Very few discussions
of the specific problems facing the translator of Korean literature have been
published, in part because so few people are active in the area.[1]
It would be hard to list ten translators who have published a significant
number of volumes of translations from Korean.[2]
Most of those who translate Korean literature do so in whatever spare time they
have left after their main occupations, and have little opportunity to reflect on
or write about their work, let alone familiarize themselves with the literature
and the concepts of translation theory. Certainly none of the discussions of
the problems arising in translation from Korean that have so far been published
attain the quality of the introductions by David Hawkes, A. C. Graham, or
Arthur Cooper to the volumes of Chinese poetry translated by them in the
Penguin Classics.[3]
If little is being translated, even less is being published. This can be
explained by the general lack of awareness of (and therefore interest in) Korea
and its literature in the world at large. Korea is widely considered not to
merit the degree of interest shown in its much larger and more highly esteemed
immediate neighbours. Whereas a simple search of the online bookseller Amazon¡¯s
database for ¡®Chinese literature¡¯ brings up 440 titles, and 296 for ¡®Japanese
literature¡¯, ¡®Korean literature¡¯ only produces 60 titles, a good number of
which prove to be works by or about Korean-American writers. Where China and
Japan are countries which have cultural prestige in the western world, Korea is
one of the many which do not. Indeed, Korea probably has an ¡®image problem¡¯. If
it is perceived at all, it is generally seen in terms of a violent war, corrupt
politics, consumer products of dubious quality, bankrupt companies, rioting
students, and striking workers. In cultural and literary terms, it has never
figured much in American awareness, less still in European. The Korean
president¡¯s recent Nobel Peace Prize has probably had little effect, since so
few people are aware of the true nature of the country¡¯s division and the
reasons why the prize was awarded. Korea, it seems, is doomed to be grossly
overshadowed by Japan and China, without having the alternative charms or
challenges of countries like Thailand, Vietnam, or Burma. The international
reputation of Korean literature in translation might best to compared to that
of Philippino, Taiwanese, or Indonesian literature — unpublished and unknown.
A general discussion of the problems of translating Korean literature
would need to cover several very different topics. First come the more strictly
linguistic problems involved in the transfer into English of what was written
in Korean, given the immense differences between the two language systems.
Closely related to this are the cultural and historical presuppositions
underlying and underpinning literary works written in Korean, which are not
shared by readers living elsewhere. Strictly literary conventions differ too,
so that the ways in which Koreans write poetry and fiction may not be the same
as elsewhere. Not completely unrelated to this is the question of the criteria
by which certain works are recognized as significant in their country of
origin. The selection of works to be translated for publication abroad is often
influenced by their popularity with readers or regimes at home, although their
appeal may not in fact be translatable.
In discussions of translation between European languages, it is
comparatively easy to cite examples in both languages, not only because the
alphabet is familiar but because the languages themselves are often more or
less known to many readers. Korean is written using its own unique phonetic
system (hangul) with the possible inclusion of Chinese ideograms (¡®characters¡¯)
in the case of words of Chinese origin, either in parentheses after the hangul
or in place of it. There exist several systems of ¡®romanization¡¯, but it may be
more helpful first simply to summarize the essential features. The intention
here is to suggest just how great is the difference between Korean and English,
and implicit is the question of how (if at all) the specific qualities of
Korean can be translated. This discussion is entirely about the translation of
contemporary (late twentieth-century) works.
Korean is a language usually categorized as ¡®polysyllabic agglutinating¡¯,
and in that respect it is often compared to such western languages as
Hungarian. It modifies and develops meaning by the addition of syllables at the
end of words. Its structures are closely parallel to those of Japanese, and are
very unlike those of Chinese or of Indo-European languages. In particular, the
verb governing each separate phrase within a sentence, which usually ends with
the added syllables indicating the mode governing the phrase (corresponding to
the English ¡®if¡¯, ¡®but¡¯, ¡®and¡¯, ¡®however¡¯), comes as the last word of the
phrase, while the main verb of a sentence is always placed at the very end of
the entire sentence.
As in Japanese, the forms of pronouns, verb endings, and sometimes the
choice of vocabulary are dictated by the relative positions of speaker and
addressee in the social hierarchy, mostly based today on their relative age.
There are very great differences between formal and informal styles of speech
(mostly indicated by verb endings), and bitter disputes can be caused by
talking ¡®down¡¯ to someone to whom one should be talking ¡®up¡¯. Nothing can ever
directly represent this in English translation. In conversation, whether
addressing or talking about people, it is usual to employ titles indicative of
social relationship which have no place in equivalent western discourse: Çü¼ö ¡®wife of my elder brother¡¯, ¾Æ¿ì ¡®my younger sibling¡¯, °í¸ðºÎ ¡®husband of my father¡¯s sister¡¯.
Like Japanese, Korean has borrowed a very large number of words from
Chinese, amounting to nearly half the current vocabulary. The resulting mixture
can be compared to the mixture of Germanic and French/Latin vocabulary in
modern English, but the differences are much greater. Chinese words furnish
virtually all the abstract and intellectual terminology. Even when they are
written using hangul, they can usually only be understood by reference
to their ideograms (most Chinese ¡®words¡¯ are a combination of two ideograms).
The sound value of these Chinese words cannot easily be exploited for poetic or
dramatic effect, since each character is spoken as a single syllable based on
one of the pronunciations found in China, but deprived of the tones by which
the various homophones are distinguished in Chinese. Unfortunately, young
Koreans receive minimal education in the Chinese characters and are therefore
very often unable to understand the nuances writers seek to introduce by using
them, specific nuances which of course vanish in translation.
Words of native Korean origin belong to a radically different system of
language, one which is profoundly oral (where the Chinese characters belong to
an essentially written, literary system of communication). Again, a certain
parallel can perhaps be drawn with the specific qualities associated with
Anglo-Saxon. In its expressive power when spoken, Korean is perhaps unmatched;
in many cases, feeling is expressed by using varieties of what would, in
English, be termed onomatopoeia, and shades of meaning are indicated by
progressive deepening of a word¡¯s vowels.
One of the greatest challenges facing the translator of Korean is the way
intensities and complexities of feeling are expressed by sound values, often
doubled. Thus the exclamation ¾ÆÀ̱¸ ¡®Aigu!¡¯
is used, with varying tonality, in keening for a dead parent, or expressing
sympathy for another person¡¯s bad news, but it is also used on spilling a cup
of coffee, or to express exasperation on just missing a bus, amazement on
meeting a long-lost friend, or fury at losing one¡¯s job, to suggest but a few
scenarios. À߶ûÀ߶û
(challang-challang) is a verbal modifier (adverb) corresponding to ¡®jingling¡¯
or ¡®clinking¡¯, while ÀÚ·¡Àß·¡
(charae-charae) indicates a shaking head, Àß·ÏÀß·Ï (challok-challok) is used to evoke a sense of constriction by tight
binding, especially a woman¡¯s ¡®hour-glass¡¯ waist, Àß¹ÚÀß¹Ú (chalbak-chalbak) expresses ¡®splashing along¡¯. But none
of these can vie with the simple ˧˧ (chal-chal), for which a dictionary offers the following evocations: (a)
water boiling, (b) something dragging, (c) rapid motion to and fro, (d) shaking
something in the hand, (e) oily and well-fed. Not surprisingly, subtle
differences distinguish this from the closely related ÀýÀý (chŏl-chŏl), Á¹Á¹ (chol-chol), ÁÙÁÙ
(chul-chul).
Korean has no definite or indefinite articles. It can, but frequently does
not, distinguish between singular and plural. Pronouns are not used when the
subject governing a verb is thought to be obvious. Endings of nouns indicate
grammatical values roughly corresponding to subject and object
(nominative/accusative) but the correspondence is not exact. Adjectives are
verbal forms - participles when preceding a noun, directly verbal where English
adds ¡®be¡¯. The use of verbal ¡®participles¡¯ in what we might term adjectival
position is not without parallels in German or Latin: ±èÆ÷ °¡´Â ±æ (Kimp¡¯o
kanŭn kil) ¡®Kimpo going road¡¯ is ¡®the road (going) to Kimpo¡¯. Verbs have
endings indicating past tense and a future (anticipatory) mode, but future ideas
are often formulated in other ways. Briefly, Korean supplies much information,
but uses structures and formulations that have no direct equivalent in English.
The translator of Korean prose usually finds that the order of phrases in
a complex Korean sentence has to be almost completely reversed to produce a
correspondingly natural English sentence. Within each phrase, too, words take a
quite different order. Beyond that, the endings providing the grammatical
structure do not always correspond to a precise English equivalent. As a simple
example, -¸é (myŏn)
can be conditional ¡®if¡¯ or temporal ¡®when, once¡¯ while the most frequent
qualifying ending –´Âµ¥ (nŭnde) is without clear equivalent, but often invites translators to use ¡®since¡¯,
¡®although¡¯, ¡®but¡¯, ¡®yet¡¯, ¡®however¡¯, ¡®after all¡¯. In any case, these elements
begin the English phrase where they end the Korean.
The differences between the two language systems just outlined mean that
the translator is bound to operate in a far freer manner than when the
languages are very similar. There can be no ¡®literal¡¯ translation. Yet Korean
academics and critics discussing translation often insist that translations
should be strictly ¡®faithful¡¯ to the original. A translation of a poem I once
produced was rendered quite incomprehensible because a Korean editor decided
that the English version must reproduce the word order of the original. When
Koreans translate into English, the result is often very unlike standard
English because they are so dominated by their own language. They simply cannot
make the transition. The general outlines of the debates within translation
theory on this kind of situation are familiar.
Modern (twentieth-century) Korean literature comprises a series of texts
that were written under a variety of particular, conditioning circumstances
which strongly influenced and coloured all that was produced. The challenge
facing the translator here is the way that knowledge of this background is
assumed in the reader, and therefore remains only implicit in most narratives,
which can hardly be correctly read without it. In 1910, control over the Korean
peninsula was forcibly taken from the last king of the Choson era by the
Japanese. The Japanese set about replacing Korean culture with their own; for a
while, use of the Korean language was completely prohibited. In 1919 a struggle
for Korean independence was launched; it provoked a brutal crackdown, but a
Korean-language press was then allowed, and the publication of a limited number
of literary texts in Korean, until the extreme nationalism of the war years
again made Japanese the only authorized language. All instruction in schools
was always carried out in Japanese, and students using their own language were
punished.
Literary work between 1910 and 1945 was strongly conscious of its modernity;
there was little or no continuity with the literary traditions of the Choson
era. Writers were often acutely aware of what had been written in Europe in
recent decades, thanks to the excellent translations into Japanese that were
available (translation had been a vital part of the policy of openness known as
the Meiji reform, in the second half of the nineteenth century). Many writers
wrote with the intention of supporting the demand for Korean independence,
although that could only be done indirectly, through veiled symbols. There
could be no directly nationalistic writing, but the very fact of writing in the
Korean language was an act of defiance and an expression of hope. The Russian
revolution and the establishment of the Communist USSR led certain writers and
intellectuals to adhere to socialist paradigms of realism, while others adapted
Modernist and Surrealist models.
With liberation in 1945, groups that had been struggling for Korean
liberation in exile returned from China, Siberia, and the United States. The
terms of the Japanese surrender signed in August 1945 required all Japanese
personnel to withdraw from all occupied territories, including Korea. The USSR
and the US were jointly to oversee the transition of Korea to full independence.
The ideological divisions hardened with the presence in the north of Soviet
troops and in the south of American. These were intended to prepare the country
for elections, but finally a republic with elected officials was instituted in
the south while in the north a system controlled by the Workers¡¯ Party took
control. Before and during the Korean War, writers were among those who moved
south and north, according to their ideological and personal options. Some were
forced to go north against their will. The division of the peninsula since the
1953 armistice means that North and South Korean literature have developed
separately, in almost total ignorance of one another, books from each side
being forbidden in the other. From this point in this discussion, the term ¡®Korean
literature¡¯ is used to designate what is, in fact, only South Korean
literature.
The polarized nature of the ideological conflict meant that after the end
of the war, writers in the south had little freedom to explore openly socialist
options of any kind. At the same time, life was dominated by the pain arising
from the tragic division of what had previously been a single country, which
was reflected within many families, with parents left on one side, children on
the other, husbands and wives or brothers and sisters separated, simply because
of where they had been living in 1953. Three million had died.
After the war, South Korean society was in deep disarray; the traditional
life of most rural villages had been seriously disrupted, poverty and social
dislocation filled the cities with migrants, the wounds caused by war and
division only festered. This situation gave birth to a vast number of literary
works, short stories in particular, which needed only to evoke the painful
realities of contemporary Korean life to find a deep resonance. This
documentary, ¡®realistic¡¯ fiction is mainly designed to celebrate the degree to
which individuals retained their human dignity in the face of quite appalling
suffering and injustice. This dignity is sometimes barely perceptible, a touch
of Stoicism, a continuing readiness to hope that there will be meaning. Writers
and literary critics saw no value or literary interest in ¡®protest¡¯ and rather
stressed the ¡®high seriousness¡¯ of the writer¡¯s task in raising the public¡¯s
vision of daily life.
Since the end of the Korean War, Korean literature has been written and
published in an intensely dramatic socio-historical context of repression that
has so determined what is and is not said that an awareness of it is a sine
qua non for the potential reader. The Korean reader knows, at least as
stereotyped situations, the human impact of the urbanization and
industrialization of the 1960s and 1970s, and the accompanying dictatorships.
The main events of Korean history are so familiar that they are often evoked
simply as a string of numbers or a single name: ¡®625¡¯ (the outbreak of the
Korean War on 25 June, 1950), ¡®419¡¯ (the violent repression of student protests
on 19 April 1960, which cost Syngman Rhee his presidency), ¡®517¡¯ (the 17 May
1961 coup by the military led by Park Chung-hee), ¡®1026¡¯ (the 26 October 1979
assassination of President Park by the head of his security service), ¡®1212¡¯
(the 1979 semi-coup by which General Chun Doo-hwan took control of the
military), ¡®519¡¯ (the May 1980 declaration of martial law by Chun), ¡®Yushin¡¯
(the 1972 suspension of the Constitution and of all democratic institutions), ¡®Kwangju¡¯
(the south-western city where hundreds were killed in an uprising in May,
1980).
The problem facing the translator here is probably insoluble. Since the
Korean readership brings intense emotional associations ready-made to the least
mention of these and a host of similar moments, Korean writers feel no need to
explain background or even make very explicit the events they are referring to.
Footnotes will never provide enough information to awaken the same feelings in
a non-Korean. In addition, many of the short stories and novels make quite
harrowing reading. ¡®Why is Korean literature so depressing?¡¯ is a frequently
asked question. It is hard to give a satisfactory answer. Yet Koreans value
such works very highly, enjoy reading them, and cannot easily believe that
other readers will not share their admiration, ¡®if the work is properly
translated¡¯. The element of underlying nationalism makes the issue even
thornier.
It was only in the later 1980s that writers began to explore zones of
experience that are more directly familiar to non-Korean readers. As wealth has
increased, the Korean urban landscape has begun to look less specifically
Korean; high-rise blocks of flats have taken the place of single-storey houses.
The solitude of the modern Korean, alienated by the anonymity of life in the ¡®concrete
jungle¡¯, is a major focus of contemporary women writers, in particular, and it
is surely no coincidence that stories of this kind are both easier to translate
and easier to read. The main limitation, one less easily overcome by a
translator¡¯s vivid annotations, would seem to be the lack of what might be
termed suspense, wit, bite, or sophistication in the construction of plot lines
and narrative strategies. Most of the time, the writer is content to narrate a
familiar slice of daily life, in the course of which the central figure
experiences emotions. This kind of writing is already familiar in the West in
the works of Japanese writers; it will be interesting to see if works by Korean
authors, deprived of the aesthetic prestige that Japan enjoys, can appeal in
the same degree.
The translator of poetry often senses particularly acutely that while s/he
is trying to translate the words of poems, s/he is in fact under pressure to
translate an established reputation.[4]
Ko Un is today one of the most famous poets in Korea; he is recognized and
greeted if he walks down a street anywhere in the country.[5]
Yet this recognition has less to do with the poems he has written than with the
fact that he was a member of the entourage invited to accompany President Kim
Dae-Jung on his historic visit to North Korea in 2000, highly visible in the television
reports during and the talk shows after the event. That invitation was made
because during the 1970s and 1980s Ko Un was the main spokesman for the writers
and artists opposed to the military dictatorships. As such, he was frequently
arrested and imprisoned. Like President Kim Dae-Jung, he had suffered for his
refusal to accept that ¡®might is right¡¯. When the leaders of North and South
had signed their historic agreement, he was suddenly called to the podium by
both to read a poem about Korean unity he had written that morning. It seems
unlikely that there is any other country in the world where poetry could play
such a public, national role.
Ko Un is an ideal case for closer reflexion on what criteria the
translator of Korean literature should adopt. He is immensely prolific, having
published more than 120 volumes. He writes in almost every genre: brief ¡®Zen¡¯
poems, lyric poems, fifteen volumes of poems descriptive of individuals he has
encountered, longer poems filling one or several volumes, including an epic on
Korea¡¯s anti-Japanese struggle that is seven volumes long. In addition he has
written several novels, mostly on Buddhist themes, dramas, large numbers of
essays on literary and social topics, travel books, and translations from
classical Chinese. After ten years as a Buddhist monk, he entered a nihilistic
phase that lasted another ten years until a failed suicide in 1970, after which
he discovered his vocation as a social dissident, the prophetic task that led
to his present prominence. Ko Un is the first Korean poet to have become a
familiar figure on an international level, esteemed by Allen Ginsberg, Gary
Snyder, Robert Hass, invited to read at events including such festivals as the
UNESCO First World Poetry Day of the Millennium held in Athens and Delphi in
March 2001.
There he read a suitably oracular poem, ÃÐºÒ ¾Õ¿¡¼ (¡®Before
a Candle¡¯), which may usefully serve as a case study in the ways the translator
from Korean works. In its formal aspects, the poem is a typical modern Korean
poem, with lines of greatly varying length divided into irregular ¡®stanzas¡¯. Ko
Un writes poems in which the form is entirely free, depending on the qualities
of the language to give poetic texture. Like many other poets, he does not use
punctuation since the grammar of Korean (outlined above) makes it perfectly
clear where a phrase or sentence ends. The opening section (stanza) has nine
lines:
¿ì¸®´Â ¿À´Ã ¹º°¡¸¦ ³õÃĹö¸®°í ÀÖÁö ¾ÊÀº°¡
urinŭn onŭl muŏngarŭl noch¡¯yŏbŏrigo ich¡¯i anŭnga?
Aren¡¯t we
missing something today?
„‰ ã¾Æ¾ß ÇÒ °ÍÀ»
kkok ch¡¯ajaya hal kŏsŭl
something
that surely has to be found
¾û°Ì°á¿¡ ¿Â÷´Â ¶°³ª¹ö¸®°í
ŏnggŏpkyore yŏlch¡¯anŭn ttŏnabŏrigo
unexpectedly
train leaves
²À ÀÌ·ç¾î¾ß ÇÒ °ÍÀ»
kkok iruŏya hal kŏsŭl
something
that surely has to be accomplished
Àú ÇÏ´Ã ³ôÀÌ ÈÖ³¯¸± ±ê¹ß
chŏ hanŭl nop¡¯i huinallil kitpal
flag that will
flutter high up there in the sky
°áÄÚ ÇêµÉ ¼ö ¾ø°Ô
kyŏlk¡¯o hŏttoel su ŏpke
not at all able
to be in vain
²À ÀÌ·ç¾î
kkok iruŏ
surely accomplished
³»ÀÏÀÇ Çª¸¥ µé³è °¡µæÈ÷ ÇǾ ²ÉÀ» ¾ÕµÎ°í
naeirŭi p¡¯urŭn tŭlnyŏk¡¯ kadŭk¡¯i p¡¯iŏnal kkoch¡¯ul ap¡¯tugo
before flowers
that will fill tomorrow's green plains
¿ì¸®´Â ¿À´Ã ¹º°¡¸¦ ³õÃĹö¸®°í ÀÖÁö ¾ÊÀº°¡
urinŭn onŭl muŏngarŭl noch¡¯yŏbŏrigo ich¡¯i anŭnga?
aren¡¯t we
missing something today?
It would take too
long to explain the word-by word grammatical transformations yielding the
conservative interlinear translation of each line; we need only note that they
are standard, that the grammar of each separate line is regular. The initial
translation given here reflects the fact that Korean has no equivalent to
English articles, so that the translator has to introduce a distinction between
definite and indefinite articles later.
It becomes clear at once that the line-breaks mark off units of sense,
with grammatical patterns and individual words repeated here and there. The
lines stand in an apparent but often undefined relationship with one another.
Between the complete (but mysterious) question with its grammatical form
associated with inner pondering which opens and closes the section, we find
seven lines that cannot be read as a united, coherent, closed sentence. The
grammar does not allow it. Koreans, asked to ¡®explain¡¯ the sequence of images,
or the relationship of one line with another, admit that at least with some
lines they cannot. They admit that it is a ¡®difficult¡¯ poem, but they do not
therefore find fault with it. They will suggest, rather, that this is the way
it achieves poetic status. This is very common in Korean poetry, and is perhaps
especially characteristic of some of Ko Un¡¯s work.
The next section is represented without romanizing the Korean:
¹ã¸¶´Ù ¿©±âÀú±â ¸ð¿©
gathering
here and there every evening
ÀÚ²Ù ÁÖ»çÀ§¸¸ ´øÁö¸é¼
regularly
playing at dice
²À ¸¸³ª¾ß ÇÒ °ÍÀ»
what
surely ought to be meeting
±×³É º¸³»°í ¸»Áö ¾Ê¾Ò´Â°¡
have
we not finally simply sent away?
Â÷°¡¿î ¹ã°Å¸® Áö³ª°¡´ø
used
to pass through chill evening alley
Áö³³¯ Åë±Ý½Ã´ë ¾È¸¶ÀåÀÌ ¼Ò°æÀÇ ÇǸ®¼Ò¸®
old
curfew time whistle of the blind masseur
±×°Í¸¶Àú º¸³»°í ³ ¼û¸·È÷´Â Á¤Àû
precisely
the suffocating silence after we sent away
¿ì¸®´Â ÇѶ§ °Å±â¿¡ È°À» ½ð ÀûÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù
we
loosed an arrow there.
The rest of the poem can be quoted giving only the initial English version, in the line order of the Korean:
But also voices
that have been shouting for far too long have vanished
wind rolls
trundling along
scraps of
leaflets, plastic, newspapers
was this
freedom?
Aren¡¯t we
missing something today?
word ¡®history¡¯
and word ¡®last¡¯
used a very
great deal but
always it was
first.
Still, have
we done all there was to do?
Aching
far-away mountains!
our
wilderness times we fought for them
what were we
for them?
Before a
single candle
we never give
way to remorse
we never beg
in prayer
but aren¡¯t we
today and before today
in those many
hours missing something?
as melting
wax flows down
before the
candle that grows brighter
what are we?
what are we?
It should be
stressed that this version is designed only to give an insight into a rather
radical difference between languages. Analysed and expressed in this way, the
poem looks even more disjointed than it does to a reader of the Korean, who
will quite automatically and with no conscious effort establish most of the
linkages that would need to be made explicit in English. As already mentioned,
the Korean language normally gives information in a manner and an order very
different from that familiar in English.
The final form I chose to give the poem (and with so many differences,
there is a range of possible forms) is as follows:
Before
a Candle
Aren¡¯t we
missing something today?
something we
surely have to find?
The train
leaves unexpectedly —
something
that surely has to be done?
A flag will
flutter high in the sky
not at all in
vain
and once that
is surely done
flowers will
fill tomorrow¡¯s green plains
before all
these
aren¡¯t we
completely missing something today?
Have we not
simply sent away
what surely
ought to be meeting,
gathering
every evening
regularly
playing at dice?
The suffocating
silence after we sent away the whistle
of the blind
masseur who used to go walking
through the
chill alleys in the old curfew times.
We loosed an
arrow there.
The voices
that have been shouting for far too long
have vanished
now and the wind just rolls trundling along
scraps of
leaflets, plastic, newspapers —
was this
freedom?
Aren¡¯t we
missing something today?
We¡¯ve used
the words ¡®history¡¯ and ¡®last¡¯
a very great
deal
but always we
had to start anew.
Still, have
we done all there was to do?
Aching
far-away mountains!
Our love
our
wilderness – the times we fought for them —
yet what were
we for them?
Before a
single candle
we never give
way to remorse
never beg in
prayer
but aren¡¯t we
missing something
in the many
hours of today and before today?
Before the
candle that grows brighter
as the
melting wax flows down
what are we?
what are we?
The option taken here is to preserve to a very large degree the line-by-line structure of the original, which is felt to constitute the fundamental structure of what is being evoked. At most points the linkages are clear, but minimal clarification has been attempted, where the Korean is not particularly radical in its lack of sequence. In an attempt to represent the open structure of the associations, most punctuation has been avoided. The largest point of uncertainty concerns the sequence of images in the opening section, which resist precise analysis of the kind demanded by standard English grammar and ¡®logical¡¯ explanation.
The standard method in such cases of uncertainty, involving poems by living writers whom the translator knows very well, would seem to be to ¡®ask the poet¡¯. But this does not work well with Ko Un, who simply explains that he felt obliged to write what he wrote; that was how the poem emerged. He feels no obligation to go any further, and indeed cannot. After two such questions, he shows signs of wanting to escape into the garden. This is not unrelated to another fairly standard characteristic of modern Korean poets: they do not revise and polish their work. The spontaneous, the ejaculatory, and the fragmented are precious aspects of the poetic; logical thought and clear grammar threaten them. Without wishing to sound cutely exotic, it has to be said that traditional Korean ink painting and calligraphy (for which Ko Un is also noted) depend for much of their effect on the interplay between the explicit black strokes and the empty space surrounding them on the paper. What is not there is almost more important than what is visible.
The final version of the translation just quoted has been assessed by a Korean poet, who is also a professor of English literature, with whom I usually work. He considers that it represents a fairly exact equivalent of the original and insists that to provide any more explication would be to mistranslate by over-translating. He has no problem with it in this form. Yet I fully realize that non-Korean readers of the ¡®final¡¯ version given above may well be discontented; they will complain that they feel excluded from the ¡®meaning¡¯ of the poem, that the English text remains excessively opaque. In order to ¡®make clear¡¯ what the poem is saying, should the translator then improve on the original, which is by no means ¡®clear¡¯ to Korean readers? The difference is that Koreans do not complain but smile. As already mentioned, Korean poets very often string together phrases without feeling a need to enclose them in a completed sentence. British and American poets seem not to.
What if we disregard the translator¡¯s duty to preserve the incoherences of the original, and set about trying to produce a poem as acceptable in English to its readers as Ko Un¡¯s original is acceptable to his Korean readers? The first section might be transformed into something like:
Could
we be failing to catch something today?
Something
we just have to get,
something
that just has to be done,
like
catching a train as it leaves unexpectedly.
Soon
new flags will flutter on high,
not
in vain by any means;
and
once that happens,
flowers
will fill tomorrow¡¯s green meadows
but
before any of that comes about
could
we be failing to catch something today?
Why do I feel reluctant to do this? Why do Koreans complain about what is still a quite conservative levelling out? It seems that there is a need to avoid making Korean poets sound too much like English-language poets; these poems were not written in the same way. This brings us to the question of whether Ko Un, in writing this poem, was doing the same thing as British or American poets do when they write. There are, of course, many kinds of poetry around, but in so far as much contemporary western poetry essentially takes private, individual life experiences as the starting point and main subject-matter, there may indeed be a difference.
The poem we have been examining is not marked by individualized experience, by wit, by clever concatenations of imagery, or by ironic combinations of contradictory emotions. There are references to widely familiar life experiences (though they are not likely to be familiar to readers in Edinburgh or Boston, where curfews or blind masseurs are uncommon). Its emotional world (and it is an intensely emotional poem) cannot be separated from the collective historical reality of the Korean people. This poem cannot be felt, presumably, so long as the ¡®we¡¯ inhabiting it remains abstract. It will not need to be the ¡®we¡¯ of Ko Un¡¯s immediate context and meaning, otherwise no non-Korean could enter into it. But the poem¡¯s collective, unspecified ¡®we¡¯ is the key to its origin and meaning.
This can most easily be explained by a note on its background. This poem forms part of a volume titled ³»ÀÏÀÇ ³ë·¡ (naerŭi norae, ¡®Tomorrow¡¯s Song¡¯) published in 1992, soon after representatives of South and North Korea had signed a ground-breaking accord that seemed to promise a rapid opening-up of the previously hermetic frontier between the two, which since the Korean War has allowed no letters, telephone calls, TV or radio programmes, let alone visitors, to pass. In fact, it took another eight years for anything more to happen, but Ko Un felt driven to celebrate the new hope of unification with a series of poems. ¡®Tomorrow¡¯ here represents a hope that the tears which have flowed in so many Korean hearts on both sides for the past fifty or more years may soon be transformed into songs, tomorrow¡¯s songs, sung by the entire Korean people, of north and south.
Korean literature, we have already seen, is deeply rooted in just such a shared historical reality. Even when a poet puts his or her personal emotional world at the centre (and much Korean poetry is highly introverted), the pain and conflict of the social context in which the poem is being written are intensely present in silence, forming the white paper on which the poem is inscribed. The translator¡¯s main anxiety then is whether a Korean poem, transposed into English words and read in a quite different society with a quite different sense of identity and history, is in any real sense the same poem as the original. A similar question arises when Ko Un is giving a reading abroad. On many occasions, he first reads the original poem, and someone then reads a translation. I have suggested that it would be better to give the audience a printed translation without having it read aloud. This is because Ko Un has a completely inimitable way of reading, one developed in part through declaiming powerful, moving poems at countless pro-democracy rallies. The voice is tense and vibrant, the poem usually begins very quietly and gradually rises to a thundering climax. There is a deep sense of passionate concern, even when the text is far from being a simple set of slogans or a denunciation of dictatorship. Ko Un is not a ¡®protest¡¯ poet, and Korea has no tradition of ¡®performance poetry¡¯ but there is no doubt Ko Un is a tremendous performer. A translation read by a ¡®standard¡¯ voice after this sounds shockingly diminished. It is definitely not the same poem.
In poems of the kind analysed above, Ko Un is playing an oracular role, addressing coded messages to the world around him without the dubious benefit of an authorized interpretation. It might be that a Korean translator would respond similarly to the challenge of attempting to render Geoffrey Hill¡¯s poetry into Korean: there too, a specific, national experience of history is often assumed in the reader and there too we find an urgent (¡®prophetic¡¯) insistence that the future must not repeat the past. There too, we find a very considerable level of difficulty, which leaves some readers inclined to give up.
Probably no ultimate criteria determining the choice of works for translation exist at all; we can translate anything we like, like Hunt climbing Everest, simply ¡®because it¡¯s there¡¯. Korean agencies that fund translations sometimes wave a list of ¡®great Korean writers¡¯ in the hope that translators and publishers will come running. They cannot believe that the reputation a writer enjoys at home will not accompany a translation. Of course, it is always interesting to have access to works admired elsewhere, especially if they influenced other writers in that country, but that is the field of academic study.
In the end, the translator is master of the criteria. One reason for beginning to translate Ko Un was certainly a vague awareness that he was on a Korean government list of ¡®dissident writers not to be translated¡¯. But he seemed, and still seems, to be a writer whose work can appeal more widely abroad than to departments of Korean Studies. He is a writer whose work has a universal dimension, who deserves to be widely known. The translator of literatures like Korean is obviously at a disadvantage: since no one can read Korean, major publishers will not come running to commission translations; the translation must exist before publishers can be asked to show interest. The translator, then, has to go on to become his own agent.[6] This is very difficult, and if we did not believe in the rightness of our criteria, we would probably desist. But some confirmation of our intuitions does reach us, and, to conclude on a more upbeat note, no translator could ever ask for better encouragement than Allen Ginsberg¡¯s words in his preface to Ko Un¡¯s Zen poems. ¡®Ko Un is a magnificent poet¡¯, Ginsberg wrote a few years ago, and the translations are ¡®models useful to inspire American contemplative poets¡¯.[7] This is not because of the flattering words, but because of the prospect that a Korean poet¡¯s work in translation could have a creative influence on poets working in a major world culture and language - living poetry being read by living poets.
Sogang University, Seoul
Notes
[1]. Only
two volumes come to mind: Çѱ¹¹®ÇÐÀÇ
¿Ü±¹¾î ¹ø¿ª—ÇöȲ°ú Àü¸Á. ±èÁ¾±æ ¿Ü. ¼¿ï (¹ÎÀ½»ç, 1997), and Language,
Culture and Translation: Issues in the Translation of Modern Korean Literature,
edited by James Huntley Grayson and Agnita Tennant (Sheffield, 1999).
[2]. See
the entry ¡®Korea¡¯, in The Oxford Guide to Literature in English Translation,
edited by Peter France (Oxford, 2000), pp. 249-50.
[3]. The
Songs of the South, translated by David Hawkes (Harmondsworth, 1985); Poems
of the Late T¡¯ang, translated with an introduction by A. C. Graham
(Harmondsworth, 1965); Li Po and Tu Fu, translated by Arthur Cooper (Harmondsworth,
1973).
[4]. For
further discussion on this point see An Sonjae, ¡®¡°The Foreignness of Language¡±
and Literary Translation¡± in Journal of English Language and Literature
(English Language and Literature Association of Korea), Special Number 1996 (available
online at http://hompi.sogang.ac.kr/anthony/Foreign.htm).
[5]. See
Ko Un, The Sound of my Waves (Ithaca, 1993) and Beyond Self: 108
Korean Zen Poems (Berkeley, 1997).
[6]. There
are clear parallels with the situation facing translators of eastern European
writers discussed by Francis Jones, ¡®The Poet and the Ambassador: Communicating
Mak Dizdar¡¯s Stone Sleeper¡¯, Translation and Literature, 9
(2000), 65-87.
[7]. Ko
Un, Beyond Self, p. xi.