I am still spending my days listening to Drefus' lectures on Being and Time. Transported to another time and place altogether, the lectures are as thought-provoking now as they were 20 years ago.
However, there are these two refrains, inevitably repeated in every lecture that bring me back to the present. I will talk about the second one later when I figure it out, but the first is straight-forward enough-- it is a refrain I call, "blaming the translator."
No matter what, it is the translator's fault.
It's true too.
Dreyfus, every time he hits a stumbling block in the book, stops dead in his tracks: "What!" he demands, "Has the translator done now?" He then carefully checks the German. In 90% of the time, in fact, the English translation turns out to be a direct and totally indisputable one. However, there are rare problems as well. Like when "the translator" capitalizes Being: "All nouns are capitalized in German-- but does the translator choose to capitalize chair?
No.
So why is "being" being capitalized?"
It's true, our nameless translator-- like an Ottoman miniaturist in the service of some all-powerful Pasha-- makes a deadly mistake indeed when he starts to make dangerous interpretations of the text. Interpreting is not part of his job, the Pasha screams!
And isn't that one of the differences between the translator and the interpretor?
An interpretor stands right up there in front of everyone, and like magic performs his or her stuff. People are grateful because it all happens right in front of their eyes. And, as there is no text (nothing written down for posterity) the interpretor can-- and indeed often does-- wing it. It is like the finest calligraphy or ballet-- performance art-- performed without retouching, redoing or respeaking or re-writing. It is completely rooted in the present tense.
In contrast, "the translator" works in the world of re-writing- as texts are those things which by their very being are fated to be scrutinized over and over well into the future. Compared to our glamorous interpretor, the translator is like a librarian in Borges' fantastical and infinite library, the translator is expected to know all the "right" answers.
So our translator of Heidegger makes the call: he capitalizes being. But in that one seeimingly small step, he changes a universe. For now, poor Heidegger appears to be talking about a supernatural Being-- yes, something God-like, instead of just talking about our day to day lives; our being in the world; our existence.
Or what about when he takes certain technical words in German and translates them willy-nilly depending on the situation across the text? Well, we are now entering the world of anarchy itself.
It is a thankless job. For when the translator gets it right he or she is like air-- that is, the translator's role should fade into invisibility. But, when he or she makes a mistake? Well, it could haunt them for the rest of their lives-- and beyond.
And, think of the possibilities for error? In Heidegger's case, we are talking about sister languages. There just isn't all that much room for gaps as the languages themselves are structurally and culturally so similar. What of the poor translator working between Japanese and English? No two languages are as far apart (Chinese is even closer to English in word order at least). In Japanese, you just cannot win since it is impossible to translate word for word, you must by default aim to translate the meaning.
This problem in translation dates far back in history. Perhaps the most famous proponate of 意訳 was the great Kumarjiva himself. As I wrote about here,
They call him the world's greatest translator. A proponent of i-yaku 意訳 (meaning-oriented translation) over that of choku-yaku 直訳 (direct or literal translations), Kumarjiva is not only known for the tremendous breadth of his translations but also for the beautiful flowing smoothness of the language-- which is to say it reads beautifully. And, it needs to be stated again that is is all the more of an achievement because of the fact that he was working in what is the most obtuse area of Buddhist philosophy
This problem of translation was, in fact, what inspired some of the greatest travels of all (in India, Central Asia and China) from the Han to the Tang dynasties.
Choku-yaku remains absolutely essential in legal translations and for patents. For everything else, however, it rarely offers anything understandable or readable so the poor translator is forced by default to walk down the slippery slope of i-yaku. "Why a slippery slope," you ask?
Well, of course, because a translation is meant to serve as a bridge connecting east and west (to borrow the phrase of our friends in Beijing)-- and as a bridge it holds a promise that the one side of the bridge will lead to another. That is to say, one wants the bridges they have to cross to be both direct and straight across. But i-yaku cannot keep such a promise. You've seen the old joke in cartoons when someone is apeaking a foreign language and is going on and on about something for like minutes on end, and the interpretor says, "they said yes." And everyone's mouth opens, "is that all they said?" "Yes, that's it." Bridges like that do not instill trust.
I belong to a large translators association to which some of the Greats of Japanese translaton participate. Highly educated, perhaps it is their curiosity that really sets so many of them apart. I once asked for help on a Tang dynasty translation that I could not find an English translation to
天門一長嘯,万里清風來
Of course, my problem was with the phrase "長嘯"-- which has no Japanese counterpart. Dozens of people wrote to help, and finally a colleague in the Bay Area used a Sunday afternoon to drive down to the Berkeley East Asian Library-- as fantastic a library as any library Borges ever dreamed about-- to track down the one English language attempt at translation of the famous poem by 李白
In the end, I ignored everyone's advice and went with my own rendition. I attached the established translation that Alan had tracked down at Cal as well, but the company chose wisely (I think!) mine.
At Heaven’s Gate
I chant a poem
And the wind from 100 li away
Sweeps over me; sweeping away the worries of my heart
Some will complain but the truth is, in translation: you just can't win-- all the more so in Beijing, it seems. Inside jokes aside...
Alan Siegrist Just on a lark, I searched for this poem once again and now I found a Japanese translation of it.
天門一長嘯。萬里清風來。』
天への門に向かって一たび長く唄い叫んだ、すると万里の先より清々しい風が吹いて釆た
It sounds like you caught the gist of it. If I may translate freely, this might also be something like:
"I once wailed in anguish interminably at the gates of heaven, and then a soothing breeze from a myriad li away washed over me."
http://kanshi100x100.blog.fc2.com/blog-entry-250.html?sp
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:22 AM
Yes, it was most probably a stretch. There is an obscure Japanese meaning, though that I think I got from the Kojien: [名](スル)声を長く引いて、詩歌を吟じること。Unfortunately, I no longer have a copy of the Kojien so I could have got this from somewhere else. Alan actually went to the East Asian Library at Berkeley and received help on the poem and I recall they were suggested "shrieking"....
At heaven's gate
I wail in anguish
As the wind from 100 li away
Sweeps away the worries of my heart
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:23 AM
Ian: Not a poem. He's whistling. This is a Taoist practice, and this is a poem replete with Taoist mountain imagery. There are no worries in the heart to be swept away. No anguish. The opposite, he's going to meet the Jade maidens!
At the sky's gate, (I utter a) single long whistle.
From ten thousand miles, the clear wind comes.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:23 AM
Ian:
The entire poem in Chinese:
四月上泰山,石屏御道開。
六龍過萬壑,澗谷隨縈回。
馬跡繞碧峰,於今滿青苔。
飛流灑絕巘,水急松聲哀。
北眺崿嶂奇,傾崖向東摧。
洞門閉石扇,地底興雲雷。
登高望蓬瀛,想象金銀台。
天門一長嘯,萬里清風來。
玉女四五人,飄搖下九垓。
含笑引素手,遺我流霞杯。
稽首再拜之,自愧非仙才。
曠然小宇宙,棄世何悠哉。
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:24 AM
Ian
It is really very exciting. Li Bai is really getting the royal treatment. Look what happens next:
Jade maidens, in all four or five,
floating and spinning, descend from the Nine Boundaries
They withhold their smiles, and extend their pure white hands,
And bequeath to me a cup filled with roiling red clouds.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:24 AM
Wow! I think I actually did this translation earlier than 2008 and all I had was that one long line translated into Japanese. I checked library books locally and I used-- such as it was then-- the Internet, but there was nothing. You know, even yesterday morning I quickly googled in Japanese the line and I still didn't really come up with anything more but yesterday I spent only a minute. It always bothered me because I knew I didn't have it right -- and I also love the images of that line. In the Japanese documentary it appeared at the bottom of mountain scenery as just one long line. I should have just emailed you.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:24 AM
You don't call it Heaven's Gate but sky's gate? Do you think that washing away my worries is contained in that line? I do but obviously I'm coming from a Japanese perspective. After I worked on this translation I became so interested in reading Chinese palms and Japanese translations. I don't know why I still even like to do that with Jan. I absolutely love the last line of the cup filled with really red clouds. That's quite an image. Finally I'll never understand how you learn Chinese so quickly. It took me an enormous amount of time to learn Japanese.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:25 AM
Heaven's gate, sky's gate, same thing. I like to shake it out of Heaven's gate which carries all sorts of associations. He's climbing the mountain into the immortal realm. By the way, I have climbed this very path on Taishan, a fantastic stairway cut into the rock, cliffs covered with calligraphy. There is no washing away of worries or sorrow. There is none of that in this poem. This is a poem about leaving the world of humans and traversing the immortal realm. It is a mystical poem filled with all sorts of wonderful images. Caves, terraces of gold, emerald peaks, dragons, green moss. . . It is a fantastical vision. There is no drunken sorrow here.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 16, 2017 at 08:25 AM
Tomasz Gra Leanne, google translate cannot go wrong ; ). It translated the poem as:
In April, Tarzan, shek ping road opened.
The six dragons diverge, skin with his.
Ma, a little bit of moss.
The flying flow is overwhelming, and the water is rushing.
North M87, Roach, a bluff to the east.
Cave-Ogi, Underground-Ogi, Underground-Ikazuchi.
From from, imagine gold and silver.
The door of heaven is a rage, and the wind is coming.
The-Year-old woman is under the sway of dance.
Included in the part and own cup.
It is not the only thing that has ever been done.
Kuang so, take a leisurely look.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 17, 2017 at 06:28 PM
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transcendental_whistling I guess it's more like: 'I summoned spirits at the Heaven's gate and wind from hundred miles swept my fears away'. I suggest that you may want to explain what Li Bai wanted to achieve by whistling. On the other hand you may as well keep it simple and say simply 'I whistled'.
Posted by: Leanne Martin | December 17, 2017 at 06:28 PM