201d in certain dictionary entries. There\u2019s pleasure in the way the language lives on your tongue, in your throat, each language residing there differently.<\/p>\n

As someone who, as an adoptee, had to perform identity, I am continually fascinated by the ways identity shifts within, and in between, languages.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Growing up, I felt bereft of narrative. English was the language I spoke; Canada\u2019s bilingual policy meant I had cursory French lessons in school, and I heard smatterings of Yiddish from older adoptive relatives (I always wanted to hear more). The notions of \u201cmotherland\u201d and \u201cmother tongue\u201d are not anything I relate to. If anything, it was the English words I read that suckled me\u2014but these words weren\u2019t my mother. There were two mothers, one flesh-and-blood and present, the other absent, a vague image. One was Catholic, the other Jewish; one pregnant out of wedlock, the other married. The enforced secrecy of my birth mother\u2019s identity enshrouded her in a taboo from which I recoiled, as from some amorphous void. That void had made me, but it could also swallow me up. I had been \u201crescued\u201d from it, and what could be more ungrateful or unwise than to go rushing back to the disaster from which you\u2019d just been rescued?<\/p>\n

When adoptees choose to search, it is so that their shadowy parents might be granted real-life outlines. If this never happens, the parents remain amorphous, taking up undue space in one\u2019s mind, eternal shape-shifters.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

My birth mother must have felt that confronting me, the resurrected ghost, would threaten the life she\u2019d made for herself. When I finally gathered up the courage to search for and contact her (keeping a promise I\u2019d made to myself when I was five), she refused to meet me. She cited, through her friend or lover, \u201cemotional difficulty,\u201d \u201can inability to open up the past.\u201d After issuing these statements, she again fell silent, and maintained that stance until her death some sixteen years later.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve often tried to imagine what it could have been like for her, giving birth to a baby only her friends knew about (surely her Hungarian immigrant parents did not), most likely under twilight, and then returning to her rented flat. Her breasts filled up with milk; she went back for an injection to dry them up. Then, a couple of months later, she showed up to sign the relinquishment papers, a lawyer at her side.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

The void, instead of filling up with people, began to fill up with sounds: that of the Hungarian language, which I encountered in person for the first time in the late eighties. The nonidentifying information I had received from the governmental agency had read:<\/p>\n

Your mother\u2019s background was Hungarian.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This was presented to me as if it were the only information I would ever need to know about her. It also stated: \u201cBoth her parents had died three years previously in an automobile accident.\u201d I cranked reel after reel of old newspaper microfiche before realizing there had been no accident: she wanted her parents out of the way, and neither the social worker who initially interviewed her nor the one who sent me the nonidentifying information almost three decades later suspected her intervention. As for Hungary itself, this land located somewhere on the other side of the then-extant Iron Curtain, I knew nothing of it.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

No one ever told me, for the first five years or so of my life, why or how I\u2019d turned up where I was\u2014they must have assumed I wouldn\u2019t have the language for it. When I was finally told, I was relieved; it explained a vague but persistently murky feeling, floating just below consciousness, of wrenching displacement (from what, I didn\u2019t know). I was special, I was told, a \u201cchosen child\u201d; details, though, were never forthcoming, and so I remained skeptical. Narrative, especially the narrative of one\u2019s coming into the world, should be rich with detail. At the very least, it requires a few concrete facts to make it feel real. Such details can help one feel at least partially grounded in everyday existence, to this earth. Ultimately, as I was later to find out, the link between my adoptive parents and my birth mother was fleeting, facilitated through an intermediary, fueled by crisis demanding speedy resolution on both sides.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Because I knew something that I did not know, and yet because I did not know that there was something I knew, I developed, from a fairly early age, a strong sense of the differentiated codes by which the world is dominated. The family I had been adopted into was a subset of one of these codes, I realized. In order to survive, I had to assimilate quickly, even as I longed for the old codes, which I had never known. My first conscious memory dates back to when I was two years old. I\u2019m looking out at the world through a white net. The window of my bedroom seems to point to a world outside. The webbing of the white net fractures the visible world into a mosaic of ill-fitting parts.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I have gone about like a magpie picking up crumbs wherever I can find them. There are a few scraps, a few random images of my mother. It\u2019s shortly after my birth; she\u2019s at a party or some gathering, sitting in a rocking chair, gazing out of the window, silent. Another fragment: she insists to the social worker that the baby will not be given to a Catholic family (the faith she was raised in). When told this is government policy, she says she\u2019d rather convert to Unitarianism. \u201cShe came with her overnight bag\u201d\u2014to the meeting at the agency, shortly before I was born\u2014\u201cand seemed very alone.\u201d I hold on fiercely to these scraps, not easily acquired when all records are permanently sealed. More than a few people have told me it\u2019s high time I stopped being so curious about my birth mother. My adoptive mother firmly believed that, after the adoption was finalized, every single record and scrap of paper pertaining to it had been burned.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

The award-winning translator Susan Bernofsky, in a recent online lecture<\/a> about working on Thomas Mann\u2019s The Magic Mountain<\/em>, said, \u201cTranslation is always a sort of storytelling, it\u2019s a way of giving an account of something you\u2019ve read in another language, and now you\u2019re doing all the voices as you sit around the campfire.\u201d The orality suggested in this definition goes back to the very root of storytelling. I relate to the idea of how the story I am conveying as a translator must physically pass through me: it enters my ears, my skull, my brain, my dreams, and leaves my body again as I generate the text in English.<\/p>\n

Perhaps the narratives I translate are something more like a transfusion, something like an IV unit attached to my brain, the steady drip of Hungarian words, something I was, I am, connected to.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m stopping up that void, flooding it with narrative. And yet these words often contain their own trauma, their own brokenness, their own fractures in narrative. Strangely enough, speaking this brokenness\u2014the brokenness of the world\u2014through the writers I translate, feels vaguely redemptive.<\/p>\n

And perhaps this fragmentation\u2014this bricolage in place of a \u201cself\u201d\u2014is, in its own way, useful to me as a translator. There are many places for something to leak in. The poet Szil\u00e1rd Borb\u00e9ly, whose work I have translated since the early millennium and who was a cherished friend, often used the image of a fissure or a crevice in his work. When I was working on his Final Matters: Selected Poems, 2004\u20132010<\/em>, one of my editors commented on this to me. I came to feel that for Borb\u00e9ly the image of the fissure was a slight interstice where redemption, whatever that might be, some possibility of future grace, might glance in. Similarly, I\u2019ve come to see that the cracks in my own narrative, comprised as it is of pieced-together, ill-fitting fragments, are places where the world can slip in through language, and I can join it there. For that, I am grateful.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em>Read Ottilie Mulzet\u2019s translation of \u201cThe Puppet Theater<\/a>,\u201d by Gy\u00f6rgy Dragom\u00e1n, in our Winter 2020 issue.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Ottilie Mulzet is a Hungarian translator of poetry and prose, as well as a literary critic. She has worked as the English-language editor of the internet journal of the Hungarian Cultural Centre in Prague, and her translations appear regularly at Hungarian Literature Online.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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