Terminology
gets complicated when a poem is rendered into another language.
Before
dealing with the thorny issue of the difference between a version and a translation,
it’s worth clarifying another term that gets far too much snotty treatment: literal translation. Its original
meaning referred to a mistake that some translators make in their work by
working word by word without forming language into semantic blocks and setting
off from there. A consequence is that sense is often lost and an
incomprehensible text results, such as in the case of certain dishwasher instruction
manuals.
In the
above context, the use of the term literal
translation is clear and precise. However, it’s also thrown pejoratively at
literary translators who do their utmost to stick close to the text, trying to
stay in the background as much as possible. Its original meaning thus gives us
the impression of a translator who’s leading us astray by lacking imagination
or creativity. Instead, such an approach is hugely demanding on the translator
and involves a rigorous method. Moreover, it’s no more and no less valid than
the following term: interpretative
translation.
In the
interview with Michael Hofmann that I discussed last week, he provides an excellent
description of how an interpretative translator approaches a text:
“One of his guiding principles for translating,
he says, is to avoid the obvious word, even if it is the literal equivalent of
the original. When the opening page of a Roth novel contained the word Baracke, he insisted on going with “tenement” rather than “barracks”. In the
second paragraph of Hofmann’s version of Metamorphosis, Gregor Samsa doesn’t ask “What happened to me?” (Was ist mit mir geschehen?), but “What’s the matter with me?”. He liked the phrase, he says,
because it sounds like someone having trouble getting up after a heavy night.”
“Nobody will notice, but you have taken a step
back from the original. You have given yourself a little bit of self-esteem, a
little bit of originality, a little bit of boldness. Then the whole thing will
appear automotive: look, it’s running on English rather than limping after the
German.”
At this point, it’s useful to take Hofmann’s quote and
compare it with statements from Don Paterson about how he worked on Antonio
Machado’s verse, the key point being that Paterson eschewed the word translation and opted for version.
“…these poems are versions, not translations. A
reader looking for an accurate translation of Antonio Machado‘s words, then,
should stop here and go out and by another book…
”… literal translation can be useful in
providing a snapshot of the original, but a version — however subjectively —
seeks to restore a light and colour and perspective…”
Is
Paterson thus using version as a
synonym of figurative translation? Or
is he simply allowing himself greater scope for individual creativity, using
Machado’s verse as a point of departure. A close analysis of the Spanish and
English texts shows that the latter is the case.
In other
words, there’s an argument that a progressive line can be drawn, starting at the
original: from literal translation to
figurative translation and on to version. Of course, there’s an
inevitable grey area in each case as to where one begins and another ends.
All
these attempts to find answers lead us back to the start: maybe all
translations are versions, maybe all translators are traitors. Once again, it’s
a question of terminology.
