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Apologia for Translations
By Brendan O'Kane, published February 11, 5:26p.m.
A while back, I came across a poem Vladimir Nabokov wrote, in Onegin stanzas, justifying his decision to render Eugene Onegin in blank verse. I don't necessarily agree with him that all translations must of necessity be inferior to the original works -- more on this, perhaps, in a future post on David Hawkes and John Minford's masterful translation of 红楼梦 -- but the poem does nicely state the dilemma faced by any translator:
On Translating Eugene Onegin 1 What is translation? On a platter A poet's pale and glaring head, A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter, And profanation of the dead. The parasites you were so hard on Are pardoned if I have your pardon, O, Pushkin, for my stratagem: I traveled down your secret stem, And reached the root, and fed upon it; Then, in a language newly learned, I grew another stalk and turned Your stanza patterned on a sonnet, Into my honest roadside prose-- All thorn, but cousin to your rose. 2 Reflected words can only shiver Like elongated lights that twist In the black mirror of a river Between the city and the mist. Elusive Pushkin! Persevering, I still pick up Tatiana's earring, Still travel with your sullen rake. I find another man's mistake, I analyze alliterations That grace your feasts and haunt the great Fourth stanza of your Canto Eight. This is my task--a poet's patience And scholastic passion blent: Dove-droppings on your monument.
Comments
From Giles' "Gems of Chinese Literature". (I searched a line at a time in Google Books eg. http://books.google.com/books?q="And+twisted+to+the+uses+of+a+book"+giles&btnG=Search+Books )
Dear Land of Flowers, forgive me! - that I took These snatches from thy glittering wealth of song, And twisted to the uses of a book Strains that to alien harps can ne'er belong.
Thy gems shine purer in their native bed Concealed, beyond the pry of vulgar eyes; Until, through labyrinths of language led, The patient student grasps the glowing prize.
Yet many, in their race toward other goals, May joy to feel, albeit at second-hand, Some far faint heart-throb of poetic souls Whose breath makes incense in the Flowery Land.
Well remembered!
Stephen O, February 12, 5:21a.m.
D'oh! Should've thought of that. Thanks, Stephen!
Brendan, February 12, 7:10a.m.
Ha! I love "dove-droppings on your monument".
Nice to see you back on the beat, Brendan.
Froog, February 12, 8:54p.m.