The following contains some interesting comments on translation from one of my favourite bloggers:
http://perpetual-lab.blogspot.com/2011/07/homers-odyssey.html On 12 November 2011 19:33, gabbydott <[email protected]> wrote: > Buh, this sounds like the pee water adaption! A dreadful twang in pink > tütü! > > But you are right, your English language is definitely more poetic than > the sober German language, for example. > > > On Sat, Nov 12, 2011 at 6:48 PM, Don Johnson <[email protected]> wrote: > >> I thought this was very interesting. I'm very appreciative of how >> writing can flow with a special place in my heart for alliteration. >> I've noticed some translations are unbearable to read because of lost >> flow. The title really caught my eye. >> >> >> WORD CRAFT: Found In Translation >> >> >> I have spent the last three years translating Homer's "Iliad," a >> project I began because none of the English translations on my >> bookshelf interested my ear enough to get past Book 1. Translating is >> a specialized kind of work, but in the most general sense, it is the >> art of listening. It has lessons for anyone who cares about the sound >> of their writing. >> >> With Homer, the first thing that I do is my homework, looking up the >> Greek words I don't know and studying the commentaries. I'm left with >> a bramble of possibilities handwritten on the right-hand page of my >> notebook and a blank page on the left. >> >> Below, for example, is a passage from the very beginning of the >> "Iliad." Apollo's priest has been offended by King Agamemnon and prays >> to the god to inflict disaster on the Greek army camped before Troy. >> Apollo strides down from Mount Olympus and starts shooting his plague >> arrows. >> >> Then he sat down apart from (opposite) the ships and shot (let fly) an >> arrow, >> >> and terrible was the twang from the silver bow. >> >> First he attacked the mules and the swift dogs, >> >> then he shot his sharp (piercing) arrows on the men themselves, >> >> and forever the pyres of the dead kept burning thick (close >> together). >> >> This is raw stuff, as any literal version must be, with no life in the >> language. At this point I begin to listen for the rhythm (a music that >> I hear before the words themselves come into focus in my ear), and >> line by line, sometimes after a minute, sometimes after 10—magically, >> it seems—the words begin to configure themselves, my hearing creates >> what I want to hear, the pen starts to write, and I am a fascinated >> witness. >> >> Here is my second draft: >> >> Then he dropped to one knee and an arrow flew, >> >> and a dreadful twang arose from the silver bow. >> >> First he attacked the mules and the flickering dogs, >> >> then he let fly his arrows on the men themselves. >> >> And night and day the pyres of the dead kept burning. >> >> Not bad, but the language is still quite awkward, the rhythm choppy, >> and it ends with a fizzle, not with the kind of commanding harmonic >> cadence I am listening for. >> >> The rest of the work, over the next few days or weeks, is a process of >> refining, of testing every word, every sound, against my sense of what >> Homer's music should sound like in English, an English that is rapid, >> direct and noble, as his Greek is. Sometimes it takes five or six >> drafts until my ear is satisfied, sometimes 30 or 40. >> >> Here is the passage in its final form: >> >> He dropped to one knee and drew back a deadly arrow, >> >> and a dreadful twang rang out from the silver bow. >> >> First he attacked the mules and the dogs, but soon >> >> he shifted his aim and struck down the men themselves. >> >> And the close-packed pyres of the dead kept burning, burning, >> >> beside the Achaean ships, all day and all night. >> >> I like the insistent sound of the d's in the first line here. >> "Dreadful twang" was good already, I thought, but "twang/rang" sounded >> even better. And the extra "burning," which I stumbled upon in the >> fourth draft, made my skin tingle. >> >> Before you finish a piece of your own writing, you might try reading >> it out loud or silently, paying attention just to the sound of the >> words. If you come to a phrase that doesn't sound quite right, let >> your ear, rather than your thinking, revise the line. You may be >> surprised by what you didn't know you knew. >> >> —Mr. Mitchell is a writer and translator whose many books include "Tao >> Te Ching," "The Book of Job" and "Gilgamesh." His translation of >> Homer's "Iliad" was published last month. >> >> >> http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204190704577024470798695892.html?mod=WeekendHeader_Right >> >> > -- Francis Hunt *francishunt.blogspot.com*
