This elegant and lapidary collection of essays on the art and conundrum of literary translation spoke to me on so many levels. As a writer, I felt JhuThis elegant and lapidary collection of essays on the art and conundrum of literary translation spoke to me on so many levels. As a writer, I felt Jhumpa Lahiri's thoughts on process, theme and reason like connective tissue between the hand and heart muscles:
Writing is a way to salvage life, to give it form and meaning. It exposes what we have hidden, unearths what we have neglected, misremembered, denied. It is a method of capturing, of pinning down, but it is also a form of truth, of liberation.
As a scholar of French language and literature, I nearly wept in recognition of Lahiri's struggles and triumphs as she learned to express her essence in a newly-learned and beloved language:
Confronting a foreign language as an adult is considerable challenge. And yet, the many doors I've had to open in Italian have flung wide, opening onto a sweeping, splendid view. The Italian language did not simply change my life; it gave me a second life, an extra life.
This has been so true for me, as well: careers, travel, relationships- all the doors opened to me because of a degree and facility in French.
But this slim collection of essays is focused on a very specific aspect of linguistic exploration: the misunderstood and undervalued craft of translation. What enriches these essays is Lahiri's perspective as a translator that is informed by her own writing. She explores the difference between inhabiting a narrative as the author and the consuming de-and reconstruction of the words and meaning as a translator.
Three of the essays focus on more technical aspects of translation relating to the Domenico Starnone novels Lahiri has translated — they are the novels' introductions and are reprinted here. The other pieces are more intimate reflections on Lahiri's own work or serve as explorations into the meaning of translation.
What I still wonder, which Jhumpa Lahiri ventures toward but never arrives at, is Why Italian, specifically. Her answer is a universal appreciation of doors opened by learning other languages, but she never addresses with any specificity her attraction to Italy or the Italian language.
I can, however, at least as it relates to my own experiences.
I had been in France for several months, attending a university in the foothills of the Alps, struggling mightily to discover who I was in this language and to convey the essence of myself. It was humbling, frustrating, an experience perhaps wasted on a 21-year-old. Later experiences living in France and studying the language revealed a more mature, confident speaker who wasn't humiliated by her stumbles. At any rate, I was also taking an Italian 101 class, learning Italian in French. It was my best class; it not only helped my French skills and my confidence, it brought me to Italy. And there, using my halting Italian, I found delight and acceptance that I was missing at the university in France, despite having years more study under my belt and a facility in speaking and comprehension in French that I of course did not have in Italian. Thus began my love affair with Italy and my desire to continue studying Italian.
I reconnected with that desire a few months ago, an out-of-the-blue realization that I put on a high shelf until I picked up this collection. Reading Lahiri, inspired by her passion for the language and her dedication to its study, I'm dusting off that shelved desire and trying to find the space in my life to carve out where I could fit in an Italian class.
A lovely exploration of what it means to be a writer, a reader, and to giving one's self up to another language, culture and way of seeing and interpreting the world....more
Into the liminal space between dreams and conscious thought slips this slim enchantment. I read these poems aloud in French, then silently in English,Into the liminal space between dreams and conscious thought slips this slim enchantment. I read these poems aloud in French, then silently in English, and once I came to the end, I turned back and started again.
Whispers wake me. I return home behind a procession of swans to an island in the heart of Paris. On the cliffs where the wild ones come . . .
What happens in the mind, in the mouth, when language changes? Does the essence of the poem remain, or is something else entirely other conjured from the soul when syntax and sound are altered? French demands elisions and different consonant rhythms and adjustments of vocal structure in poetic form that English does not so in effect, translation notwithstanding, the different cadence and musicality of the verses changes the way we approach the language within.
I trace patterns in dreams through beings disguised undone like particles broken apart revealing pieces of me. I pursue elusive sleep in the hope to heal mishaps the last chance to anchor my boat.
Je trace les motifs des songes au travers d'êtres déguisés libérés en particules évanouies révélant des éclats de moi-mêmes. Dans l'esprit de guérir mes naufrages, je pourchasse un sommeil en cavale ultime refuge où ancrer mon vaisseau
The use of songe instead of the more prosaic rêve (both translate as dream) is significant: rêve is the whimsy of the unconscious, roaming mind; songe suggests an exterior presence, a metaphysical force. In Cardona's poetry, it is the animal self, the other we inhabit in subconscious, the living, breathing forces of nature that propel us from life to death. Songer in its verb form means more than 'to dream'; it is to think, consider, ponder-an active, conscious state of being, existing within the world.
The desire to move to a place in my mind where I've always been well brings me back to innocence placing roses, certain enigma of migratory years, out of bounds moon. With the bones of the skull I listen to a language of rain, prism, melody of a world becoming.
Hélène Cardona's poetry is exquisite, sensual, mysterious. She shows the body and soul seeking harmony, batting against the bars of the conscious mind to be released into flights of imagination in verses at once earthy and ethereal.
A surreal, contemporary retelling of the Blue Beard folktale-- no one does creepy older men like Amélie Nothomb. This is not my style, but I knew thatA surreal, contemporary retelling of the Blue Beard folktale-- no one does creepy older men like Amélie Nothomb. This is not my style, but I knew that going in-Nothomb is a specialist of the surreal. I just love her writing. Her female protagonists are fierce and fearless, her dialogue is incomparable. And she's so good for my French!...more
I remembered last night that I wrote an essay about these essays for a French literature class my senior year of college. I have that paper around herI remembered last night that I wrote an essay about these essays for a French literature class my senior year of college. I have that paper around here someplace... ...more
Further evidence to my belief that the Irish tell the best stories. THis is an Odyssey-like tale of a young Irish man left orphaned and homeless by thFurther evidence to my belief that the Irish tell the best stories. THis is an Odyssey-like tale of a young Irish man left orphaned and homeless by the famine. After living like an animal in the Irish bogs and then on the run from a crime of desperation, he lives a half-life in England until he is able to set sail for the promised land- North America.
The story is brutal, but the writing is so poetic and lyrical - you are swept on by its beauty even as you wince as horrors of poverty and the blind faith of immigrants. I look forward to reading more of Behrens' works. THank you for the recommendation, Maureen! ...more
Loading...
