Wednesday, 12 August 2015

Against Impossible Translations





e começo aqui e meço aqui este começo e recomeço e remeço e arremesso
e aqui me meço quando se vive sob a espécie de viagem o que importa
não é a viagem mas o começo da por isso meço por isso começo escrever
mil páginas escrever milumapáginas para acabar com a escritura para
começar com a escritura para acabarcomeçar com a escritura por isso
recomeço por isso arremeço por isso teço escrever sobre escrever é
o futuro do escrever sobrescrevo sobrescravo em milumanoites miluma-
-páginas ou uma página em uma noite que é o mesmo noites e páginas
mesmasm ensimesmam onde o fim é o comêço onde escrever sobre o escrever é não escrever sobre não escrever e por isso começo descomeço pelo
descomêço desconheço e me teço um livro onde tudo seja fortuito e
forçoso um livro onde tudo seja nada esteja seja onde umbigodomundolivro um umbigodolivromundo um livro de viagem onde a viagem seja o livro
o ser do livro é a viagem por isso começo pois a viagem é o comêço
e volto e revolto pois na volta recomeço reconheço remeço um livro
é o conteúdo do livro e cada página de um livro é o conteúdo do livro
e cada linha de uma página e cada palavra de uma linha é o conteúdo
da palavra da linha da página do livro um livro ensaia o livro
todo o livor é um livro de ensaio de ensaios do livro por isso o fim-
comêço começa e fina recomeça e refina se afina o fim no funil do

This wall of incomprehensibility constitutes the first 20 lines, or versicles (in the ecclesiastic sense of the word) of the first section of Haroldo de Campos’ experimental tour de force. Between 1963 and 1976, publishing it piecemeal in transient magazines, he composed Galáxias, a powerful potpourri of poetry and prose. A travelogue on the surface, the real journey takes the text to the far end of verbal iconoclasm as Haroldo (known by his first name in Brazil) does away with plot, character, social responsibility and message to focus on language. Brother to so many writers of the time who became suspicious of realist literary conventions (or as he calls it, “orthocento realism”), he set out from the creed that “writing about writing is the future.” For the duration of the book, anyway, he seemed to believe that and created a remarkable work of metafiction that has itself as its subject and destiny.

Physically, the book exhibits a special care and presentation: it is composed of fifty sections, each with a variable number of versicles that never exceeds a whole page; the verso of each section is blank, a deliberate and meaningful choice since the text explores the lacunae between words and readers, the space where the books comes to life as the reader frees himself from it and lets it drift towards the readership. The first and last sections are in italics and have a fixed position, although in theory a shuffling of the middle sections would permit a very high number of permutations that altered interpretations – the ideal edition would allow the reader to move pages around like fascicles. Although in prose, you can see that the lines don’t go all the way to the end of the right margin, but vary in size like verses. The text eschews capital letters and punctuation, and the reader must decide where a sentence ends and another one begins. The first words give the impression of starting in mid point: “e começo aqui” means “and I start here,” which is perhaps the first of many jokes since the use of a lowercase letter gives the impression that in fact something precedes it. That something (for this book invites entering the realm of wild associations), may be something as simple as the author’s awareness of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake’s influence upon his text:

"riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."

In 1962 Haroldo and his brother, Augusto, took a crack at translating this untranslatable book into Portuguese: the result became a book called Panorama de Finnegans Wake.

Reading Galáxias and other altiloquent, magniloquent, inaniloquent, explaterating gasconades strewn with galimatias written by parisologists and other morologists recently has made me think about the fact that some literature resist translation, that some texts, springing from an author wanting to use the unique qualities inherent in a given language, welding themselves so strongly to its fabric, risk damage on attempts to separate them. And such books exist quite a lot in English. 


I think, for instance, of Christian Bök’s Eunoia, a collection of lipograms. A well-behaved lipogram has trained itself in the art of deliberate aphasia, forgetting a letter or a set of letters for ludic reasons. In organizing his book, Bök divided it in five chapters, each chapter using only words with one specific vowel; for example, Chapter A opens with this text:

"Awkward grammar appals a craftsman. A Dada bard as daft as Tzara damns stagnant art and scrawls an alpha (a slapdash arc and a backward zag) that mars all stanzas and jams all ballads (what a scandal). A madcap vandal caps crafts a small black ankh – a handstamp that can stamp a wax pad and at last plant a mark that sparks an ars magna (an abstract art that charts a phrasal anagram). A pagan skald chants a dark saga (a Mahabharata), as a papal cabal blackballs all annals and tracts, all dramas and psalms: Kant and Kafka, Marx and Marat. A law as harsh as a fatwa bans all paragraphs that lack an A as a standard hallmark."

For its control and virtuosity, for  its elegance and natural flow, the whole book deserves ardent accolades. A quality I notice that Bök shares with Haroldo and the others I deal here is the use of foreign words (fatwa, ars magna) and wordplay (Kant/Kafka, Marx/Marat). These writers who seem so unconcerned with the translatability of their work actually show proficiency in, or at least curiosity about, foreign languages: they see far beyond the parameters of theirs and deal with language beyond a mere species rank, to use a biological analogy here, instead they go up to kingdom rank. Much like an ecologist may not differentiate between animal and plant, this writer doesn’t see the distinction between words and onomatopoeias is like that. We may take the famous example from Finnegans Wake:

"The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy."

Bök’s book leads me to two thoughts: firstly, that it can’t be translated; secondly, that something similar can’t be created with the Portuguese language, at least not without tremendous effort, and perhaps not even so. The barriers to a translation stem, in part, from the differences that always exist between two languages. But to mind what Bök is also using specific attributes of his language, attributes that don’t exist in Portuguese. For one thing, Bök takes full advantage of English’s simple morphology, namely its fewer conjugations and declensions. As a general rule, verbs in the present tense add an –s at the end to change the person; the past tense gets an –ed; nouns and adjectives, to form a plural, use the –s ending too. Things don’t work like that in Portuguese. An English speaker may decline stanza as stanzas, but, let us say, avatar turns into avatares. Bacchanal just needs that extra –s, but bacanal turns into bacanais. For reasons lost in time, the Portuguese language abhors pairing consonants together, so it constantly wedges them with vowels. The fact that English words tend to be monosyllabic also means they have less vowels per word and so less chances of different vowels per word. So it’s no surprise that Bök uses monosyllables so much: bard, daft, damn, art, scrawl, arc, zag, mar, jam, cap, craft, black, ankh, stamp. This also implies using few Latinate words (another general rule: Anglo-Saxon-based words tend to be shorter). Furthermore, the English word has a very laidback about its look and doesn’t care how it ends. The Portuguese language, though, avoids endings in consonants: so vandal becomes vândalo, and abstract becomes abstracto. In Bök’s hands, English grammar’s poverty in comparison to Romance language’s becomes a strength that he exploits with success.

Of course Bök can’t circumvent the imposition of writing in the present tense to avoid the past tense its their –ed finales. I actually expected Chapter E to be in the past tense, but the author kept it coherent throughout the book. Once again, the idea of finding equivalents in Portuguese is a pipe dream. A literal translation, obsessed with semantics, would not fare very well and would sink in a quagmire of nonsense in no time. Haroldo dos Campos had an interesting for this. As a celebrated translator, he gave much thought to the matter of translating those difficult beasts. He coined the world “transcreation” for the operation of adapting the book to the target-language. In essence he proposed creating an original text using the qualities of the new language. But even so, even taking many liberties, in Bök’s case it would be very difficult to maintain his restraints and produce something. Bök had to use the present tense to stay safe, but that wouldn’t help a Portuguese translator.

A verb like falar (to speak) once conjugated ruins everything: eu falo (I speak), nós falamos (we speak). A solution would be to use the third person of the plural: ele fala (he speaks) since the infinitive form and the third person of the present tense tend to have the same root: andar/anda, parar/pára, calar/cala. In other persons of the verb a consonant change indicates the change of person. This is because Romance sentences have more information than English ones, this is what allows us to eliminate pronouns and maintain clarity. I’m reminded of a point Guy Deutscher makes in Through the Language Glass: it’s not just a matter of what a language leaves out, but what it keeps in.

Another problem I anticipate in a hypothetical translation is the gender of the words. If you want to make a text just with the vowel A, that means you have to use the feminine since – another general rule –  the –a ending means feminine words: menina (girl), gaja (gal), pata (she-duck). Of course it’s more complicated than that: agma (fracture) is feminine, but agalma (decoration) is masculine. The author, in need of vocabulary, would have to mix both genres which would raise more problems, since the definite masculine article is o and the definite feminine article is a, so we’d write a agma and o agalma.

I’m not arguing it’s impossible to do a lipogram like this (I confess that, a few years ago, when I first heard of Eunoia, I tried to write single-vowel poems and quickly gave up), but it brings up many difficulties of which the English language is safe. My real point, really, is that this book is so extraordinary exactly because Bök understands the uniqueness of his language. 


Other books bring up other problems: for instance, texts that rely on sounds, on alliteration. I turn to my fresh copy of John Lyly’s Euphues (edited by Leah Scragg) and transcribe almost at random an entire paragraph

"The freshest colours soonest fade, the teenest razor soonest turneth his edge, the finest cloth is soonest eaten with moths, and the cambric sooner stained than the coarse canvas: which appeared well in this Euphues, whose wit, being like wax, apt to receive any impression, and bearing the head in his own hand, either to use the rein or the spur, disdaining counsel, leaving his country, loathing his old acquaintance, thought either by wit to obtain some conquest, or by shame to abide some conflict; who, preferring fancy before friends and his present humour before honour to come, laid reason in water, being too salt for his taste, and followed unbridled affection, most pleasant for his tooth."

Here we have a taste of Lyly’s heavily-ornate style wherein a alliterations gallop freely: freshest/fade/finest, teenest/turneth, colour/cloth/cambric/coarse/canvas. I especially admire that “stained” at the end because I didn’t really think “soonest” would grow out of its repetitive role: first it created an internal rhythm, but then it ties up the running S sound with that “stained.” Amazing too the preponderance of the C sound, how Lyly almost begins and ends the sentence with it. This is high-precision verbal engineering. The entire paragraph is. Notice how the F sound propels itself through the sentences, notice how it disappears only to reappear in the final sentence with preferring /fancy/before/friends/before/followed/affection. It’s worth remarking that between “finest” and “preferring” he never uses a stressed F syllable – it’s as if he were saving that particular sound for the end, like an echo of the beginning. Is there a reason for that? Is it a matter of design, of symmetry, mirroring beginning and ending? I don’t know, perhaps he just wanted to show – the whole book is about showing off. But it’s impressive nonetheless.

It’s impossible to translate Lyly literally, unless we change the similes and/or the sounds: “canvas” is tela in Portuguese, so that would reorganize the whole sentence; but “cambric” is cambraia, so perhaps we have to change the fabric to words with a stressed T syllable: ciclatão, cretonne, ratina, tarlatana, none of which has the attributes of cambric, of course in transcreation that would not matter. Another problem: as I’ve written before, the English language is monosyllabic, which means its sounds are not just heard but seen immediately on the page, there’s a strong, immediate connection between sound and picture. In a series of words like this – counsel, country, acquaintance, conquest, conflict – only one isn’t instantly visually perceived as having the stress on a C sound. Even words with more than one syllable tend to have the stressed one in the first place: colours, cloth, cambric, coarse, canvas. This makes it a lot easier to spot alliteration in English texts, and I wonder if its English literature’s long infatuation with it doesn’t stem from that. The Portuguese language, in turn, tucks away its stressed sounds in the middle of words.

Another characteristic derived from the monosyllabic nature of the English language is its rhythm. I only noticed this when William H. Gass mentioned George Saintsbury’s A History of English Prose Rhythm. Gass, like Lyly, holds the monopoly on alliteration, but that’s not what interests me here; the author of Middle C also speaks a lot about rhythm. Since I’m always curious to learn more about his art, I hoped Saintsbury could reveal some new facet. Now words in general tend to have at least one stressed syllable, this is what allowed the ancient Greeks to create several metric feet – trochee, spondees, molossus, and so forth. But I didn’t know that some English words could have secondary stresses. The word pronunciation, for instance has stresses in pro-nun-ci-a-tion (red for secondary, bold for primary). This no doubt allowed prose writers like Jeremy Taylor, John Donne and others to avoid combining words that would create a long string of unstressed syllables, keeping the text lively, fast, active. In fact Saintsbury sees in the variety of feet the glory of rhythm:

I had never even noticed, until I was actually writing this comment, and therefore I need hardly assure the reader that I had never, even half unconsciously, led up to the discovery, that in the above scansion no two identical feet l ever follow each other, not so much as on a single occasion. Now we have observed, from the first, that variety of foot arrangement, without definite equivalence, appears to be as much the secret of prose rhythm as uniformity of value, with equivalence or without it, appears to be that of poetic metre.


I mention this in relation to Gass because I noticed that he does the same. I believe he works his prose in a way to keep a sustained balance of stresses syllables. The least random paragraph I can use to substantiate this claim is Middle C’s first paragraph:

Mir-i-am, whom Jo-ey Skiz-zen thought of as his moth-er, Ni-ta, be-gan to speak a-bout the fam-i-ly’s past, but o-nly af-ter she de-cid-ed that her hus-band was safe-ly in his grave. His frown could si-lence her in mid-sen-tence; e-ven his smiles were curved in con-de-scen-sion, though at this time in his ab-sence, her be-loved hus-band’s vir-tues, once ad-mit-ted to be man-y, were writ-ten in lem-on juice. He had a glare to bub-ble paint, she said. Her re-col-lec-tion of that look caused hes-i-ta-tion still. She would a-ppear a-larmed, wave as if she saw some-thing gnat-ting near her face, and stut-ter to a stop. Jo-ey was helped to re-mem-ber how, at sup-per-time, for o-nly then was the fam-i-ly gath-ered as a group, the spoon would be-come still in his fa-ther’s soup, his fath-er’s head would rise to face the di-rec-tion of the of-fend-ing re-mark, his norm-al-ly plac-id look would stiff-en, and fires light in his eye. His stare seemed un-will-ing to cease, al-though it prob-ab-ly was ne-ver held be-yond the life-time of a min-ute. But a min-ute... a min-ute is so long. Cer-tain-ly it con-tin-ued un-til his daugh-ter’s or his wife’s un-easy ex-pres-sion sank in-to the bot-tom of her bowl, and the guilt-y head was bowed in an at-ti-tude of a-pol-o-gy and sub-mis-sion.

I think here we can see a care in composing sentences with a regular beat, avoiding long series of unstressed syllables. This, to my ear at least, gives the text a lively, punchy effect. I don’t presume for this scansion to be definitive; even Saintsbury held doubts about some stresses. However I don’t think minor alterations will change my claim; in fact I made a point of, when in doubt, to consider such words as the, in, of, as, etc. unstressed, so should we stress them that would actually benefit my point.

Part of this effect results from the use of secondary stresses. But when I looked it up, I learned that the Portuguese doesn’t have secondary stresses, because no can agree where they fall. A word like “unconstitutional” has 6 syllables: un-cons-ti-tu-tion-al, that helps keep that regular beat I spoke of; but in Portuguese it has 7 syllables: in-cons-ti-tu-ci-o-nal. This is problematic if we want to also translate the rhythm. Saintsbury’s writers managed to bring Greek metrical feet into prose, effectively creating the often-mentioned but seldom-seen poetic prose, thanks to innate grammatical features. That’s pretty remarkable. Doing the same in the Portuguese language, is quite hard; translating a novel by Gass (to say nothing of his relentless Lyly-like alliteration) would have to ignore this beat. It would not be a terrible loss, to my mind, but again I just want to emphasize the difficulty of translating certain characteristics.

That brings me to Haroldo de Campos’ Galáxias. The abovementioned excerpt displays many of strategies liable to entomb the book in the Portuguese language: first of all we have inner rhymes and alliteration: meço, começo, recomeço, arremesso; the use of agglutination (milumapáginas, or “mil e uma páginas,” meaning “one thousand and one pages.” Also acabarcomeçar, which connects acabar [finish ]and começar [begin]). There are also many word coinages and puns like sobrescrevo (presente tense of to overwrite) and sobrescravo (a blend of sobre and escravo, or over and slave). Other sections present other challenges: alliteration (escoria/cárie, canto/conto), tautology inside word pairs (in the sentence “lumínula de nada” the joke, I guess, is that nula and nada both mean nothing), and portmanteau-words (cascara: máscara + casca, or mask + shell). Words are paired because of similarities or because they rhyme (“arisco árido,” “coração vulcão,” “mais a calma cal a calma cal calada do primeiro momento do primeiro”). Haroldo goes particularly crazy with portmanteau-words in a section devoted to deriding newspaper writing. Galáxias is a book committed to explaining itself, and so it goes by exclusion of parts. Thus it’s very vehement in explaining to the reader that literature and journalism do not go hand in hand. Some of the words it comes up to deride newspapers are priceless, and I imagine a translator would have fun with them:

Forniculário (fornicar and foliculário: to fornicate and a noun meaning crappy journalist)

Dédalodiário (dédalo and diário: a noun derived from Daedelus that means labyrinth, and a daily)

Dromerdário (dromedário and merda: dromedary and shit)

Hebdomesmário (hebdomadário and mesmo: a weekly newspaper and the adjective same, in the sense that newspapers are always the same)

Haroldo is also aware of the difficulty of his book, therefore he schools the reader on how to read it. My favourite pun is when he frontally declares that his book is a “pestseller.” Haroldo is nothing but realistic.

From these many examples we can conclude that discovering and using the unique qualities of a given language is essential in creating literary works of superlative quality. It’s disturbing to consider how little the average writer needs to know of a language to write a book in it. A surgeon who operated with the equivalent of what such writer knows about words would kill most of his patients either out of ignorance, clumsiness or a combination of both. But in the direction of such a meticulous intimacy with language lies probable ostracism and oblivion, for it does not invite translation. Paradoxically, such writers, thanks to their use of multiple foreign languages, frequently demonstrate a more cosmopolitan frame of mind than the so-called universal writers who erase all specific features of their language in a misguided to say something that speaks to more people. For such writers language is just a nuisance that they’d bypass if only they could invent a way of writing without words, the major great enemy of the delusion of universalism.

Still it’s not a totally bleak situation. Finnegans Wake has been translated into several languages. Although it glories in its own reputation as a livre maudit, Galáxias is not untranslatable. I’d like to draw the reader attention to a handful of translations Odile Cisneros and Suzanne Jill Levine have made. These are the first 20 versicles of their version:

and here I begin I spin here the beguine I respin and begin
to release and realize life begins not arrives at the end of a trip
which is why I begin to respin to write-in thousand pages write thousandone pages
to end write begin write beginend with writing and so I begin to respin
to retrace to rewrite write on writing the future of writings's the tracing
the slaving a thousandone nights in a thousandone pages
or a page in one night the same nights the same pages
same resemblance resemblance reassemblance where the end is begin
where to write about writing's not writing about not writing
and so I begin to unspin the unknown unbegun and trace me a book
where all's chance and perchance all a book maybe maybe not a travel
navelof-the-world book a travel navelof-the-book world where tripping's the book
and its being's the trip and so I begin since the trip is beguine and I turn
and return since the turning's respinning beginning realizing
a book is its sense every page is its sense every line of a page every word
of a line is the sense of the line of the page of the books which essays
any book an essay of essays of the book which is why the begin ends
begins and end spins and re-ends and refines and retunes the fine funnel of
the begunend spun into de runend in the end of the beginend refines
the refined of the final where it finishes beginnish reruns and returns


Difficult as they may be, one must believe that there’s always an ideal translator for the book. If difficulty scares some translators away, its demands also inspires the tenacity in to devote years to solving problems of linguistic equivalence. Thinking that Julián Rios’ Larva: Babel de uma noche de San Juan could be turned from Spanish:

1 El trifolio de nuestro Roman à Klee?
Tresfoliando em nuestra folía à deux: m'atrevo no m'atrevo, trevo a trevo, hojeando las nocturnotas de nuestras bacantes, aún por cubrir ((Busca, Gran Buscón emboscado, a tus busconas em el follaje...) Ehe? Trevoé! Trevo trevoso... [Sauberes Klee! Valiente terno! Eterno... No hay folía a dos sin tres?, se preguntaba una noche el inaudito calculador de los mil alias papeleando com su bella babélica (( : Apila!, pila a pila...)) en la torre de papel. Babella, milalias y... Herr Narrator. Qui?, inquirió ella. Una especie de ventrílocuelo que malimita nuestras voces, explicó.

Into English:

1. The trifolium of our Roman à Klee?
Three-partying through our folie à deux: do I, don't I, he loves me he leaves me not, leaf by leafing through the nocturnotes of our bacchantes, back hunting buck-beans in the back cuntry. ((Seek, Dartful Lodger, your tarts in Hyde Park...)) Living in clover... [Sauberes Klee! Awesumptuous trio! This summer sum of some of the... There's no threesome folía dos? he would calculatedly ask himself one night, that highest bidder of a thousand aliases paperilously perusing papers whith his babelic beauty (( : Sing, sing, christening after christening)) in the Tower of Paper. Babelle, Milalias and... Her Narrator. Qui? she inquired. Who? A sort of ventriloquacious nut who misproduces our voices, he explained.

(Larva: A Midsummer Night's Babel, translated by Richard Alan Francis, Suzanne Jill Levine and Julián Rios)

Is not something I would have imagined possible until I discovered it. Still this is not so much a translation as what Haroldo calls “transcreation,” that is, the creation of an original text from the source, translating it to the strengths of the target-language. He devised this term precisely for problematic texts where other considerations besides semantics had to take precedence, where the form or spirit is more important than the message. In the case of the translators of Larva, what we see is a trade-off: puns in the original are dropped whereas new ones are created in English, and some are reimagined.

The pun of “tresfoliando” is sadly lost: it echoed folía (madness), and also foreshadowed the fact that the novel is three-voiced (tres = three).

The similar series of words busca/Buscón/busconas has a more complex treatment. Buscón, of course, is the name of Francisco de Quevedo’s 16th century picaresque novel The Swindler, whereas buscona means prostitute. The translators changed this pun to reference Charles Dicken’s Artful Dodger, and created a new pun that plays with the game hide and seek. The inner rhyme between terno and eterno is lost in favour of the portmanteau word “awesumptuous.”

Some jokes actually becomes harder in English: the name of the character, Milalias, is Spanish for “mil alias,” literally “a thousand aliases.” That’s clear in Spanish, but not so in the English translation. Still, there’s the addition of paperilously, which I quite love.

The word ventrílocuelo shows the difficulty of translating morphology. The world here stems from ventrílocuo (ventriloquist) but with an ending (cuelo) that means of dubious quality, mediocre. The English language has trouble with this because it’s a language almost devoid of morphological endings. In Romance languages, the way a word ends says a lot about it. Some English words, of course, retain them, like poet and poetaster (bad poet), or critic and criticaster (bad critic). In this case the English version actually means the opposite, since loquacious gives the impression he’s handy with words. The solution, usually, is to add a modifying word, in this case “nut,” which changes Herr Narrator’s personality. But like I say, in a work of transcreation the importance is to generate new puns, or preserve the existing ones, at the expense of literal meaning.

As such, more than in other cases, the reader of Larva: A Midsummer Night's Babel may very well be reading a whole new novel. This is not a consequence or a loss, it’s just a solution. As I hope I’ve shown, the English version keeps a very challenging dose of wordplay designed for its new language, and so the reader should see that as a compliment and a privilege. In principle, books like Eunoia, Euphues, Middle C, and Galáxias can achieve similar feats, provided the right translator discovers them. And we readers would have much to gain from that.

8 comments:

  1. Fascinating post which would be even more so if I had the knowledge to interrogate it. I was reminded somewhat of Beckett, who seems to move from the "moratorical fluenzy"© of his early writing towards a stripped down, deconstructed vocabulary. Language can strangle meaning as well as expand it. Sometimes if the surgeon paused to explain fully all the possible ways in which he could treat a patient and the potential outcomes and theoretical reasons behind them the patient might also die? This is in part an internal argument trying to justify writing from my own ignorance, which at this stage is intractable. But, bravo!

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    1. Thanks, Sémaus, for reading this long-winded post.

      This text comes from my current obsession with ornate, self-conscious lexiphanicism. I know I can sound a bit absolutist about stripped-down writing, but in truth there's always more of that than of the other type, so I don't think it needs my defense. With that said, stripped-down, flat-prose Kafka is one of my favourite writers.

      Pursuing the surgeon analogy will certainly reveal problems with my thinking; but the great thing about writing is that it can explain itself while being; fortunately writing is not a life-or-death matter, it's a game without winners and losers, good or bad. That ludic quality is all over the writers I mention, it's also why I like them.

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  2. One could add the problems of dialect, as in Gombrowicz's Trans-Atlantyk ...

    Meanwhile, the book I'm most looking forward to is John E Wood's rendering of Arno Schmidt's Zettelstraum (Bottom's Dream), in Finnegans Wake territory (which was recently a big hit in Chinese) (?!) ...

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    1. One could add the problems of dialect, as in Gombrowicz's Trans-Atlantyk

      I never read it; how did the translator deal with the problem?

      There was a great Portuguese novelist, Aquilino Ribeiro, who reveled in really obscure regional dialects; his vocabulary was out of this world - on the level of Alexander Theroux. One of his books was translated into English, many, many decades ago, but I don't know how that worked out.

      Another challenge is rendering old speech spatterns. Mason & Dixon's translation to Portuguese lost its pseudo-18th century flavor; I think if the translators had really tried they could have adapted it to the syntax and lexicon of our classics.

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    2. Gombrowicz's use of baroque gawęda (country squire oral tale) was tackled in '94 (Carolyn French & Nina Karsov) using 17thc English, generally thought an experiment that failed; '14 saw Danuta Burchardt retackle (subtitled on cover "An Alternate Translation") using 1700 as benchmark but with a lighter touch. I'm glad to have read both, but the latter's for choice if one must choose.

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    3. Thanks for the explanation; I'll remember it when I get around to Gombrowicz once more.

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  3. ..."other altiloquent, magniloquent, inaniloquent, explaterating gasconades strewn with galimatias written by parisologists and other morologists..."

    It was worth reading this fascinating argument just for the sentence in which the above appears, Miguel! So much here to think about (and "pestseller" will stick in my head forever). I love the determination in your argument - "not a consequence or a loss, it’s just a solution" - this idea that there's an ideal translator out there for any work, no matter how difficult. A Spanish/Portuguese translator somewhere opined that Grande Sertão: Veredas was probably impossible to translate; naturally I felt hugely disappointed, so it's reassuring to see your faith - or, well, not faith exactly, rather it's opposite - your conviction that a precise knowledge of language, as critical as the skills of a surgeon, can allow such translation. And, uh, now that you've finished your novel, perhaps a translation into English of Galáxias?

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    1. Thanks, Scott, for the vote of confidence, but I think Suzanne Jill Levine is better equipped to translate it.

      But you remind me that I have to get around to re-reading Grande Sertão.

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