In undergraduate Classics, translation is an unforgiving exercise, demanding almost mathematical precision. I’ve spent excruciating hours poring over lexicons and grammar books, only to face reproof for neglecting the odd particle. When so many English versions of ancient texts already exist, not to mention digital translation resources, it’s easy to question why we bother.
Yet translation should be more than mechanic substitution. It demands that the translator acts as a conduit, conveying the intricacies of emotion, style, and intention, while negotiating the hurdles of linguistic complexity. It involves a degree of compromise, balancing fidelity to the original with creative interpretation. When a piece of literature is transposed into the idiom of a new age, a new culture, each adaptation becomes a radical re-reading, not a straightforward reproduction. Rather than representing the work as a historical artefact, mute and moribund on the page, the process of translation can shore up unmined meanings. In ancient languages, with a comparatively restricted vocabulary, each word is capable of being expressed in English in multiple ways, giving rise to vastly divergent interpretations. Word choice becomes a declaration of intent. As the translator Emily Wilson points out, the Odyssey’s opening line, which Fagles translates as “Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns”, could equally be rendered as “Tell me about a straying husband”, a very different framework for the same Greek words.
Things inevitably slip through the cracks; wordplay in particular demands more than a literal translation. For instance, Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest in French translation frequently becomes L’importance d’être Constant, replicating the pun by renaming the protagonist, yet losing out on the connotations of deceptiveness. Moreover, there are concepts so tethered to their specific language that they defy straightforward translation. How far the unfamiliar should be domesticated is a consequential choice – is it better to retain culturally specific allusions, or facilitate understanding through parallels or explanations? English translations of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet embed words of dialect, a deliberate choice to ensure that the work remains firmly rooted in its original context, with its particular local colour. The rhythms of each language, which determine much of literature’s emotional impact, are likewise impossible to reproduce exactly. Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, for example, is widely regarded as untranslatable, owing to the intricacy of its rhyme scheme, and the unique musicality of the Russian. The best that can be achieved is adaptation: Deborah Smith in her translations of Han Kang – The Vegetarian (2015) and Human Acts (2016) – attempts to emulate the cadence of the Korean, its repetitions and underspecifications, resulting in a stark prose that enhances the tragedy.
The insistence on preserving the original essentially untampered with is futile; excessive hand-wringing over what is being lost in the process can only stunt creativity. Translation is, in a sense, a work of realignment – nothing can remain fixed. Since utter fidelity to the original source is impossible, the objective should be to create something that works in one’s own language, a discrete piece of art, so that the translator is effectively another writer of the same book. The boundaries of language are always permeable – a good translator is an unscrupulous gerrymanderer.
After all, translation is an inherently malleable concept, and does not necessarily signify replication of the source material. Language is not exclusively about designation, but the meanings hovering between statements, the conveyance of a mood, a perspective, an intention. There is no need, then, for translation to adhere to semantic, generic, or even formal boundaries. In this expansive spirit, Louis and Celia Zukofsky wrote homophonic translations of the poet Catullus, rendering not only the meaning but also the actual sounds of the Latin into English (miser Catulle becomes “Miss her, Catullus?”). Anne Carson went even further in her ‘translation’ of Catullus’ poem 101, an elegy for the death of his brother; Carson’s version constitutes a single long sheet of paper folded concertina style into a box entitled Nox, an epitaphic reflection on her own brother’s passing. How far then can we push the definition of translation? What’s to stop any response to a literary work being considered a translation – is Petersen’s Troy (2004), for example, a translation of the Iliad (despite it being a terrible film)?
The politics of translation are similarly complex. To translate a literary work into another language is, in a sense, to appropriate it from its original context for the enjoyment of another set of people. Taken further, a French translation of, say, an Arabic text could be viewed as an implicitly colonial act, while the ubiquity of English translations raises the spectre of global monolingualism. But surely this kind of engagement can be part of a dialogue, not an act of imperialistic plunder? Accessibility is the most fundamental objective of translation; widening the reach of a literary work is a conservationist practice, sustaining and invigorating its author’s voice, rather than an attenuation of its power. It is not sufficient for a translator to be merely a linguistic intermediary; the practice demands cultural proficiency and a profound understanding of the recipient language. The art of translation is one of bridging cultural divides, so that literature may resonate with readers worldwide. Such interaction eases the discomfort of translingual encounters and fosters cross-cultural understanding.
It is this notion of a participatory culture via translation that enriches the literary tradition – Goethe wrote that “every literature grows bored if it is not refreshed by foreign participation”. Translation does more than keep the original alive (although sometimes I wish we’d just let Latin die); it also vivifies the recipient language, traversing linguistic boundaries to provide access to unfamiliar cultures, concepts, and perspectives. The translator is literary critic, co-author, cultural ambassador, and, most importantly, close reader, engaging in a fundamentally creative practice. So perhaps it’s misguided to ask what gets lost in translation. The more pertinent question is what may be found.
