Translations are Hell (Choosing an Inferno): Naomi

I've been re-reading Dante's Inferno.   For fun. (I know, I know.  I am that deeply geeky.)  And I am madly in love with my translation of it, and wanted to share it with you, Gentle Readers.  

Dante's 9 levels of Hell, by Sandro Botticelli

A few words about translations: I am a self-confessed translation snob.  Perhaps it’s the training in Shakespeare, which makes me reticent to accept subpar renditions.  For example, I have seen many editions of Shakespeare where footnoted modernizations turn Hamlet into hamburger.  Shakespeare says:

… There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all…. (V.ii.)

If I were to “translate,” I might say: “God controls everything, even something as small as a sparrow’s death.  If something happens now, it’s supposed to.  If it’s not happening now, it will happen later.  All we can do is prepare.”  

Now, the first passage gives me goosebumps, and makes me *happy sigh* a little each time I hear it; it’s truth-in-poetry.  The second one is mere explanation: dry, soulless, lacking. 

I don’t want to dislike a book or an author because the translation is bad.  The translation should give the ideas of the original author a chance to affect a larger audience.  That’s why we translate books…

So I can read Dante, when I don’t read Italian.  

Rodin's "Gates of Hell"

 When it comes to choosing a translation edition, I have a process:  choose a passage, find it in each book, compare.  It’s how I buy translations, dictionaries, even travel guides.  When I chose my Dante a few years ago, I spent about two hours sitting on the floor in Very Distinguished University’s bookstore, surrounded by every translation they had on hand.  As I pondered, I had a few criteria:

      1) The translation needed soul.  So all prose translations were put back on the shelf.  This girl was not interested. 

2) I wanted, but did not require, a facing-page translation.  (You know, original language on one page; translation on the other.)  Because of my Romance language background, I like to look at the original language and see how much I can parse it.  Some editions have the original text in Part I of the book, followed by the translation in Part II, but that’s pretty clunky to navigate.

      3) Scholarly notes.  I prefer footnotes to endnotes, but I definitely wanted the occasional editorial comment on context or word choice.  Since I’ve never taken a class on Dante, and I was reading for education as well as pleasure, I wanted someone to give me a little guidance. 

After a few hours of consideration, I chose Michael Palma’s translation of Inferno.  This was a wonderful decision, as the book is fabulous.  This was a terrible decision, as he has not published Purgatorio or Paradiso.  And I need them!

I have such a crush on Palma’s translation.  It’s not word-for-word exact.  But the soul is right.  So many writers are intimidated by translating poetry.  It’s with excellent reason—good poetry is hard enough to write oneself, let alone trying to capture the essence of someone else’s poetry while remaining true to the original rhyme scheme.  Dante in particular has been a challenge, and so many translators have thrown up their hands and reverted to prose!  O the humanity.  Translators have done Dante in free verse, blank verse, and bastardized terza rima with elimination of the linking rhyme. 

[For those who are unfamiliar, Gentle Readers, terza rima is a poetic rhyme scheme collected in tercets, or lines of three, much like a couplet is collected & rhymed in twos.  Each middle line—for example, the “B” of an A-B-A tercet—is the main rhyme for the following tercet.  To wit: A-B-A, B-C-B, C-D-C, D-E-D, etc.  Terza rima is traditionally iambic (an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable), which sounds like a heartbeat (duh-DUM).  Shakespeare is also traditionally iambic.]  

Palma keeps Dante’s terza rima (including the linking rhyme), so the rhythm and the rhyme pull your reading forward.  He also keeps the beauty, so when you read about Paolo and Francesca, you’re struck with the hopelessness of their passion and their punishment.  (Did you know that Rodin’s The Kiss is figured after Paolo and Francesca?  The statue illustrates the moment of the first forbidden kiss, when “that day we did not read another line.”)

In his introduction, Palma explains why his translation is a little less flowery than some others.  He reminds the reader that Dante is famous for writing in Italian—the vernacular—rather than Latin.  In Dante’s lifetime, “serious” works of literature were written in Latin, partly so that other intellectuals could read one another's ideas without translation problems (O the irony!), and partly so that authors appeared to be extending classical lines of inquiry.  Latin showed that these authors were taking up the torch, so to speak. Dante changed that.  He wrote a “serious” work of literature, a piece with religious overtones, classical bones, and political significance, and he wrote it in everyday speech.  

So Palma keeps his translation pretty lean and mean.  The words are well-chosen but the manipulation of language seems effortless.  It’s clear, it’s readable, and it’s still lovely. 

It’s not perfetto.  I have a few niggling problems: Palma’s “All you who enter, let no hope survive” does not hold a candle to John Ciardi’s “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”  Frankly, Palma's rendition of the most famous of all Dante quotations is pretty clunky.    But all in all, I’m a big fan. 

I won’t get even more pedantic in this post, but please don’t let Dante frighten you.  He’s canonical because he’s good, not necessarily because he’s hard.  If reading a prose translation gets you into reading Inferno, use it!  (Just don’t tell me.  My heart will bleed.)  Please give it a shot.  It’s lovely, it’s frightening, it’s intense.  And each Canto is pretty short, so each “chapter” is readable.  

Don’t abandon all hope… give the poetry a chance.  

Palma has two publications of his Inferno: the facing-page translation which I own, and the Norton Critical Edition, with additional essays and explication.  Both are available relatively cheaply.  

Watchers, and the watched...:Naomi

I have sometimes been accused of being a book snob.  I would like to protest that that is only mostly true.  I do not insist on “highbrow” reading.  I do not read only Shakespeare, and theory, and dry textbooks.  I AM FUN, DAMMIT.  In fact, I dislike theory quite a lot (the theory-head is Hermia, weird little freak that she is).  And I do love Shakespeare, but I love him for his ridiculous plots and his bawdy jokes as much as for his poetry and his polish. 

But, lest I protest too much (Hamlet joke: nudge, nudge, wink, wink), let me continue.  I like all kinds of books.  I read horror, sci fi, fantasy, mysteries, even some non-fiction.  I have very few rules, but here they are:

1) The book must be well-written.  If the plot is good, I can forgive substandard prose, but if the plot and the prose are poor, I get cranky.

2) If the book has a genre precedent, it must be acknowledged, even if it’s then rejected.  For example, I think Twilight is awful.  Both because it violates Rule #1, and because it never adequately explains why Myers’ vampires don’t fit the vampire prototype.  Now don’t get me wrong, Gentle Readers.  Not all vampires need to be Dracula-esque.  Some of my favorite vampires are totally different types.  But the good books acknowledge the previous stereotypes, explain the unique twist given, and extrapolate from there.  A good book is aware of its place in literary history, even if the book only aspires to be a pot-boiler.  

3) If I am going to cry, I like to be warned.  I don’t need to know what horrible thing will happen, but I like to know that I need tissues.  And usually I like to read crying-books while wearing my contacts, so my glasses don’t get all foggy.  (So I’m a neat-freak.  So what?)

That’s pretty much it.  I will read just about anything.  So I find it amusing to be called a book snob.  Frankly, I’m a bit more of a book whore.  I’m rather indiscriminate with my favors, and I will do it anywhere.  *ahem*  Moving on…

This whole conversation (Monologue? Rant?) is preamble to one of my favorite books.  It’s a Dean Koontz thriller.  Dean-o usually falls into the grey area described in Rule #1 above.  His plots usually get me through the rough prose patches, but I have to read him sparingly.  He is, however, a fantastic airplane read.

But one of the “Masters of Modern Horror” owns, and loves, golden retrievers.  (awwwww.)  His golden retriever Trixie even wrote a few books before she passed away.  See her webpage here: http://www.deankoontz.com/trixie-about/   Yeah, yeah, yeah…corny.  I know.  Koontz’s A Big Little Life is still worth reading for all dog lovers, though (bring tissues). 

***

So, back to…Watchers.

There are two books being written here.  One is a dog book.  If you don’t like dogs, firstly you won’t care for this book.  Secondly, why are we friends, Gentle Reader?  I mean, really.  What do we have in common?  Anyway, the other book is a science fiction genetic-mutation-runs-amok story, which is one of my favorite sub-genres. The great thing about Watchers is that these two halves feel organic.  And not in a genetic-mutation sort of way. 

Amoral scientists who have been tempted by power, money, and fame have come together somewhere in California to make super-genetic-hybrid-spy-soldier (SGHSS) things.  Then, as these things tend to do, the SGHSSes get loose.  There are, of course, two of them.  The good one, who looks like a golden retriever, and the bad one, who eats people’s faces and looks like hellspawn.  The bad one is jealous of the good one (sibling rivalry with fangs), and hunts it.  It does eat people’s faces along the way: Jekyll & Hyde, with fur. 

But the good SGHSS adopts a person.  And since it is, physically, a dog, the SGHSS cannot speak.  Which is where the book gets really fun.  Our friend Dean writes dog behavior beautifully.  Anyone who has ever been owned by a dog knows that his or her dog is obviously super-smart.  Smarter than most people.  Certainly smarter than I am.  This SGHSS dog is the apex of my-dog-is-amazingly-smart.  Because, you know, it is.  Genetically modified and all.  There is some seriously good dog-owner wish-fulfillment going on in this book.  Plus, you know, faces being eaten.  And chase scenes. 

Some of the book is silly.  There’s a girl-being-stalked subplot that is just shoved in there, but serves to get the romantic leads together.  Frankly, it’s superfluous.  Some of the plotting needs a nudge, and it is not beautifully written.  BUT THE DOG HAS A PEOPLE-BRAIN.  So it all works out. 

It's pretty tightly-plotted, and the faint of heart ought not to read it alone in the dark.  Read it amongst friends, in a brightly-lit coffee shop in the middle of a sunny afternoon.  You'll still bite your nails. 

And yes, it made me cry.  By the end I even cried for the bad SGHSS.  It is not his fault, after all, that the amoral scientists made him “wrong.”  And he’s still a puppy.  In spite of the face-eating. 

Here is the B&N link, but you can find it cheaply on any book site.  It was, after all, first published in 1987.  My paperback is beat all to hell, and I am actually considering finding a hardback edition that I don't have to hold together with rubber bands and spit.  Or you could vist your local library, otherwise known as my happy place.  

[NOTA BENE: Koontz also wrote The Darkest Evening of the Year, another book with golden retrievers.  It’s a total waste of time.]

Entr'Acte: Names

When we began brainstorming this blog, and were penning our introductions, one of us outlines how she is tall and blonde and jolly, and the other mentions how she is tiny and dark and bitter as all hell.  Both of us being Shakespeare Geeks, we immediately went here, to A Midsummer Night’s Dream (III.ii.208-12):

So we grew together,

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,

But yet an union in partition,

Two lovely berries molded on one stem;

So, with two seeming bodies but one heart.

Replace “heart” with “brain,” and you may have an idea what you’re in for.  Hermia liked being “little” and "fierce" so much, she took the name.  Naomi liked her punny name too much to become Helena, even for the sake of parallelism.  She apologizes to everyone's OCD. 

Prologue- Naomi de Plume

Greetings & Salutations, Gentle Readers!

You can call me Naomi de Plume (cue flourish of a feather boa).  I enjoy the life of the mind, and this will not be a blog where you learn how to DO things, like cook.  Or craft.  Or knit.  Because, as much as I adore all those things, I am not the Barefoot Contessa.  Or Martha Stewart.  Or Alice Starmore.  I am Me, and I love books & geekiness best of all.   

So a bit about me: Norwegian genes have made me tall and blonde and curvy, and I like to see that moment when people underestimate me because of my looks… then I open my mouth.   I love the theatre, and soccer, and bad movies, and 80’s hair bands, and wine, and dogs, and fairy tales, and punnistry.  All of these things will appear in future posts: consider yourself warned. 

I have an advanced degree in Shakespeare from Very Distinguished University, and now work as an administrator at Very Small College.  I like my job and my students, but I miss the intellectual rigor of teaching Literature-with-a-capital-L at Very Distinguished University.  So you, Gentle Readers, are my new laboratory.  In a sense, I think blogging is a bit of a narcissistic enterprise, but then again, so is lecturing a classroom.  I always preferred an intellectual free-for-all to a well-structured lecture.  So I would reach heights of intellectual ecstasy hitherto unknown if only you will promise to engage with this blog, rather than passively read it.  (Perhaps, Naomi darling, you should GET readers before you start telling them what to DO.  Just a thought.)

Hermia and I became friends through Very Small College, and it’s been non-stop shenanigans since then.  We don’t have enough time in person to talk about all the books we like, let alone the films and music and speculative fiction and Peter Pan and cocktails and French fries and the general fascination with the abomination that is Life (extra points if you can place that reference).  So now we blog about it.  Because we are too damn amusing to keep ourselves to ourselves.