The Guardian‘s James Buchan has asked the question, in all seriousness, “Is there any purpose in translating poetry?” Which is akin to asking the following questions:
- Is there any purpose in listening to someone outside my socioeconomic strata?
- Is there any purpose in venturing outside Manhattan? After all, New York is the center of the universe.
- Is there any purpose in sampling different food when I am comfortable with the bland meals I eat at home?
- Is there any purpose in trying out another sexual position besides missionary?
(In case it wasn’t clear, the answer to all these questions is a resounding YES!)
(via Bookninja)
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
The argument is that the thing that is lost in translation is THE thing. A poem is inextricable from its language. So when you translate a poem, what you get is a new poem, not the original one in any meaningful sense.
Often that new poem is interesting and worthwhile on its own merits, though. So, sure, translate away. Just don’t think you’re eating sushi when it’s actually marzipan. Or, hm, raw fish pie.
So true though. I mean, no one ever got anything out of Homer, Horace, Rilke, Neruda – certainly nothing from Pound, that translation-happy fool.
I need a drink.
“Is there any purpose in trying out another sexual position besides missionary?”
What is this missionary position you speak of?
What’s your beef with missionary? This is the second time I’ve seen you bash it!