Head these days full of translation, a cascade of language and languages.
It would be a bit of a stretch to consider Gertrude Stein's desire to replicate Cezanne's painting into words as a "translation process" or even her particular apprehension of the "natural world" to a specific mode of composition that does not resemble what an ecologist would understand as the "natural world", given that her natural world was inhabited by language.
Still, I began to wonder about Stein and translation, given that the country where she produced most of her writing was France, and she did not speak French and if she understood French somewhat she recognized that her language was English, American English. As Renee Riese Hubert wrote in her article in SubStance (no. 59, 1989, 71-92): "Gertrude Stein and the Making of Frenchmen":
". . .for years she was practically compelled to publish her writings in France and to promote them by finding French writers to translate them."
Then this tantalizing statement:
"A cursory investigation of the presence of Stein in current literary criticism reveals that she persists in belonging to both cultures. In fact there are fewer Stein titles available in English than translations of her books in France, where several journals have recently devoted special issues to her." (71)
I then began Nathalie Stephen's At Alberta, recently received, not aware when ordering it that the first "talk"/essay concerns translation . . .and before getting far into the reading it was almost like a light bulb though perhaps only 25 watts so far recollecting my albeit limited experience translating Valery's "Cimitiere marin", with a feeling more than a thought (all the same, an inkling of knowing) that at the moment of trying or making a translation there is almost an utter silence between the original language and target language -- "my" language. There is almost a chasm when a metaphoric fog appears and virtually erases the original as it "crosses", when I fear it will not "make it" over, that somehow I will harm the original even in the attempt to find English words, or even in the way I understand the original, for the original already means something to me, something very precise, exact, and I feel suddenly a loss of language to find comparable words in English. It seems not only ridiculous to attempt, but also sacrilegious, a violation of the original French. So: a double silence: hesitation and erasure plus transgression.
Now I'm curious to read Stein translated as well as fathom the translations she made of Marechal Petain's writing at the behest of Bernard Fay in the 30s: what gets translated, and why, and what kind of sense it means.
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2 comments:
A Spanish language teacher of mine often talked about her English side having full blown conversations with her Spanish side. For you to endure the translations might be wrenching. For you to learn the language, create in another language, discover a different you in the other language, that will be much more tantalizing! Consider studying French and allowing yourself to grow into a double. Then your double can read the French versions and sense them as their own creations, rather than as cosmonuats, sent out, stranded then dragged back into the atmosphere and possibly spoiled by that journey. Ken
Apologia redux Kenneth, for having neglected sitting down in the Gertrude Stein Cafe to think about her and attend to your insightful comments. "Growing into a double" is particularly relevant, since French is my second language, though I continue to read Stein in English. Time perhaps to explore translations of her work into French. Our use of the word "dubbing" to describe the "revoicing" (?) of film dialogue into another language derives from the French word "doubler" and the notion you describe. I'll report back on the process of Stein in two languages speaking to each other -- with thanks to you for such a provocative idea.
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