Bellos

 10/25 Bellos 

The idea that had stood out to me was the mention of decorative foreignism, being translated more for the reader than for preserving the original author’s work. When you think about it, most translation issues seem to come from critiques from readers. With the use of decorative foreignism, I do agree that it would stimulate that small part of your mind that, when reading a foreign book, it should feel like a foreign book. It should feel like an accomplishment, and I agree that leaving these small untranslated sections can both give a satisfying feeling while drawing attention away from nit picky critiques that readers once had. 

At the same time, I was glad the Bellos mentioned the actual reader base and their place in making selective foreignism usable. While it would be nice to create this feeling of satisfaction in every reader, the note that the languages of translation have to have connection was definitely well used. Just as German and Russian are not understood by a larger reader base, Japanese has that same issue (at least from what I believe and know). Adding in these small untranslated sections may alienate the reader, instead of having them enjoy the experiences of a foreign book. 

Avi

10/26 The more foreign a translation sounds, the more faithful it is to the original？

I used to assume that a translation that reads too smoothly might lose something of the original culture, while keeping unfamiliar sentence structures, expressions, and foreign words was a way of respecting the original. But Bellos made me realize that foreignness may not be something inherent in the original. It may actually be created through translation.

What struck me most was Bellos’s discussion of Kafka. To German readers, Kafka is not someone speaking English with a German accent. He is simply writing in his own language. So if a translator deliberately uses awkward English to make Kafka sound more “German,” does that foreignness really come from Kafka, or from English readers’ ideas of what German sounds like? I began to wonder whether what we call faithfulness to a foreign culture is sometimes just faithfulness to our own stereotypes about it.

 

This also made me think about last week’s news translation assignment. I restructured many long Japanese sentences and simplified some expressions to make them sound more natural in English news writing. At the time, I was simply trying to follow the direct style of English journalism. But after reading Bellos, I see those choices differently. If a news article sounds natural and clear to Japanese readers, wouldn't translating it into awkward, complicated English just to preserve the Japanese style (foreignness) actually distort the original reading experience? Maybe making a translation sound more natural doesn't necessarily mean being less faithful. Sometimes, it can be another way of staying true to the original.

 

Bellos made me aware that the real question is not whether to choose domestication or foreignization, but how to tell which kinds of foreignness belong to the original and which are created through translation.

Mingzi

Bellos Reading

     This is kind of a rant that doesn't fully connect to the actual reading, but i'm conflicted about the preamble, more specifically the part about how "translation keeps literature alive"...  While I agree that translation makes literature more accessible globally, it most certainly doesn't keep it "alive". I think this statement is heading towards a sort of empowered feeling amongst translators, which is honestly valid considering the level of work that they do, but I think we need to come to terms with the limits of translation. Like we've spoken about before in class, yes, every translation is an "original" work, especially in poetry, but we still take those ideas and prose from somewhere. There is a reason the original author is still on the front cover and the translator is in the first few pages, it's because they didn't write it, they recreated it in a different language. "Translation is change and motion; literature dies when it stays the same, when it has no place to go."

    I think the overarching theme here ties in with what we've been discussing in class so far: The balance between the original and target languages/cultures. I think that the "clumsiness" of works that try to retain some "foreign-ness" is critique that the target audience of the translation would likely never notice/understand. Most of this kind of critique seems to come from other scholars in the field. I do agree, however, that the level of "foreign-ness" that is kept in the work should change as our collective knowledge of those cultures change. For example, since the understanding of every-day French phrases is lessening as we get farther away from the Victorian and Edwardian eras, the expected understanding of them in translations should lessen accordingly. Though, I do think there is some value in keeping it in, with moderation, to preserve this knowledge, as well.

Madison

how to do foreignness wrong

     So we've talked a lot about how good translation is (purportedly) that which sounds natural in the target language. Privately, I've always felt this isn't entirely true, but I wasn't sure how to explain that or what would make it untrue. That's why I was pretty excited that Bellos implied that such thinking might actually have valid reasoning. But my hopes of learning how to do foreignness well were unfortunately dashed by an explanation of several ways to do it wrong, for which Bellos provides several examples.

    There's writing gibberish based on phonology, which is interesting to listen to and can make for fun lyrics, but it's obviously not useful for reproducing meaning. You can also leave interjections or short phrases in the original language, but as Bellos notes, this was only ever viable for French, and it isn't anymore (I also didn't know English speakers used to learn French as part of their education, which I guess explains why a lot of French phrases just appear in English sometimes). It also makes them sound like a caricature of an immigrant who sometimes switches to their original language for comedic effect.

    Bellos goes on to argue that foreignness in a translation necessarily adds to the original, which is where I got kinda mad, because it's not true. I tried to hear him out, but none of his points are very convincing. Kafka sounds only like Kafka and not German? I literally don't believe you. American authors sound American to me. And I think it's easy to write in a way that preserves the "authentic foreignness," though maybe it's harder for someone working in French or German. I don't think the goal of keeping foreignness is for the reader to identify exactly which foreign language the text comes from, and I wasn't sure why he argued against it. Do people really think that something translated from German should sound German in English? And I don't have any particular agenda for English, so the part about globalization/pushing English as an international language (which, of course, it doesn't need) wasn't interesting to me, except maybe as a reminder to keep the hegemony of English in the back of my mind.

    idk i just feel like foreignness to the extent that you're actually introducing real foreign concepts or language (even if the reader isn't necessarily learning about the language, because why is that a goal? it shouldn't be unless it's a textbook) is great and some of the foreignness Bellos is arguing against here is obviously bad and idk how you would do even do it without sounding racist by 2026 standards.

winter

Bellos Reading

 This reading shifted how I view the debate between smooth, "fluent" translations and intentionally awkward "foreignizing" translations. While it may seem that making a translation sound slightly off-beat or foreign was the more respectful, ethical choice, Bellos emphasizes the paradox that "foreign-soundingness" isn't actually authentic foreign culture. It is just invented by the receiving language. When a translator bends English to sound "German", like in some of the Kafka translations mentioned, they aren't giving us the original German experience, they're giving us what English speakers think German sounds like, which can easily slide into a performative or goofy stage accent if carried too far. Additionally, as comical as examples of Adriano Celentano's pseudo-English song or Chaplin's gibberish show, sounding foreign doesn't require real words or meaning, just phonetic mimicking. Ultimately, the chapter made me realize that trying to force a text to "sound foreign" often says more about our own cultural tropes than the original work, and at the end of the day, a translator's real job is simply representing the meaning of the text, which is difficult enough on its own.

Emma

Translating "Foreignness"

This text was very interesting for me. Just last week, I argued literary translations should be kept "faithful" to its source material in part because many people look toward foreign literature to hear a unique perspective or style of writing. However, I can't say I agree with most of Bellos' comments in this particular reading. 

While I agree maintaining foreign aspects of a text is important, I believe this concept is more about maintaining the ideas, themes, cultural differences, or styles that are present in foreign literature. Bellos mentioned a lot about preserving the way a language sounds through translation, including preserving expressions unique to the original language. For instance, having a character exclaim "Mon dieu!" rather than "Oh my God!" is more natural and true to the original, as the actual meaning of such expressions can't be exactly translated. This makes no sense to me and is quite strange. If a character is speaking English for an entire book, why randomly make that character speak another language just to remind the reader that the text was originally written in that language? I also think doing something like this can separate the reader from the text. It would certainly lose my immersion. When people look for foreign media, they aren't interested in feeling a stark separation. They want to understand different ideas and cultures and connect it to their own lives in some way. 

Overall, I think a translation should aim to maintain and convey the feeling of the original. If in the source text, a character is (in the context of the story) abnormally strict about cultural norms, then perhaps it is okay to maintain those aspects of foreignness. However, if the purpose of a character is to not meant to be conspicuous in that regard, their essence should be preserved. 

Kenna Ward

What Makes a Translation Feel “Foreign”?

One of Bellos’s main arguments is that “Foreignness in a translation is necessarily an addition to the original.” I think this makes sense. There is no need to deliberately make a translation sound foreign, but I also wouldn’t want it to become completely domesticated. For me, there has to be some middle ground, even if finding that balance is difficult.

Bellos argues that the “foreign-soundingness” of a translation “can only reproduce and reinforce what the receiving culture already imagines the foreign to be.” His example of Kafka makes this especially clear: “In German, Kafka doesn’t sound ‘German’ at all—he sounds like Kafka.” He also suggests that making Kafka sound German in English may communicate the translator’s own experience of reading the original. I find this convincing. An author has an individual voice, and it seems limiting to understand that voice mainly as an expression of their language or nationality.

At the same time, I wonder whether this argument leaves enough room for language itself to be part of an author’s style. Languages have particular qualities and expressive possibilities that don’t always carry over easily into another language. A bilingual writer, for example, might need to write something very differently depending on which language they are using. Their voice is still their own, but the language helps shape how that voice comes across. So I’m not sure we can fully separate “sounding like Kafka” from the fact that Kafka writes in German.

I’m also not entirely convinced by Bellos’s claim that preserving “authentic foreignness” only works when the original is already somewhat familiar to the reader. I would want to look at specific examples. A lot seems to depend on what the translator is preserving and how they do it. Keeping an unfamiliar expression, preserving a particular rhythm, and making dialogue sound like a stereotypical foreign accent could have very different effects.

Overall, I find Bellos pretty convincing, but his argument leaves me with another question: what happens when readers have already become attached to a particular translation style? I’m thinking of Russian literature in Chinese. It has a long translation history, and, in my experience, some Chinese translations have a recognizable style that readers associate with Russian writing. People can become used to that voice and even enjoy it. If a new translation no longer sounded recognizably “Russian,” some readers might wonder where that distinctive voice had gone.

Bellos might say that this is exactly how a receiving culture constructs its idea of foreignness. Still, I wonder what happens once that constructed voice becomes a meaningful part of readers’ literary experience. Even if it was added through translation, does that mean there is nothing worth preserving in it?

Kerry

Foreignness in Translation

 Joey Potter

    I think I've always been on the side that it's ok to leave in words that represent unique concepts in the source language's culture, or, to smooth all of that over. For example in our first "コロッケ" translation, we could have translated it "Korokke" and "Oseibo", or "Croquette" and "holiday gift" (or whatever). The merit of the former is that you are more accurate and you get to teach the reader about Japanese culture (with a translator's footnote, or explanation weaved into the text, or more likely just trusting them to google what these words mean exactly), while the merit of the latter is that it makes for a smoother read. There is no fact of the matter to which is "better" (though your editor might have a strong preference).

    So that's my opinion and here are my disagreements with the reading.

    1. Foreignness in translation is not about reminding the reader they're reading something originally written in another language 

    Imagine a novel written in Spanish that takes place in America and there are no unique hispanic concepts invoked ever. In it's translation, why would you ever include foreignness for an American reader? Foreignness should only be about gaining accuracy: where the concept is foreign, the translation may be foreign, too. I would understand leaving words like e.g. itadakimasu or chan/san/sama as they are, but for example (to give a Japanese example rather than the French/German ones), why write "this is so kawaii" instead of "cute" just because kawaii is a well-known word? It turns whoever says that line into a Japanese caricature instead of a normal person. The problem of course being that to the native speaker and author the person who said that is in fact just a normal person so we should want to reproduce that.

    2. Foreignness is not about "transmitting this feeling of foreignness to his readers" that the translator feels when reading! This was really baffling to me. Who cares what the translator felt! Translators should transmit the feeling that the native-speaker readers felt when reading the original. Obviously. Also, transmitting foreignness is easy; it's the default. Translators are usually hard at work trying to figure out how to get rid of the foreignness...?

    3. "some prior knowledge of the original language is essential for a foreign effect to arise." No? Just make the reader look stuff up. Why not just leave uniquely Yoruba concepts in Yoruba.

    At the end, the text talks about how translators introduced new words/concepts into their target language. Exactly! It's the translator's responsibility to introduce these new words/concepts, be they Yoruba or Japanese, to their audience. It's not foreignness for the sake of foreignness or satisfying the reader's already-held knowledge, it's foreignness for the sake of introducing a new culture to the audience. A foreign text should sound foreign to a foreign audience even after being translated into their native language just by virtue of the setting and concepts invoked.

10/26 Reading & Video Commentary

Everything comes and goes in patterns, and books are no different. When e-books were new and exciting, they were pushed to the public for the perks of convenience, cost, and portability. This can be said for many things, such as the trend to shop online for items, get groceries delivered, and listen to music and movies through online platforms. However, I feel that once these trends get "too popular", people revert to the older ways in search of nostalgia and the sense of physically owning something or being present in a place. For example, trying clothes on in the store, looking at produce yourself to judge what you want to buy, or owning vinyl records or CDs of your favorite music. Both the article and the video touch on this; the article talks about "convenience reading" compared to "book owning and reading", and the video mentions that physical books provide"the comfort of thingy-ness" that an e-book cannot. Additionally, the physical medium of a book cover allows different avenues of creativity to be explored. In the TED talk, I found it interesting that Chip Kidd noted that, "once the book designer has read the text, then he has to be an interpreter and a translator." This perspective opens up an entirely new world in which words, stories, and ideas can be translated into artwork. Similarly to how we have been translating from Japanese to English in class, book designers must make specific choices, none of which are ever technically "wrong", but can convey a very different feeling. Book designers must keep the audience's perception in mind while embodying the author's work in a visual manner. I believe that the process of creating the book cover involves many of the mental checkpoints we have been going over while translating. I find this idea very intriguing and would be interested in exploring the crossover of artistic and language translation.

Emma

J. Carpenter Readings

     It seems like A True Novel is a melting pot of cliches / familiar plots which have emerged from generational works of literature. I think it's really cool that the similarities to works such as Wuthering Heights and Tale of Genji still resonated in the English translation, especially when Carpenter hadn't read them before. I like the awareness she shows in the fact that she didn't see a reason to read Wuthering Heights while translating it, since she's faithful to the original text and not what it took some inspiration from. Imitating the greats is somewhat risky in my opinion, since, on one hand, you're taking inspiration from incredible sources, but on the other, if you follow them too closely it can just end up feeling like a cheap recreation. It seems like A True Novel did a good job, though.

    I heavily relate to the feeling of uncertainty Carpenter expresses in "Jumping Into the Pond," where it feels like you'll never truly know the language. This is kind of a repeating idea in my mind as I get further into learning Japanese, where I keep doubting whether I'm ever going to be fluent. I especially start to question the extent of my own knowledge and ability when translating more difficult passages (such as the imperial succession text), but it's reassuring to know that this sentiment is shared by someone who has translated full novels.

Madison

10/19 readings

 I felt that Lynne Riggs' article was especially applicable to the translation piece that we just submitted. Translating articles is less one to one Japanese to English versus the creative writing pieces we worked with before. For articles, I think it is especially useful to focus on the big picture. Riggs suggests even reading the whole work and understanding it in depth before reanalyzing it under an English eye. Japanese and English style of journalism is quite different and for an article to feel natural, the translator has to work under the standards of the target language (paragraph structure, headings, etc.).

Charles Terry also made some very good points. I never considered it before but English writers care deeply about how written words sound spoken. When revising my writing growing up, I was told to read it out loud to ensure its comprehensibility. Before reading this, I wouldn't have even thought to consider that might be different cross-culturally. 

Both authors make convincing arguments to look at the big picture (within smaller sections or whole work) of the piece before finalizing the translation. For fluency and readability, it is important that the writing style is consistent in the target language.

Tori

I can count to two.

     Our metaphor this time is one of being obliterated and reincarnated after passing through various hells. I'm going to ignore the other one because, as a product of the 21st century, I don't like it very much. From my (again) fairly short experience with Japanese nonfiction, this sounds like it would apply well. Japanese nonfiction writing conventions differ greatly from English, and I can see how conveying the same information in a well-structured English translation would take a lot of effort. Japanese nonfiction tends to kind of circle around an answer while taking meandering detours, which directly conflicts with the English convention of providing an answer and defending it. I felt this when I read a text (in English) by a Japanese author for a different class about the spatial anthropology of Edo. The author kept throwing in random, seemingly unnecessary details and stressing the same few points already introduced many times over the past few pages, and it might have been one of the most difficult texts I've ever struggled through before I found out the author was Japanese. On this topic, Terry notes that a Japanese reader might be "unable to tell you the names of the rivers or the temples" one second after reading a passage full of those same rivers and temples. And I was definitely the same way after reading the chapter; I had a vague sense of Edo's geography and layout, but I couldn't tell you a single thing about the million proper nouns except that he mentioned Venice at least five times.

    Both texts offer plenty of good advice, but I think much of it can be boiled down to making sure it doesn't sound bad in English. Much of the talk about saying different things in the same circumstance, making sure repetition is necessary, words meaning more than their dictionary definition, being faithful vs appropriate or effective, and about effective allusions and figurative language, falls into this section. But some notes sounded especially useful (or just interesting) for nonfiction. Terry tells us to "avoid insulting the reader," which I grinned at. Later, he says he "can count to two, so [he] does not need [the author] to tell him the total," which was really funny. I'm glad he can count to two–counting is difficult! I also liked the example of 文化 meaning absolutely nothing other than to differentiate that one building from business. But overall, I gathered from his lecture that English convention tells us to frame our arguments as more of a conversation, as opposed to Japanese writing conventions that produce texts that sound more like lectures.

    Riggs offers a lot of practical advice specifically aimed at working with argumentative text, much of which sounds very helpful. Specifically, I wasn't aware of the need to write a full intro paragraph because Japanese texts are structured so differently. I also found it kind of funny that she so casually mentions Japanese texts where the topic is "never coherently presented," because that would be an obvious mark of terrible writing in English. I was also intrigued by her mention of manuscripts written to be translated, which I've never heard of.

    As an aside, many of the translators we've been reading like to use this distinctly matter-of-fact tone. Maybe they've grown used to misconceptions about their work over long careers. Also, I think it's funny that Terry, like Seidensticker, also seems to have been plagued by "critics" complaining about dropping words in translation.

    I also had a few questions about both. What did Terry mean by saying "sausage" meant something different? To be honest, I'm not sure I know exactly what "sausage" means in either language. And I wonder when you might see dialogue in expository writing. I don't think it's something I've seen before.

    Hopefully, Terry is right that native English speakers with a knowledge of Japanese have a good chance of producing something good. Otherwise, I'd be worried about this class.

winter

10/19 The Distance Worth Preserving

After reading Terry’s article, I initially agreed with his understanding of faithfulness in translation. If a work is enjoyable and fluid in Japanese but becomes awkward and difficult to read when translated literally into English, can we really call that faithful to the author? An author creates not just words, but a reading experience. If a translation preserves the words but loses the original rhythm, humor, and appeal, perhaps it really is a “dead lion.”

However, I began to hesitate when Terry explained how he removed place names and historical details from Musashi. He argues that Japanese readers would not remember the names of those rivers and temples anyway, so there is no reason to slow down English readers with them. But does forgetting a detail mean it has no effect on us? Not everything we experience in literature comes from conscious understanding. Even if I cannot remember the name of a temple, its presence may still give me a sense of history, place, or cultural unfamiliarity.

This made me question how much a translator should decide on behalf of the reader. Terry wants English readers to move through the text as effortlessly as Japanese readers do, but to achieve this, he must decide what is worth preserving and what can be sacrificed. The more a translator tries to close the distance between the reader and the original, the more they risk erasing the cultural differences that make the work unique. Perhaps a good translation does not need to eliminate all unfamiliarity. The awareness that we are reading a work from another language and culture is itself part of the reading experience.

10/19 Readings

 I was struck by Riggs' description of translation as "transmigration" rather than simple linguistic conversation. When translating Japanese expository prose into English, Riggs argues that "the physical body of the original piece has to be obliterated and reincarnated in a totally different guise in order for the soul (message) to be reborn in the next (English) life." Japanese essays typically rely on looser rhetoric and delayed thesis statements, meaning an effective translation requires stepping into the editor's shoes; rebuilding a paragraph structure and supplying clear lead paragraphs so the core argument actually lands for the new audience.

The second reading emphasizes this point by exploring the tension between literal accuracy and readability. The author argues that translating every word directly can make a text awkward or difficult to follow, which is a concern that has been mentioned in various readings in class. By removing repetitive details and restructuring long sentences, translators can preserve the original's overall meaning and impression while making it more accessible.

Both readings suggest that translation requires creativity and interpretation, as translators must preserve the spirit of the original while adapting it to new linguistic and cultural contexts.

Emma

10/19 Readings (Interlingual Hell/Live Dog)

     I found Riggs' reading to be very humorous (and relatable). I've only just scraped the surface of English to Japanese (and vice versa) translation and my brain already hurts just thinking about it. Transmigration feels like an appropriate term. I agree that researching as you go and noting it down really helps during the polishing stage. I personally like to take notes while we go over it to help with when I'm actually translating it later, and then at that point I'm taking note of any words/grammar points I may have missed before stitching everything together. 

    Terry's intro to "Some Pointers" was certainly something! I've definitely noticed the difference between English and Japanese writing as it pertains to what is left unsaid, especially when it comes to cultural pop culture (?). Not sure what to call it but pretty much knowledge that is exclusive to that one culture and therefore the explanation for it would remain unspoken in the literature produced from that country, but then it's a struggle for the translator on whether or not to explain it or leave the subtlety. I also personally struggled with repetition with this most recent translation, especially the last bit. It's hard to feel out where the information is needed more when cutting down on redundancy in English. Refrains are obviously something completely different and not at all redundant if it serves a true purpose. I also found the point on translating into and from silence in cases such as with itadakimasu. I think it's cool that you can literally translate silence into something tangible (at least when going from English to Japanese in this specific example).

Madison

Live Dog/Hell

 From Terry’s notes, the idea that stood out to me was the use, or lack of use, of rhetorical and didactic questions in English. As I am exposed to more sources of Japanese writing, I am definitely seeing more questions being asked to the reader themself. On the other hand, I have had moments where I had been asked to remove similar questions from English assignments. At the time, I just took it as gospel and moved on. Thinking back on it now, questions of this sort really are rarely used, let alone in non-fiction writing. I hope we don’t come across anything like it in our next texts, because I would have absolutely no idea what to do with it while translating. Half-jokes aside, the idea of a faithful vs beautiful translation comes up once again, especially with something that's taboo in one of the languages of translation.

As for Riggs’ text, I found two pieces interesting. For one, connected to the article we just translated, the translation of article titles was a topic. As opposed to the more strict idea that goes with prose, Riggs speaks of a freedom with titles to make them catch their respective audience’s attention. The idea that some articles were written without a title was especially noteworthy, which allows the translator to make a judgment call without the influence of a Japanese title. The other idea was the lead paragraph, in which a thesis statement (or something similar) is found in the beginning in English while it tends to be more fluid in Japanese. I had once been told that the farther east you go, the scholarly articles have less structure and expect the reader to put two and two together. Funny that this idea comes up once again. 

Avi

If its faithful, it isn't beautiful. If it is beautiful, it isn't faithful

 Melissa

    This week's translation is a great example of the situation our readings covered. We often talk about the issues of translating in terms of staying true to the text while also adapting it in a way that will connect to the English reader. In Text 5, we encountered the same problems described in the readings:

- repetitiveness

- cultural gap

- "talking down to the reader"

    The magazine article relayed the same information several times throughout the article. Giving quotes, then explains them directly below it, even though the quote suffices. A title a mile long, capturing the content of the article without letting the reader actually read the article itself!

    Also, the mention of the location of the demonstration being Ginza and "such areas". As we now know, and Tokyo citizens know, Ginza and "such areas" close off the street on weekends, making it a prime location for a protest. But if you are an American reading this article, you may imagine areas such as time square-- suddenly busy traffic stops and a mob blocks the way. It is a more hectic image than reality, I think. In that case, it may be better to add some context to the article mentioning the closing of the streets. 

    Wording is also tricky in Japanese-to-English translation. The bare-bones translation sounds stiff and unnatural. This requires creativity from the translator. This can lead to a great translation or something barely recognizable-- we must tread carefully; Add a sprinkle of our flair rather than dump it on top of the translation. A good way to add color to a translation is playing with synonyms of words. Don't say that "the ground was covered in snow"; say "the earth was enveloped in white". However, if you said something like "The snowflakes danced in the air, tucking the earth in a blanket of snow for all to see", that is a bit far from where we started. There is a range. At the end of the day, we have to remember that we aren't the ones writing it. We should do our best to stay true to the style that the text functions in, even if it differs from our own ideas. Words are flexible; the soul of the text is not. That being said, defining the "soul" of the source text is another tricky game, since it is entirely up to interpretation. I may believe my translation is perfect, maybe even disagree with correction comments-- but my peers may think I was way off base. It depends on who is reading. We especially saw that with the poems we translated. I opted for "horse piss" while everyone preferred to focus on the sound of the horse pissing. To me, the sound is unpleasant for a moment, but the smell lingers. That's the suffering I felt from the poem and how I chose to convey it. But some people may disagree because their interpretation was different. Maybe my poem wasn't faithful to the poet's intentions. I can't exactly ask.

    I like to create a mechanical, literal (and mostly awkward) translation of the text whenever we receive it. I want the bare text in front of me. From there, I decide to make it sound more fluid. Then, I look for common words and try to find a more clever alternative, such as my previous snow country example. I want the text to have a rhythm, and I want the words to be intentional. I often go over it a few times before I think I'm done. But there is always more room for improvement, especially after we compare our translations in class. I think a title should come last. You can't decide what to call something without gaining the context first. Just like with the magazine article. There was so much information in the Japanese title; it was way too long for a standard English article. So, how do you decide what to make the main title? That depends on what you perceive is the main takeaway of the article. I landed on "Aiko for Emperor", focusing on 愛子天皇を考える会, as seen in the original title. I chose to title it this way because I thought it captured the essence of the text best. I want to create a translation that makes people want to keep reading. I may need to make a few sacrifices here and there in order to make that happen. Can't make an omelette without cracking a few eggs, right?

Faithful versus Beautiful

I think there are different situations when a translation must be "faithful" or "beautiful." For a translation to be "beautiful," as Charles Terry describes it, it must be transformed to be as easy for an English reader to digest as possible. 

This process often requires omitting the characteristics that make the text distinctly Japanese. Sometimes, it requires removing unnecessary repetition or metaphors that aren't comprehensible in English. I found myself succumbing to a "beautiful" translation as I was working through the magazine article. 

"Beautiful" translations seem to be necessary in modes where you are informing the English-speaking audience, and you must be as clear with your language as possible. The magazine article had many extremely long sentences with many modifiers. I follow a similar process to Lynne Riggs, translating everything verbatim on the first draft, and my translated piece was totally unnatural. It seemed to be just one run-on sentence followed by another run-on sentence. The product became much more legible after splitting up certain sentences into separate ideas. 

In this case, I agree with Riggs that the translating process is taking something wide, expansive, and free-flowing and forcing it into a form-fitting box of English conventions. This belief toward translating inspired my title for this discussion post. Every time I am translating, there seems to be a battle between accuracy and clarity, and the victor is determined by a balancing act between the two.

I think a translation is best "faithful" in literary pieces. I think what is most important in creative work is an original voice. Even if a metaphor or comparison is less common in English, I believe it should be kept. You lose a lot by trying to make a translated work more palatable to a certain audience, especially because many people look toward foreign literature for a new perspective or style of writing. 

Kenna Ward

A Live Dog

Joey Potter

I was surprised by lots of strong statements made in both readings this week. In the beginning of Charles Terry's lecture, he makes lots of sweeping generalizations - like "In almost every instance I have ever encountered, any statement to which [iû made mo naku] is applied should be omitted.", and "naze ka to iu to should be omitted. I doubt whether you would need to use an expression like this in English once in your lifetime." I disliked these because I feel like it conflicts with another thing we say a lot about translation, that everything is hugely context dependent and that there is a context that can justify almost any kind of translation choice. Even worse, I think it comes back to bite him!

"My translation: “People are animals. They’re made of flesh and bones. They have two eyes, two ears, a nose, two arms and legs. They even have the same instincts as animals.”"
This reads very poorly; it's very stilting. And that's because he omitted "Naze ka to iu to, mazu" and "sore ni", etc.! Obviously he shouldn't brainlessly substitute stock English phrases ("The reason why..." "If you're wondering why, that's because...") for these words without reading it back/editing, but this goes back to what I said about context mattering over everything. These words serve a purpose beyond what they literally mean, which is introduce the next clause so that the paragraph reads smoother. I would write, "People are animals, since they’re made of flesh and bones, and they have two eyes, two ears, a nose, two arms, and two legs." (to start).

I don't mean to say that you can never give a general tip about translation because of context, rather that that specific tip was too strong and his own example showed that. He should've said something more like "don't directly translate these" rather than "(almost) always omit". I liked his other tips about rhetorical questions since yes they do usually sound childish in English. And I liked his analysis of the Japanese and English-speaking reader experience which I felt was very accurate and having that insight into the reader makes for a great translator, I thought.

And then the second reading came in swinging talking about how you basically always change the title and add an opening paragraph to essays. First of all, I thought titles like Nihon shika no tokushitsu” [The Characteristics of Japanese Poetry]" sound super authoritative and cool, but I guess it's maybe too strong of a title in English and doesn't reflect the content of the essay well. Second of all, is there really no opening paragraph in Japanese? Lynne Riggs made it sound like every Japanese scholar is a horrible writer with horrible argument structure that you have to decode, rewrite, and rearrange to make barely intelligible. Maybe this is true. Is this true?

Why Metaphors in Translation

Both readings discuss how much translators can change the original when translating from Japanese into English, and what it means to be “faithful.” I think this is a difficult question to answer. As soon as someone starts translating, they face the impossibility of being completely faithful to the original. We have also discussed different metaphors for translation before. Maybe there are so many because the process is so different for each person. 

I found the metaphor in “A Live Dog” interesting(the title itself is already invoking curiosity). Terry writes, “If no one is going to read what is translated, there is very little reason for translating it.” He also asks, “If, by translating more literally, I end up by putting something that is readable and enjoyable in Japanese into something that is irksome and foreign-sounding in English, have I really been faithful to the author’s style?” He asks a lot of rhetorical questions, but his main point seems to be that keeping the work alive matters most. For him, this means imagining how an English-language novelist would have written it. However, I’m not sure I agree. With the internet and increasing connections across cultures, readers are becoming more familiar with different ways of writing. I think preserving more of the original’s form might actually make a work feel more alive.

Riggs compares translation to reincarnation, but this metaphor does not quite work for me either. She writes, “After all, the physical body of the original piece has to be obliterated and reincarnated in a totally different guise in order for the soul (message) to be reborn in the next (English) life.” First of all, I think this metaphor is a little scary. Also, can a text’s form and message really be separated like a body and a soul? I feel that the body and soul are connected. If someone had a different body, wouldn’t their soul experience the world very differently too? Still, I agree with her emphasis on empathy: “Without understanding and empathy here, the translator could create a monster rather than an English essay.” I think the ability to empathize with the author is an important part of translation.

Translation really is something fluid, as difficult to grasp as water. Maybe there are as many theories of translation as there are people who translate.

Kerry

Michael

「日本語を出来る人は誰ですか？」

今週の読み物を読んでから、一番大事な感情は「誰が日本語をできますか？」である。確かに母語は英語とか日本語などの人は同じな母語誰でも話しやすいので、ペラペラとして人たちはほとんど言語を理解する人と話せることだと思います。そして、何ぐらいも言語を勉強するので日本語を話せるようになったら単語も文法の使い方が分かるはずです。

Poetry Translation

I appreciated the coloring book analogy as I think that it depicts the art of translation well. No matter what you think of the original outline, you cannot change it.  While you can make creative choices to bring new life to the work and allow it to be understood by your specific audience more easily, the drawing is permanently cemented. The author states: "As long as you have a reason for what you’re doing, you can change it. However, you cannot change the picture....You have to strike a balance between being creative and not changing the feel or intention of the text." I found that the challenges of translation were especially prevalent with poetry, as the creative aspect is so strong. There is a variety of ways to communicate the feeling of the original work, through tools like word choice, rhyme, and format, and none of them will allow you to create an exact replica of the original. So, I feel that there is much more intuition involved in poetry as you have to hold on to the feelings evoked by the poem and not necessarily the exact content. Another quote that stuck with me was that you, "have to identify with the reader just as much as you identify with the author". While it is important to act as the author's messenger, stepping back and seeing your work as the reader is crucial. This step allows you to process whether you have adjusted the cultural and situational implications in a way that makes the work easy to digest for whoever the new audience is. Finally, the last quote that I found interesting in the reading was the following: "It is all too easy to get up on your high horse about what you perceive as an error, but you can be very embarrassed when you later realize that the text was right and you were the one who had not understood it. Your first assumption should not be that the text is wrong. You have to assume that you haven’t understood it, and check and double-check everything that is problematic." Here, the author emphasizes the importance of having a deep understanding of the text before translating it. You must remember that you are not creating a completely different piece of work. The author has already produced the work and it is your job to understand it in the way that was intended, not to take creative liberty and make changes because you believe they need to be made.

Emma

10/13 Between the Coloring Book and the Pond

After reading Carpenter’s Jumping Into the Pond, what interested me most were the two metaphors she uses to describe translation: a coloring book and a pond.

In the coloring book metaphor, the original text is a picture that has already been drawn. The translator can choose their own colors, but must follow the outlines drawn by someone else. This reminded me of my previous understanding of faithfulness: a translator should respect the original as much as possible, including emotions that are left unexplained, subtle implications, and even expressions that may seem unnatural. There is room for creativity, but only within the boundaries set by the original text.

However, the pond metaphor seems to suggest a different relationship. Carpenter compares the original text to a pond and the translator to a frog jumping into it. The sound of the splash belongs neither to the frog nor to the pond alone, but emerges from their encounter. In this metaphor, translation is no longer simply about adding colors to an existing work, but about creating something new through the interaction between the translator and the text.

This difference made me reconsider her discussion of wordplay. In the example from Geisha Boy, Carpenter is even willing to change the original names and jokes so that Japanese audiences can experience the humor of the English original. According to the coloring book metaphor, this seems to go beyond the original outlines. But according to the pond metaphor, perhaps this kind of change is precisely how a translation comes to life.

Still, I am not sure where the boundaries of this creativity should lie. If a translator can invent a new joke to preserve the original humor, does that mean they can also rewrite the original text? Where should we draw the line? And if we understand faithfulness as preserving the experience a work creates for its readers, who gets to decide what that experience is supposed to be?

Perhaps Carpenter’s two metaphors are not really contradictory. A good translator should respect the original shape of the pond while also having the courage to jump into it. Maintaining that balance may be a lifelong lesson.

Mingzi 

Carpenter on Translation

I really enjoyed Carpenter's takes on translation. One line of hers in particular really stood out to me: " You play with the sound and idea until something clicks. You try it, and sort of live with it a while, and then either accept it or reject it." This statement is exactly how I feel about translation. It is really a gamble on how long each translation will take me. Sometimes, I find a translation comes to me instantly, like a divine intervention. Other times, nothing seems to be quite right, and I just have to deal with that feeling. Something that has surprised me about translation is one of the hardest parts is figuring out when to stop. 

I also thought she had an interesting point about Seidensticker's work being a new product as a result of his translation. I think there is a unique balance between trying to both identify with the author and separating yourself from the author. To best get a "feel" for what the text is trying to accomplish, you must think about the author and their intent. On the other hand, it is impossible to remain 100% faithful to a text. You must think about the English-speaking audience and whether the author's words are understood in English. 

She also mentioned that translating poetry was entirely different from translating other forms of text. I had a lot of trouble with the poetry this week. I felt changing the order from the original poem created an entirely new image. I didn't like the examples in class where the author changed the order of the poem to be more convenient grammar-wise. As a result, this week's translation was one of the only instances where I opted to stay as faithful to the text as possible. Since the genre of poetry allows for a degree of grammatical inaccuracy, I think it is best to stay close to the original. 

Kenna Ward

Coloring in a Pond

     We have two more metaphors this week! There's a coloring book, and there's also Basho's old pond. I decided to title my post "Coloring in a Pond" because I thought it could be fun to do both at once. Maybe we can translate by coloring the picture while we play in the pond, and maybe the picture gets a little wet in the meantime. I think that could be a good metaphor, too. The text warps a bit with the water.

    Next, I have my usual smattering of commentary on the reading. I agree with Carpenter that you have to enjoy the words and language. Working through a whole novel, say, would be pretty rough otherwise. Identifying with the reader is important too. As much as we'd like to convey as much of the original as we can, it has to be good to read afterward. That is why I prefer as few footnotes as possible, if any at all. If they must be there, I vastly, vastly prefer putting them at the end of the book or in another inconspicuous location rather than at the bottom of a page. That way, they're almost invisible, but the reader can reference them if they need or want to. Personally, when I read a text with footnotes, I barely notice them, and I rarely feel the urge to flip to the end, even when I do. Like Carpenter says, it feels more comfortably un-academic this way.

Even less organized thoughts:

    On poetry: she mentions that a translator could never take the same kind of liberty with poetry as Binard does as the original author, but I disagree. Maybe you would prefer not to, as I would. Still, I don't see any absolute barrier to manipulating it like Binard does, especially for something as unambiguous as making the narrator not sound like they have a mother complex.

    Carpenter also mentions the dichotomy between reversing word order and keeping the original. I'd have to agree that preserving the original word order is better wherever it doesn't sound bad, and that's the philosophy I take as well.

    Obviously, you have to understand a text before translating it. Going line by line on a first read, as one audience member suggested, would inevitably lead to the kind of endless revisions the same person also raised. 

    Dialogue is hard. I haven't had much experience with it so far, but I think the dialogue I write tends to take on more of my own tone than I want it to. Lines sound duller, maybe. Or maybe that's my own bias showing when I reread my own writing, and in reality, it's fine. I'll have to pay more attention in the future.

    I thought it was pretty funny that she said not to be creative with technical language.

    Directly collaborating with the author, like Carpenter talks about in her interview with Professor Elliott, sounds pretty cool. I'd love to do something like that, depending on how things play out in the future.

    And finally, of course, you have to keep trying and learning as you continue translating. The same is true for your mother language. I'm still learning more English every week, and I hope I never stop.

winter

J Carpenter

 From Carpenter’s written text, I was really glad to see something I had struggled with in the past translations being addressed in one of these readings. It was the use of ような.Carpenter searches for words like “seemingly” after finishing a translation, and then considers whether they is truly necessary in each context. Throughout the text, Carpenter continues to bring up the idea that something that sounds fine in Japanese may sound off in English, and ような is one of these phrases. While translating the class assignments, I was always really unsure of the use of ような and whether I should keep it. I’m glad to find this way of thinking about these difficult phrases, something I will definitely keep in mind in future translations. 

For just a quick note about the interview, I found the mention of measurements in English funny. We never do think about it, but mentioning measurements in English is pretty rare and much too precise when actually spoken. Something like this is probably never fully thought about without comparing it to other cultures (just as translation forces one to do). 

Avi

J Carpenter

Melissa 

I liked the coloring-book analogy Carpenter uses in the "Jumping into the Pond" article. A big challenge in both creating your own translation and analyzing others is the translator's exercise of creativity. How far is too far when it comes to adapting the source text to a new language? We have discussed this problem in all sorts of ways. How can we stay faithful to the text while successfully adapting it to the new language? Carpenter approaches it in an artistic way. You must be immersed in the text you are translating. You have to research and make sure you fully understand it. The places it takes place in, the cultural references made. You must understand it as well as the author themselves in order to produce a "good" translation. But this is hard when we allow our own creativity into the mix. Recently, we discussed poems in class. We came across a poem that referenced rape blossoms. In Japanese poetry, these flowers are referenced often and are known for their bright yellow color. But in English, their name is not very pretty, nor are they widely known. So, we discussed replacing the flower with something else yellow. To me, the only suitable replacement is another kind of bright yellow flower. A sunflower, a buttercup, a dandelion, etc. A way to be creative in adapting the poem to be more accessible without leading to far. However, when the idea was brought up that it could be any yellow thing, I could not agree. The flower is not just a color; it is a purposeful symbol of life and beauty. A hope tied to the excitement in the poem. Changing the object strays too far, in my opinion. 

Carpenter expresses the need to balance three different perspectives when translating: the author, reader, and translator's own artistic interpretation. A good translation should feel natural to its new audience without losing the original work's intention.

Another way of ensuring a "good" translation is openness to critique or collaboration. Having a different set of eyes can catch your mistakes or add color you might not have thought up on your own. That's been particularly helpful for me in this class. Being able to submit my work and improve on it after in-class discussion or edits from Prof. Elliott. Of course, if I felt really strongly about something and everyone else felt really strongly against it, that may prove to be a bit exhausting, but so far, so good. But having another person to translate with can also help with justifying an risque decisions being made. Such as the dreaded "explanation".  As we know, Japanese and American culture are worlds apart, so there tends to be quite a few cultural gaps in Japanese texts. So we encounter the age-old question of translating what's there, explaining, or omitting altogether. At least with another person, you'll have someone to back you up when someone inevitably complains about whatever technique you choose. Like a partner in crime!

J Carpenter Readings

 I very much enjoyed reading about Juliet Carpenter's experiences and the way she navigates translation. I specifically liked her Mozart example. Japanese onomatopoeia is something that I have thought a lot about when it comes to translating into English and her perspective was very fascinating. I liked the idea of when you run into something that might be difficult to convey cross-linguistically, it can be helpful to consider the full context of both how the phrase is being used and also what the author was intending when they used it. Like with Mozart and how the kid's book used onomatopoeia to equate his works to a relatable feeling, the reader must also understand that that might be how Mozart was feeling at the time of composition. This example was helpful to frame how translators might go about more creative pieces of writing - like poetry. 

I also liked the question about understanding the reveal in the mystery novel. As a relatively untrained translator but mystery novel genre enjoyer, I tend to think that it would be essential to know the piece fully before attempting a translation. There are many famous mystery novels that when read multiple times, each re-read unlocks new hints and puzzle pieces that the author left for the reader to solve the mystery. I think that is an essential aspect of the genre to be able to communicate that if it exists. That part of mystery novels might not be universal to other genres as well, however I think the idea that any author might leave foreshadowing hints throughout their story might exist as well.

Tori

Coloring within the Lines

    In “Jumping into the Pond,” Juliet Winters Carpenter makes a point that really stayed with me: changing the order of the images in a poem can make it feel like a completely different poem. I felt this myself when translating Bashō. The order determines what readers picture first, how they connect one image to another, and even what kind of little story unfolds in their minds. Moving just one phrase can change the whole experience.
    But keeping the original order can also sound awkward in English, or draw attention to something that does not seem to be the focus of the original. I found myself going back and forth between these possibilities. Do I keep the sequence of images, or rearrange them so that the emphasis feels right? It is difficult because the order itself is already part of the meaning.
    Another thing that surprised me was Carpenter’s discussion of dialogue. I had not really thought about how difficult it is to translate the way people talk. In The Hunter, she had to create distinct voices for characters of different ages, personalities, and backgrounds, from police officers to family members and a beauty shop owner. Each person had to sound like themselves.
    This makes so much sense once I think about it. A character’s personality comes through in small details: how they end a sentence, hesitate, argue, or address someone else. Those details do not always have direct equivalents in another language. The translator has to find ways for that personality to come through in English. This is where Carpenter’s coloring-book metaphor feels especially fitting to me. You have to give these characters their colors again, using the materials available in another language.
    Carpenter’s interview with Professor Elliott also introduced me to the possibility of working closely with the author. For her translation of Minae Mizumura’s A True Novel, Mizumura, who knows English very well but writes in Japanese, offered extensive input. Their process sounds both exhausting and exciting. They worked separately and exchanged emails, then met for long stretches to go through the translation together. Sometimes they worked eight-hour days for a week or two, eventually developing a rhythm of alternating between working alone and working together. Carpenter describes how close they became through this experience.
    I find this kind of collaboration fascinating because it almost feels like another stage of writing the novel. The author gets to revisit her own work through a different language, while the translator can ask questions and discuss choices directly with her. The additions and revisions they make together become part of what shapes the translated book.
    At the same time, I wonder what happens when they disagree. What if the author wants to add something that the translator does not think works? Having the author there might make certain decisions easier, but would it also make the translator feel less free to follow her own judgment? I would love to know more about those moments. How they negotiate their different instincts, and how they decide when the English version finally feels right to both of them.

        Kerry

Juliet Carpenter

Joey Potter

    When I read Jumping into the Pond I was surprised at the crossover with my own experience translating a couple of the poems for this week. Carpenter talked about how in her experience with the Mozart picture book, "Even if you get a different feeling for the music yourself, you’re stuck with the feelings that the author had or that Mozart had." Also, how translation "is very like coloring in a coloring book. You’re stuck with this picture that somebody else drew...you cannot change the picture. You cannot take out somebody who is there." 

    Later on, she talked about changing vs keeping the order of the sentence when translating (gyakuokuri vs junokuri): "Take a sentence like, “The eyewitness reported that the plane crashed and burned.”...you do have to decide whether it is more effective to start with the crash or end with the crash...In poetry that’s very important."

    In my experience, in my reflection on my poem translations, I talked about how dissatisfied I was with the order of the lines in 閑さや岩にしみいる蝉の声. I really want the first and last 5-syllable sets to be swapped. I even considered doing so in my translation, as in translating poetry, we have more liberty, and, as we can see in the example translations, translators sometimes do go ahead and swap around lines. Also, in 東京へ発つ朝母は老けて見ゆこれから会わぬ年月のぶん, I didn't really understand why Mom seemed older as opposed to younger. But I just left it like that. I was "stuck with the feelings that the author had".

    So, the reading made me feel better about my ultimate decision to preserve the original. I think I landed on the right side of the 'preserve the original' vs 'fix the original' debate despite my urges to changing it in my translation. I followed my directive as a translator and just colored in the pre-drawn picture.

    Also random question: does the translator always read the whole book first before translating? Or translate as you read? The mystery novel question (about what if the murderer is someone you didn't expect) she addressed in the reading made me wonder.

Accompanying illustration to Basho's famous haiku, by Basho

(note: only 1 frog)

Translating Poetry is Possible

 The question "is translating poetry possible," is an infantile way of asking the question for the sake of asking for the reader's attention. Better yet is the question "is translation itself possible?" My answer is yes, but never perfectly. Additionally, the more creative, poetic, or artistic the translated text is, the more "liberties" must be taken (measured by strict prose vs. metaphor usage).

Languages are like games, and meaning is woven between each word not strictly, but purely in relation to each other word. If you asked me to replicate a building with its blueprint but different material and tools than what was said to have been used in the original, I can perhaps build you a house that provides a feel similar and hopefully indistinguishable from the emotion evoked by the original.

It is for this reason why in translation, less is more. Use less words and you may find that more people can derive similar meaning. If you instead attempt to "add context," you run the risk of striking at the wrong hyper-specific meaning which only may have worked for you. The game is played by us all but we all imagine the rules in our own unique way.

10/5 Linguistically Close VS Emotionally Distant

Until this week, I thought I had gradually arrived at my own definition of faithfulness: preserving the author's intended experience rather than the author's exact words. But these two readings made me realize that even this definition may be too simple. What exactly are we allowed to change in order to preserve an experience?

Pulvers's translation confused me at first because “Strong in the rain” is clearly not what ame ni mo makezu literally says. Yet the more I thought about it, the more his paradox made sense: sometimes we have to move away from the syntax of the original in order to move closer to the poem.

But Beichman's example of Kafū made me less comfortable. Changing syntax is one thing; changing who says “my beloved” seems much more radical. If the trees can become the speaker because this strengthens the harmony between human beings and nature (spirit of the poem preserved), where exactly does translation end and rewriting begin?

 

Maybe there is no fixed line. Translation is not choosing between “faithful” and “unfaithful,” but constantly deciding what kind of loss matters most. If keeping the syntax destroys the rhythm, perhaps syntax should be sacrificed. If preserving every word makes the voice unnatural, perhaps a word can disappear. But every freedom creates a responsibility: the translator has to know what they are sacrificing, and why.

 

This is why Beichman's description of translation as an “imperfect art” stayed with me. I used to think imperfection was something a translator should try to reduce. Now I am beginning to think that imperfection is not necessarily a defect of translation, but its condition. A translated poem cannot become the original. Perhaps the more interesting question is whether it can become, as Beichman says, the poem's “second self”—different enough to live in another language, but still recognizable as coming from the same life. And this “same life,” to me, is emotion: the shared humanity that travels across time and distance, allowing people centuries apart to still feel with one another. Perhaps this is what makes poetry immortal—not that its words remain unchanged, but that its emotions can continue to be felt, again and again, in different languages, times, and lives.

Mingzi

Poetry

     We have more metaphors for translation again. They keep coming up with every new reading, and I think I'll keep commenting on them. It's kind of fun. I like how the wormhole and dark glass capture the difficulty of moving poetry, in particular, between languages. I agree with Beichman that the differences across translation reflect poetry's refractory nature. Rhythm is hard to transfer, and of course we have all the usual difficulties with cultural contexts and whatnot. 栲園 becoming "Ropes of Taku fiber" is one example of that. But if we're talking about poetry, of course, we end up discussing the tone, or voice, or rhythm, or whatever you want to call it. "Anything, the least little jot or the tiniest comma, can carry great weight and impact," or something along those lines. Speaking of rhythm, I love enjambment, by the way. It's a lot of fun in English poetry, and apparently it may prove useful for translating from Japanese, too.

    As a quick aside before I get to the more consequential points of the reading, I think when people say poetry cannot be translated, they're probably just lamenting some lost bit of atmosphere or meaning. Of course some parts are lost; this is true of all literary translations. Maybe poetry gets warped more than prose, but the idea that this makes translated poetry not a translation at all is kind of silly. Rather than defeatist, it comes across as overly reverential. As Pulvers argues, we're all human, and we can feel the same sentiments as other humans, even in another language. I think that's what I personally value in poetry: the emotions more than the words themselves, even though words are pretty too sometimes.

    One of Pulvers's key insights is that poetry has to come naturally from the translator's voice, as opposed to the original author's. I think this is definitely more true for poetry than for prose. Some may disagree, but I think that with prose, you can play with the target language a bit to bring out more of the original. As long as the reader clearly understands what I'm saying, I don't mind writing a few strange sentences. For poetry, on the other hand, if it doesn't sound like poetry or carry the same tone as the original, the translation doesn't work. I think Beichman has one or two good examples where a literal, phrase-by-phrase translation feels broken.

    My biggest takeaway from Beichman's article is how malleable word/phrase/line order can be. I've already noticed this in the limited amount of translated poetry I've read, but English translations of Japanese don't tend to follow the original structure strictly. I used to think it was best to stick as close to the original form as possible, but I'm reconsidering. Maybe translations shouldn't "be any more restricted than the original," as long as the original form is still visible, even if only vaguely. Still, I firmly believe there are limits. With that said, I want to nitpick some of the translations Beichman mentions. Taking Beichman at her word about Kafū's conversion of "La Lune Blanche," I don't think it was necessary to attribute the voices to the branches. Maybe he misread, or maybe that was the original intention, or maybe he didn't actually do that and Beichman was wrong, but assuming the French doesn't imply the branches are calling out to their beloved, the Japanese shouldn't either. The other one I had a problem with was Beichman's own translation of Yosano into English. She argues for translating the quiet voice of private grief, but I think this is entirely her own construction. I do enjoy the translation as a poem (somewhat; I think the first stanza kinda sucks, to be honest. Why are we breaking up the lines so much? Are we scared of long lines?), but she makes unnecessary insertions for fun.

    This is getting kind of long, but finally, I wanted to reply to Joey's post. I'll admit that I didn't feel the road leading into the darkness with the Japanese, but I think that's more because my Japanese is still lacking than because the poem doesn't imply it. It was hard for me to get much from the rest of the haiku, too, while I was trying to parse the language. But the road definitely leads into the darkness, and I feel that it comes across pretty bluntly if you read the line, or the middle phrase in Japanese, by itself. But you're right that she writes about it in a very pretentious way, and it's unnecessary and off-putting. As I said earlier, I value a poem's feeling more than the language itself, and she's leaning heavily into flowery language in her interpretation. The words are a ribbon of black? Genuinely, what are you talking about? And yeah, something else for "stands out" would probably be better. For the Keene edit, I don't mind "on" instead of "in" because it suggests the breath carries the narrator through the water rather than, say, lung capacity, but I don't like that he cut "only." Maybe "only on one breath" could work. Does it need to be grammatically or lexically correct? Poetry plays with standard form and meaning all the time, anyway. But you're right that it's not the best example. Maybe Beichman saw something in the word "on" that stood out to her, but I have no strong feelings either way. Also, I appreciate the images you've been throwing in with every post. Shoutouts

winter

Poetry Readings

    I think Pulvers summed up poetry translation pretty well when he said that no matter what, the translation has to be "a poem in its own right". I think that's a vital part of translation that isn't so widely understood, the fact that no matter what, the translation is still a separate work. But then again, it's sort of both. The translation is its own but it also works in tandem with the voice and intent of the original text. A thought crossed my mind when he spoke on Miyazawa. The job of a translator is essentially that of an actor playing several different roles. In order to produce a faithful translation, they need to put themselves in the shoes of the author (much like in the case of Miyazawa), but at the same time produce that work in such a way that is still comprehensible to the target audience. This follows the overarching theme of translation being a balancing act that we've talked about quite a bit so far in class. 

    I heavily agree with Beichman on the weight of punctuation in translation, but especially poetry. Due to the fact that poems are traditionally shorter literary works, the impact of punctuation is amplified, and same goes for word choice. The breakdown of Keene's translation of the Kojiki made me realize how, in order to translate poetry, you have to be both a skilled translator and a poet. That is to say, you can't simply translate a poem like you would a novel and expect the effect to be the same. You need to also be skilled in producing poetry in order to RE-produce someone else's. This also ties back into what Pulvers said about poetry needing to be somewhat independent of its source in order to be more faithful to it.

Madison

10/5 Readings

While we learned about the importance of deverbalization in the context of translating traditional texts, I believe that this concept becomes essential in poetry. This quote stuck with me: "no matter how "faithful" it is to the text and the spirit of the original, it has to be a poem in its own right". Translators have the difficult job of maintaining enough of the original to deliver the same experience to the native readers, but also produce a competent piece of work. However, if they overcorrect and try to create an entirely new piece, they are essentially no longer doing a translation. This fine line puts translators in a difficult place to figure out the correct balance for each piece of writing. I agreed with Pulvers' comment that: "In some cases, translators should familiarize themselves exhaustively with the circumstances surrounding the poet's life; and in Miyazawa's case, this is essential. What was life like a century ago in the small town of Hanamaki in Iwate Prefecture, where he was born and made his life?". Having an overall feel for the energy and style of the author gives the translator a lens to view the work through and apply when they translate.

This quote: "In other words, without translations, without translators, modern Japanese poetry as we now know it would literally not exist" made me think about the impacts of cultural disbursement and diversity. Since Japan used to be closed off, it's customs and cultures developed in a unique way which was then drastically altered by the import of foreign goods, skills, and traditions. I did not really think about how pieces of work, including writing, also affected this. If we had never translated certain pieces of work to other languages, there would be a great divide in knowledge between linguistically different societies. It truly emphasizes the importance of translation as a bridge between worlds.

Finally, I also found this quote interesting: "Poetry 'is of so subtile a spirit, that in pouring out of one Language into another, it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a Caput mortuum,' that is, a death skull, or an empty shell". I think this is a difficult task because you want to maintain the integrity of the piece but also add extra content to make up for what is lost in translation. However, you must be careful as you may overcompensate and create writing that does not flow well or feel natural in the translated langauge.

Emma

Oct 5 Reading

Melissa LaRochelle

To be honest, I actually don't enjoy poetry very much. I'm bad at interpreting it and feel silly when I try. So I guess I have strong opinions about it. 

 R. Pulvers, “On Translating Poetry”     

Honestly, for all the reasons Pulvers came up with for the possibility of translating poetry- a translator understanding the soul of the poem to translate it;

I believe it cannot be done. For one thing, poetry is not a matter of right or wrong interpretations; thus it isn't possible to translate the "correct" meaning.

Poetry is like a bomb of inspiration that sets off a chain of ideas and interpretations with every new reader. It is impossible to capture this.

Especially in Japanese-to-English translation. Every piece of Japanese poetry is intensely thought out, down to the kanji used. These things cannot be translated in a

way that does the original justice. The best way to understand foreign poetry is to study the language, not translate it into something else. Rather than translation, the best way

to spread Japanese poetry to English speakers is to create new English Haiku or other Japanese-style poems.

J. Beichman, “Through a Glass Darkly”

They argue that without translated poetry, Japanese poetry would not exist. I don't believe that. Traditional Japanese poetry was highly influenced by Chinese poetry.

These Japanese poets were often reading these poems-- in Chinese. Even writing some of their own in Chinese first before going on to Japanese. Like I said, it is possible to

enjoy another language and culture's poems and get inspired to create your own. Most great Japanese poets weren't sitting around waiting for translations to be released.

It's hard to preserve the sound and musicality of poetry when translating from Japanese to English. Nearly impossible, in my opinion. The syllables, consonants, endings of

words. This also effects the intake of the poem.

So, I suppose I don't find translating poetry possible.