Reflections 3/28

    David Karashima's piece about Murakami was very accessible for someone who has never read Murakami before. I thought the talk of who asked who to "tone down" the sex scenes was amusing, and goes to show how things literally get lost in translation (ha ha). I was shocked that they suggested changing the reference to Allen Ginsberg into a reference to Shakespeare. These two writers do not share anywhere near the same societal implication, and the fact that Murakami accepted the change in reference surprised me. Though I really appreciated Murakami's attitude, because he seems very down-to-Earth. He accepted the changes to get his writing out there (I mean, it is the New Yorker, after all) but rejects the idea on principle. I think there are ethical issues with changing writing for a publication to appease that publication's audience (expanding one's horizons/introducing them to new things is also important, you know?), but in the end, I know it just comes down to money. 

    In Karashima's Paris Review piece, what I found most interesting was that a scathing review of Murakami's book from Kometani was otherwise kind to the translator, and Kometani is a translator herself. The other reviews looked kindly upon Alfred (the translator), as well. Is it only a sign of a successful translation when everyone likes it? I wonder how Alfred Birnbaum's acclaim translating Murakami may translate into nervousness surrounding future translations, or translating anyone else. He would be interesting to hear speak!

    I think it's funny that Elmer Wood insisted Norwegian Wood wouldn't sell in America because Western readers are "more jaded, more ‘experienced’ at an earlier age", and then it ended up doing fantastic. It makes me wonder how A Wild Sheep Chase would have done in the New Yorker in its original form, rather than the toned down version that the editors assumed its readers would prefer. In the case of Norwegian Wood, there's proof that peoples' assumptions about the public's taste can definitely be wrong.

Sarah

Refections on articles about Haruki Murakami

 I haven't read any books by Haruki Murakami, and I believe that something that appeals so much to so many people and so consistently can only have an amorphous and nonintrusive essence, where the reader can make anything they like out of it and without any resistance from the material; like colorful clay that you enjoy playing with as a child, only now it's an adult mind that gets its play-doh in the form of books. When I read titles like "Kafka on the Shore", "A Wild Sheep Chase", "Norwegian Wood", "Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World", "Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage", I feel a growing tiredness in my mind because I feel like I am already asked to decide what these senseless titles must mean without any cues or clues and how they connect to the content of the books and how exactly the content merits such titles in the first place? My impression is that catchy titles compensate for generic plots, that something valuable doesn't need a flashy package, and that something ordinary is heralded as extraordinary simply because it can be. 

Murakami's works are praised to be so non-Japanese that they appeal even to Americans. How is this not an insult to both Murakami and American citizens? How come we never delve into the roots of why Americans did not appreciate more traditional Japanese literature in the first place, and what could be done about that - such as presenting Japanese literature in a new light rather than presenting a very different Japanese literature altogether and sighing with relief that "something Japanese" finally gets bought again? If Murakami's prose is so non-Japanese, what's the point of emphasizing his nationality and comparing his reception to that of Yukio Mishima? How come there apparently were no processes of trying to reframe the context of foreign literature and offering readers new angles to look at it, until the works get appreciated exactly for what they are? I think it would have been more interesting to read about how editors experimented with introductions rather than how they decided to translate a radio station name. I don't think such experiments were done, though - what's sought after is a book that will sell right away, and parts of it can get cut out or changed to get it sell, and there will be no attempt to try to make something sell just for how it is -> by revealing the reader the uniqueness of this book, and what they will personally get out of reading it, how their thinking will improve and their perception - expand. Oh, but it's only readers money that get cared about, not the readers themselves. There is a lot of "we worked together before, this one will get a big deal", "Elmer was wrong, this book sold the best of all!" and "They felt that the novel had even greater potential than A Wild Sheep Chase to capture the imagination of American readers", the latter making Murakami sound like some stage performer rather than a writer producing art. 

I never learn what makes Murakami works meaningful apart from their sales. My guess at the amorphousness and passive shapelessness of his art gets confirmed by characterizations like these: "It seemed clear to me from the first that he was bringing something new to Japanese literature. There’s a peculiar lightness in what he’s doing that should not be confused with any lack of seriousness … But I’m talking here of a different kind of lightness, an antic and lyrical and sunny quality". This quote says nothing concrete. And it doesn't need to. It's good that people like Murakami because liking something is good. The fact that there is not even a requirement to analyze the possible underlying reasons behind phenomena to talk about them infuriates me. There is no integration into the bigger picture, no educated guesses made for future implications, no showing of how this intersects and impacts other fields and spheres of life, either. The self-isolation of industries leads to their stagnation, just as their taking of themselves for granted and not taking the time and effort to look at the meaning behind what occurs within them, thereby purposelessly doing something simply because they can, neglecting the complex relationships underlying the shaping of the market. Before, publishing detailed sex scenes was something they couldn't do, so they didn't. Now it's something they can do, so they do. Next, it will be something different. Why, how, why - doesn't matter, let's just see whatever ends up "capturing mass imagination" the most at any given time, with no second thoughts given. 

Maybe I am incorrect about Murakami's works and for something to become popular these days, it does not need to be "colorless". In that case, it only makes sense that his meaningful works are to be discussed in a meaningful way - unless, of course, the only meaningful thing about them is that they sell well. 

-Ksenia

Thoughts on Murakami

I've read a few Murakami novels (including A Wild Sheep Chase), so I really enjoyed reading about how his books found an audience in English. One thing I find a little off-putting though—and this isn't Murakami's fault but rather that of his reviewers/promoters—is the way his writing is lauded as sounding "American," as if that designation is somehow a marker of superior quality. Why should all writers aspire to sound American? To me, criticism like that encourages a really insular taste in literature, where anything perceived as "different" is considered worse. 

The first time I heard about "indirect" translation was from a friend in Spain who's a translator. She told me that this happens a lot with literature translated into Spanish (specifically with English translations from other languages being used as the source text) and I was shocked to hear that this sort of "translation telephone," if you will, is standard practice. I think I assumed it had something to do with a shortage of translators or editors with knowledge of the source language, but knowing that Murakami encouraged this practice when his books were translated into German complicates that hypothesis. This is purely speculation on my part, but I wonder if indirect translation contributes in some way to the "dull global novel" phenomenon. By that I mean: if all the translated literature in the global market from a wealth of languages is always being filtered through English, won't all these authors start to sound the same? Won't their styles, by dint of being "Englished" not only on the linguistic level but on the level of culture and custom, become homogenized? It's also especially concerning when the source text has been heavily edited—I think Professor Elliott mentioned that the English translation of Kafka on the Shore cut about one hundred pages. Then, one English editor's decision about what to keep dictates what readers in many other languages get to read, too. 

Maggie

Murakami, Murakami everywhere...

 In the first place, I must confess I’ve read more about Murakami than I’ve actually read Murakami.  Since my knowledge of his work is secondhand, one step removed (akin, in effect, to indirect translation), my myopia of the moment behooves me to opine cautiously, if at all.  But such caveats in place, the title of DK’s book (a direct allusion to Raymond Caver and an indirect one to Nathan Englander) seems to encapsulate another kind of indirectness, the zone of ambiguity which persists at the center of Murakami’s literary existence for those who read him in translation.  While I can’t recall the exact figures or the title in question, last semester, Alissa cited the extent to which a Murakami novel was abridged prior to publication in English, the m.o. being that the publisher was willing to finance only so many pages and the task for the translator—over and above his usual chores—was to make it fit.  In a similar vein, our Alejandro, who read Murakami in English, tells the story of discussing—trying to discuss—Murakami with a friend in Argentina, only reach the impasse that the two translations had engendered two texts, each barely recognizable in light of the other.

 

DK’s book reads like a mixture of textual scholarship and detective work.  While he at times succeeds in pinpointing in English galleys the specific instances where modifications occurred, his best efforts defer rather than resolve the ambiguity.  Which vested party made the changes and why?  When the translator says one thing, the fiction editor at the New Yorker another, and the editor at Murakami’s publisher a third, it seems as though we’re talking less about Murakami’s work and more about the burgeoning lore which surrounds it.  The biographical information, the factual details, and any attempt at an historical reconstruction seem to take on (perhaps inevitably) the speculative hue of fiction.  Why would Murakami, an accomplished translator and thus able to foresee the pratfalls, insist a translation of his work into German proceed from one into English?  Was there or was there not a promotional event at the Helmsley Palace Hotel in 1989 to celebrate the English release of A Wild Sheep Chase?  As one interviewee remarks to DK, there is a person who would’ve known for sure, but that person is, unfortunately, deceased.

 

Rather than talking about reading Murakami, should we speak of reading Murakamis, a different and even distorted reflection of the original in every translation, as if the text passed through a hall of mirrors?  Or could we instead, to apply the theory of Tim Parks, suppose that there’s a schism in Murakami’s oeuvre the moment he begins writing with the idea of being translated in the background (if not the foreground) of his creative process?  To judge from the casual ease, the near indifference with which Murakami accepts textual changes made for the sake of translation—despite the literary stature that would have positioned him, a la Kundera, to insist—, we can at minimum say that the person of Murakami is amenable to translation and that the author is willing to permit departures from the letter of the source text in order to reach a wider audience.  On the one hand, Murakami’s trajectory illustrates the exponential growth of an author via translation, an international transcendence impossible without translators’ contributions and which we—the next generation of professionals—must applaud.  On the other, we must heed the prescience of a Tim Parks writing some 12 years ago: the earnestness to reach an international space may scuttle the techniques and dilute the content of literary fiction, leading writers to exercise a kind of homogenizing self-censorship and to enshrine voluntarily the 21st-century equivalent of having a cleric peering over your shoulder, insisting you write in Latin.

 

 -Josh

3/21 Reflections

 Cooperson’s Lecture

I really enjoyed last week’s lecture! I think Cooperson did well to shed light on his process of translation and how many people actually touch the work before it comes into our (the readers) hands. I really enjoyed how honest he was in saying that he needed help and how he reached out to people who were able to strengthen his visions for his translated pieces. It was so interesting to hear about how he took genuine inspiration from his surroundings such as using UCLA slang and how he owned his work as a culmination of disparate people and knowledge.

 The quote he ended on really stuck with me and I admired his attitude towards texts that may seem impossible to translate. I triggered me to think about how every translation is such a unique result of an individual’s vision, perception and interpretation. Throughout the works we’ve analysed in class, I’ve realised that each translator has captured various facets of the source text, some more than others but nonetheless it’s interesting to see the transduction between languages occur as a result of their subjective interpretations. I feel like we’re able to have fruitful debate as a result of our diverse perceptions whilst simultaneously building on each other’s understanding. All in all, I appreciated him being candid about his struggles during his process with the Impostures as well as how it left him knackered with translating Arabic. I think we rarely hear about the effects of the translation on the translator and it was refreshing to hear his side.

Diya

 

Reflections 3/21

 Guest Speaker: Michael Cooperson 

Last week, we had Professor Cooperson from UCLA speak to us about his work The Imposters. Translating this book is a ginormous project accompanied by many challenges. The most memorable challenge to me was carrying Al Hariri’s word/sound play from Arabic into English. As a student who is obsessed with rhymes, I have a strong desire to bring the rhymes in Chinese into English and often run into the problem of my translation accidentally sounding like a nursery rhyme. However, Professor Cooperson skillfully adopted not just the sound play in arabic (e.g. using only letters with no dots) but also variations of English to realize idiomatic adaptation, and that, to me, is truly an art that he did. He quoted Diyafat at the end to conclude his lecture. The quote goes: 

“The untranslatable is, therefore, not something impossible to translate, but rather something that can be translated infinitely many ways.”

Indeed, the untranslatable is “untranslatable” in the sense that it is impossible to carry over the meaning and word play from one language to another perfectly simultaneously. However, it also means that you can try out many different approaches and pick and choose the most important factor in translating a certain work and deliver that magic to the audience of another language. Take The Imposter as an example, soundplay is a big part of the splendidness of Al Hariri’s writings, so a translation that acts as nothing but a conduit of the literal meaning of the text wouldn’t do justice to the work. Professor Cooperson treats the word/sound play with high importance and makes a good point in isolating domestication of content and idiomatic adaptation, thus attaining the wonderful English adaptation of Al Hariri’s Maqāmāt. 

Readings on translation collaboration. 

This week’s readings concern a topic that has always intrigued me: how do translator and the original author interact? When I translate a text (mostly tanka), there is no way I can consult the original poet for they have deceased over 10 centuries ago. I get to take all the freedom in interpretation after historical background research—being able to interpret poetry freely is one of the tankas has to me. However, the readings suggest to me that one of the most valuable things that come out of the collaboration between the original author and translator is that the author can explain their word choice. Antonio Tabucci explains on page 24 in the authority in literary translation: collaborating with the author article: 

I intervened in the work of my translator to explain some specific words or regional idiomatic phrases. I know how hard it is to translate this book. This is why the French translation will be the only one that I will authorize. 

Nabokov, similarly, has also been giving Petr suggestions and feedback such as “You have a tiny little error: "solnechnik" is an old word for ‘sunshade’” in his letters to his translator. This reaffirms to me that it really is the intricate word choice (especially between translators and authors who are from different ages where the topic of archaic word choice comes into play), that lies in the core of the author-translator collaboration/communication. 

When it comes to translations of East Asian literary works into English where there is more cultural explanations to do, without the excessive use of footnotes, translators will have to weave explanatory sentences of cultural backgrounds into their paragraphs. This, in my opinion, is too much freedom and responsibility for the translator to take alone. However, as revealed in the interview with Juliet Winter Carpenter where she answers the following to professor Elliot’s question: 

A lot of rewriting went into the final version. I don’t know how carefully you compared the translation and the original, but the description of Karuizawa is a good example of something inserted into the text for the benefit of Western readers. I would certainly hesitate to write anything that extensive all by myself. When a longer passage such as that needs to be inserted, Mizumura writes it herself in either English or Japanese, I translate/rewrite it, and then we go over it together—usually quite a few times before it’s finalized. 

JWC’s answer to this question, I think, is really the description of the best solution to cultural adaptation of literature from a culture further from the target language. 

 

Jiayi 

Ronkainen, Jonika -- Comments 3/21

Cooperson's Talk:

I completely loved Cooperson's talk! It was so well structured/was clearly thought out in the level of precision Cooperson seems to apply to everything he does. Hearing him talk about the book, he was so self-effacing that he almost made the book seem like a feasible project anyone with the right connections could have undertaken -- but revisiting the amount of work and ingenious that had to go in to writing convincingly in 50 different styles, imitating some of the most revered authors in the world, that's so clearly also not the case -- he really made it sound like 2 years could be a sufficient amount of time for most people to learn so much as he did, and his ability to argue as convincingly as he did is a feat in and of itself. To me, hearing about the mechanics of how the book came together really only exaggerated the impressiveness of it. It was also just really striking to hear him talk about the utter sacrifice he had to make in publishing it -- it seems like that's a factor for any published piece of writing, but with the level of time, effort, and thought he had to put into this absolute behemoth of a piece, you just know how much of a pain it had to be to him to call it quits and actually publish -- that also seemed encouraging -- to see, that is, someone successfully continuing on after cutting themself off from a project of that grandeur. It also seemed like a partial-answer he had for when you know it's time to publish something being when you're most completely entrenched in it, and basically fed up with yourself -- essentially, when you know you've exhausted yourself (as he said, he doesn't think he can translate any more arabic, or translate arabic straight on).