The Perfect Translation: Impossible Dream
A paper presented at a conference about translation held in Dongguk University, Seoul, November 29, 2008
This paper is largely inspired by
an essay written in French and delivered in Germany in 1996 by the philosopher
Paul Ricoeur, published in English after his death with the title ‘Translation
as challenge and source of happiness’ (In: Paul Ricoeur, On Translation.
Routledge. 2006). He proposes to elaborate on what Walter Benjamin long ago
called ‘the translator’s task’ by referring to two notions drawn from Freud,
the ‘work of remembering’ and the ‘work of mourning.’ He refers to the title of
an essay by a French translator and theorist, the late Antoine Berman
(1942-1991), ‘The Trials (or tests) of the Foreign’ as he explains that, in
translation, “work is advanced with some salvaging, some acceptance of loss.
Salvaging of what? Loss of what? That is the question that the term ‘foreign’
poses in Berman’s title. In reality, two partners are connected through the act
of translating, the foreign—a term that covers the work, the author, his
language—and the reader.” [3-4] Ricoeur next mentions the German Jewish thinker
and biblical translator Franz Rosenzweig (1886-1929), who said that the
translator has “to serve two masters: the foreigner with his work, the reader
with his desire for appropriation,” before indicating that translation
represents a paradox and a problematic: “doubly sanctioned by a vow of
faithfulness and a suspicion of betrayal.” Earlier, the German philosopher
Schleiermacher (1768-1834), Ricoeur says, had broken the paradox into two
phrases: “bringing the reader to the author,” and “bringing the author to the
reader.” [4] The work of the translator is situated between the two: the work
of remembering the original in another language, the work of mourning what in
the original can never be said in any other language.
In other words, we might think,
the translator seems doomed to failure no matter what s/he does, since from the
point of view of the source culture, a translator will usually be seen as the
potential agent of a transmission as nearly complete as possible of the
original in all its complexity of reputation, its style and resonance; from the
point of view of the target culture, a translator is expected to serve as the
agent of an appropriation and adaptation by which a literary text from
elsewhere is transmuted into a work that will be attractively exotic, perhaps,
but not too disconcertingly foreign in its new context and language. Neither
expectation can ever be fully satisfied.
In a paper I gave this summer, I elaborated on the nature of
the foreignness of Korean literature, and the resulting test for the
translator. During my presentation today, I will repeat portions of that
reflection, returning to Ricoeur from time to time.
Generally speaking, people in Korea seem to think that works
of Korean poetry and fiction can be ‘globalized’ or ‘universalized’ simply by
replacing their Korean language with the corresponding words and grammar of
other languages. However, the features making a work of literature specifically
‘Korean’ go far beyond the language in which it is composed; rather they depend
on the specific space, geographic and historic or cultural, in which it was
written, published, read and received.
We need to remember that whenever a literary work from one
culture or nation is refashioned into another language and published in another
cultural space, it leaves its home context and reputation behind and undergoes
an entirely new process of reading and reception in that new space and context.
If the transfer succeeds, the translated work will have become part of that
target nation’s literature. If some of the essential characteristics of a
nation’s literature resist attempts to ‘export’ them, that is often a result of
the ‘foreignness’ of the literary space in which the work arose in relation to
the target space.
Korean poets naturally exploit the resources of the
vocabulary, grammar and rhetoric, rhythm and style of the Korean language to
create works that will be accessible to a Korean readership. They produce poems
designed to evoke situations and emotions which they expect Korean readers to
respond to readily. The subject of Korean literature is almost always an
experience of Korean reality; that reality is normally located in a Korean
space, in Korean geography and history. Where the setting of a work lies
outside of Korea, the narrator and main characters are still almost always
Korean.
We must remember that before any
work, written in any language, can be viewed as “an achieved work of
literature,” it has to undergo multiple processes beyond being written. What
turns a raw text, be it play, novel, or poem, into a ‘work of literature’ is
not the mere fact of having been written. It has also to be published,
distributed, read and received. Without publication and reception, it is
nothing more than a latent “textual object,” rather similar to an embryo in the
womb. These things are true of every nation’s literature. Most works of
literature are written first of all for reception within a specific space, a
national, or even local, regional context and ‘culture.’ So although a very few
languages, English or Spanish, especially, are spoken and written in more than
one country or continent, usually even works of literature written in such
languages have deep roots in a specific culture, history, geography, and in a
particular national or regional identity, which is far more than a matter of
language.
One corollary of this is that there is and can be no such
thing as unconditioned “universality” in literature. Living works of literature
are bound to be limited, rooted in specific particularities of national space,
in place and time. A particular space can never claim to be universal, its
experienced history can never be considered universal, and so, too, its
literature can never be universal. The fact that English is used in more
countries than most languages does not make any real difference to the limited,
regional referentiality of most of what is written in it. An Irish writer (for
example) is usually clearly writing within an Irish space, and to that extent
remains distinct from a British, an Australian, or a Canadian writer. Where the
readers who identify with a given space can say ‘this is our story,’ every
other reader will have to say ‘this is their story.’
We may now return to Ricoeur’s meditation. He focuses
particularly on the difficulty of translating philosophical texts, where the “great
primary words” are “summaries of long textuality where whole contexts are mirrored.
(. . .) Not only are the semantic fields not superimposed on one another, but
the syntaxes are not equivalent, the turns of phrase do not serve as a vehicle
for the same cultural legacies, and what is to be said about the half-silent
connotations, which alter the best-defined denotations of the original
vocabulary. (. . .) It is to this heterogeneity that the foreign text owes its
resistance to translation and, in this sense, its intermittent
untranslatability.” [6] The problem is that it is impossible to say exactly
the same thing in two languages, simply because they are different. Therefore,
Ricoeur urges us to “give up the ideal of the perfect translation. This
renunciation alone makes it possible to take on the two supposedly conflicting
tasks of ‘bringing the author to the reader’ and ‘bringing the reader to the
author’.” [8]
He explains that the dream of the perfect translation is in
fact equivalent to dreaming of a single, perfect, universal language capable of
expressing “a rationality fully released from cultural constraints and
community restrictions.” This dream is equivalent to “the wish that translation
would gain, gain without losing. It is this gain without loss that we must
mourn until we reach an acceptance of the impassable difference of the peculiar
and the foreign.” [9] With great wisdom, Ricoeur ends by establishing a new
harmony: “it is this mourning for the absolute translation that produces the
happiness associated with translating. (. . .) When the translator acknowledges
and assumes the irreducibility of the pair, the peculiar and the foreign, he
finds his reward in the recognition of the impassable status of the
dialogicality of the act of translating as the reasonable horizon of the desire
to translate. In spite of the agonistics that make a drama of the translator’s
task, he can find his happiness in what I would like to call linguistic
hospitality.
“So its scheme is definitely that of a correspondence
without adequacy. (. . .) just as in the act of telling a story, we can translate
differently, without hope of filling the gap between equivalence and total
adequacy. Linguistic hospitality, then, where the pleasure of dwelling in the
other’s language is balanced by the pleasure of receiving the foreign word at
home, in one’s own welcoming house.” [10]
I will now return briefly to my reflections on the reception
after translation of works created in foreign literary spaces:
A poem written in another culture, if it is simply
translated ‘word by word,’ very often bewilders foreign readers, who cannot
hear what it is saying because it is not talking to them. This is the heart of
the problem of mutually incomprehending spaces that I have been addressing.
This is the untranslatability of poetry. There is hope, however. Those non-Korean
readers who have learned to read Korean poetry in translation, not looking for
the thrill of exotic novelty, for quick pleasure, or for magical entertainment,
but intent on discovering the specifically Korean experience and vision of
human life expressed there, and familiar with recent Korean history, soon learn
to recognize the significance of the poems’ concerns, and the humane
sensitivity of the poets. To that extent, at least, such readers are able, by
their informed imagination and power of human sympathy, to enter the Korean
poetic space. Convinced that we are all members of one human family, they
readily understand that the pain through which history has drawn the Korean
nation during the past 120 or more years has given birth to a poetry that frequently
explores ways of expressing the unspeakable, the intolerable and the
perpetually repeated loss of significance the Korean people have had to endure.
It remains true that non-Koreans will never be able, and
should not be expected, to experience the same immediate, intense response to
Korean poetry as Korean readers do, no matter how ‘well’ it is translated.
Non-Koreans cannot share the Korean sense of ‘we-ness,’ the specifically Korean
self-identification with the spaces, persons, events and feelings evoked by
Korean poets. The literature of Korea, once translated, will always be read and
received in other national, cultural spaces on radically different terms, with
radically different criteria of quality and interest, to those it encountered
in its country of origin. Exactly the same problem exists in reverse;
contemporary British or American poets or novelists are for the most part
unknown in Korea, their works are not translated and published, for to ordinary
Korean readers they seem utterly opaque and unappealing, too intensely ‘foreign.’
Likewise, we all know how few literary works from other
continents are published in the English-speaking world. The publishers claim it
is because there is no demand for it. They are right, in that narrow insularity
is a hallmark of many English-speaking societies. Few people in the UK or the
US make the effort to look beyond the familiar literary landscapes of home.
Until that changes, we are obliged to set our translations of Korean poetry
adrift on the waves as best we can, like the bottled letters of shipwrecked
sailors. Just occasionally, from far away, we hear someone exclaim, ‘How
beautiful! How truly human!’ Then we know that a Korean poem has spoken in a
new space in its new language, has been heard as a living voice, and has been
understood. Translators can probably hope for no greater reward, or happiness.
This level of eqivalence is what Ricoeur in the final essay
of his book (“A ‘passage’: translating the untranslatable”) calls “the
comparable.” The translation is not perfect, since not identical with the
original, but some degree of appropriation has been sanctioned and the result
has been found effective and acceptable, judged by a partial retranslation made
by others able to move between the two languages. Yet Ricoeur leaves us with a
further challenge, which I will paraphrase. A poem that is offered as a
translation of a poem may come very close, at least acceptably close, to giving
a comparable meaning to the original. But that does not mean that it is ‘the
same poem’, for it does not bridge the divide, since the original poem is a
singularity of sound and sense. Language, we should realize, and not only
poetic language, is not a Platonic duality where an eternal, essential meaning
is temporarily imprisoned in a flesh of words, grammar, rhythms, sounds. Edmund
Husserl (1859-1938), Ricoeur reminds us, treated Ausdruck (expression)
as the provisional, external clothing of Bedeutung (meaning). [38]
Translating, then, we might say, like philosophy for Socrates/Plato, would be “the
practice of dying,” an approximation of detachment from the matter of sound and
language for the poem’s eternal sense which is claimed to be its ‘true meaning’
or its essence, its ‘soul.’
We who translate mostly act as though a poem’s sense, its
meaning, can indeed be carried over into a new language devoid of and without
consideration for its original sounds, because otherwise the translator’s work
becomes impossibly challenging. Yet Ricoeur reminds us that “excellent
translators, modelled on Hölderlin, on Paul Celan and, in the biblical domain,
on Meschonnic, [have] fought a campaign against the isolated meaning,
the meaning without the letter. They gave up the comfortable shelter of the equivalence
of meaning, and ventured into hazardous areas where there would be some
talk of tone, of savour, of rhythm, of spacing, of silence between the words,
of metrics and of rhyme. Undoubtedly, the vast majority of translators rush to
oppose this, without recognizing that translating the isolated meaning means
repudiating an achievement of contemporay semiotics, the unity of meaning and
sound, of the signified and the signifier.” [38]
Rosenzweig’s ‘serving two masters’ mentioned at the
beginning evokes memories of the source of the phrase in the Gospel (Matthew
6:24), where Jesus himself says, ‘No man can serve two masters.’ Alas, then,
for the translator, placed in a situation that even Jesus admits is impossible!
Certainly, Ricoeur’s essay moves constantly around the Janus-like qualities of
the translator, turned simultaneously toward the reticent, opaque source text
and the expectant target reader. It would be important, in considering this ‘interface’
within the translator, to mention the topic of ‘preferential options.’ Caught
between the impossible ‘perfect, total translation’ and the ‘verbose
expansion-paraphrase / approximate equivalent’ not every translator has the
same preferences. Those who are truly bilingual often spontaneously, without
reflection, give preference to the target reader and language; they readily
paraphrase, omit or transform the original in order to facilitate readability.
They may even eliminate what they consider ‘redundancies’ in the original work.
Those who are less than fluent in the source language, often more strongly
aware of the untranslatability of many aspects of the original, may struggle
more to retain them, their preference lies with the foreignness of the
original. The less-than-fully-bilingual translator whose native tongue is the
target language has the advantage of conscious limitations. I know that I need
to check, or at least think twice about, the sense of almost every word, and I
know that is standard practice among professional translators. The Korean
culture of impatience encourages speed above precision in almost every domain,
alas, and in translation this is fatal.
For the translator of Korean literature into English,
obliged to move between two languages and cultures that are extremely foreign
to one another, the implications are daunting. Already we face a great
challenge in what seems to be an increasing opposition among Korean readers
(evaluators) of our translations to what they see as excessive domestication.
The substitution of American (or British) oaths and idioms in dialogue is only
the tip of the iceberg. Where Koreans address one another using many relationship
markers, 형, 언니, 엄마, 선생님 . . . we in English do not, so we tend simply to omit them
as we translate. Should we? In the interests of readability we have little
choice but to simplify or assign to glossaries much of the vocabulary of food,
traditional culture, clothing. The day may come when a Korean Nabokov or
Brodsky, the enemies of excessively British translations of Russian classics,
will arise to demand a return to pure, honest Konglish in translation. This is
said at a lower stylistic level than the high philosophy of Ricoeur, yet it is
the same question. Who, in the end, is authorized to judge whether a translator
has achieved an ‘acceptable equivalence’ for the Korean original? The reader
who says ‘this is so enjoyable’? Or the reader who says ‘this is so [un]like
the original.’? They will always both be correct.
In conclusion, let us remember something that Ricoeur also
points out: translation is the process by which any human person ‘understands’
any other human person. We are all of us translators, from the day of our
birth, learning to read between one another’s lines, grasp the meaning of the
everyday unsaid, sense the implications of ironic or other tones. Ricoeur
rightly says that, strictly speaking, the diversity between languages is such
that, in theory, translation is not possible at all, there being no definable
community of structure or vocabulary between one language and the next. The
answer to that is that translation happens, and has always happened, even when
there were no dictionaries. People can understand each other very well when
they want to, or need to, and dealing with margins of misunderstanding is a
standard part of everyone’s life. It is always vexing for a translator of any
language to be accused of ‘getting it wrong,’ because we are so aware of the
impossibility of getting it right that we would rather be congratulated on
getting it much less wrong than we might have done. We are the first to know
that there can be no perfect translations. We remember, and we mourn. We are
human.