Lost in translation

When asked who my favorite author is, I’m tempted to say Haruki Murakami. Never mind that I haven’t read all his books, or that I don’t understand what’s going on his novels half the time: there are passages, regardless of the plot intricacies, that just hit me with an overwhelming sense of wonder and beauty. His words flow so fluidly sometimes, it’s easy to forget that what I'm reading isn't really his words—it's a translation of them.

I'd never thought too much about translations before this year. In language classes, we learn how to take one thing in English and turn it into another language. We could get fancy with the grammar, maybe throw in a more sophisticated vocab word. We might learn figures of speech, idioms that require figurative thinking. But are there times when meaning transcends a specific language or defies laws of translation? At what times are there actually no words, no way to communicate an idea?

In my semester abroad, I met a translator. He was my Intro to Japanese Lit professor, and used the pseudonym Swarthyface. Our first novel was Yukio Mishima’s The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about a book so hard (my preferred leisure reading is Harry Potter fanfiction), but here was a story, all of its deep, dark thoughts shared with me. I had never before put myself in the shoes of a fatherless 13-year-old boy with a tendency to skin cats and preach of ‘absolute dispassion.’

An ugliness unfurled in the moonlight and soft shadow and suffused the whole world. If I were an amoeba, he thought, with an infinitesimal body, I could defeat ugliness. A man isn’t tiny or giant enough to defeat anything.

Looking back, how was I not floored by the amazingness of this translation, along with the rest of the entire book, all of Yukio Mishima's translated works, and let's just include every attempt to translate Japanese literature? It's one thing to be able to communicate and have a conversation with someone in another language, and to understand what's going on. But to derive meaning in a story, and elegantly describe and relate a character or situation, that's pretty special. A translator's creative decisions shape how the reader will perceive a work. It's an incredible challenge, and I'm sure there are a lot of people out there like I used to be, totally oblivious to the art of translation. 

Jay Rubin, Murakami's longtime translator, has this to say: "I strongly advise people not to read literature in translation, because I know what happens in the process." When asked what about Murakami is untranslatable, he responded with "everything."

According to Rubin, the reader is at the mercy of the translator. A translated book is the result of the author's words filtering through the brain of the translator, and we end up with something Rubin calls "an interesting imitation." But somehow, even through the work of multiple translators, Murakami's English-speaking audience can discern a recognizable voice. 

So now what to say about translation. It’s great that we have a way to communicate ideas past language barriers, and can share thoughts with people we ourselves don't have the means to communicate with. But at the same time, we are missing out on so much because we can't totally understand languages and cultures foreign to us. I could get way more out of Haruki Murakami if I could read the original versions of his stories. But for now I guess l'll have to settle for the translation.