Literature is defined by so much more than language. The English books we read persuade us that English and English people are somehow saner and more straightforward than everyone else. Once we master English, we learn to prefer active verbs, short sentences, and blunt prose. For years I translated loopy French sentences into crisp English and was satisfied that I had admirably tidied up the clutter. But doesn't that put me on par with the man (was it Bertie Wooster?) who felt that things would be so much easier if the French would only speak English?
No doubt writers in French feel existentially entitled to their tautologies and double negatives. Similarly, Hindi writers may be quite adamant that a pomegranate is as masculine as a banana. A Polish writer probably tinkers all afternoon with her nouns, deciding that this one is locative and that one accusative. Germans and Tamils may find it invigorating to hunt down a verb after a morning's gallop through subsidiary clauses.
Not that every writer of English trots briskly from subject to verb to object. Hemingway may have spread jam on his toast at breakfast, but Henry James more often, at breakfast, on his toast, spread jam. Many middle-aged readers still consider Chaucer's tales English, and as 140-character Twitter tales become common, some of us will consider those English too.
These reflections on language came up when a publisher recently took issue with my review of a translated book. We talked it over a bit, coming to no particular conclusion. Rather, I seemed to know less afterwards than I did before, except that the book in question had won awards. The translation of Indian regional literature into English is greatly improved. A translator's work is now backed by systematic editing and review, so things can only look up. It is an important task in a country that has such a treasure of languages, and conscientious publishers commit themselves to making diverse voices heard.
But after publication, how will we “know” the book is good? Even in a smooth translation, we perceive the original only as we catch a reflection in a window. We miss, and misunderstand, a great deal. We can judge the readability of the result, or skill in conveying metaphor and idiom, and we can be captivated by the story, but can we judge whether the original writing was good? If a dialogue is clumsy, was it the translator's clumsiness or the author's, or just the character's authentically clumsy voice?
In fact, just because a book is translated into English, is it at all fair to judge it by the measures of good English prose? A book that won prizes in its original language may seem overblown and emotional once translated. But overblown and emotional may be just the thing for those who do not speak with a stiff upper lip.
Ultimately, readers of translations can only say whether we liked the book or not. That's undoubtedly what Bertie Wooster would have done.
anantharaman.bookwise@ gmail.com
