If you have a minimum of intellectual curiosity, and traces of sensitivity to language, literary and / or philological translation (literary translation, say) appears in the eyes of everyone as a phenomenon almost as fascinating as the creative writing -and, for the scholar, sometimes, certainly more fascinating than the sacred creation. Nor dare I rehearse here the slightest or most trivial trill pseudoteorizante cogitation on the theory and practice of translation, it seems at times that so much has been written on this subject that we run the risk of reaching a similar situation the Erasmians that described when they said that if all the self-styled reassembled relics of existing lignum crucis would be obtained as a result would not be the two most famous logs from year zero, but a rattle or a galleon, such was the volume relics of authenticity guaranteed currents in monasteries and other spiritual institutions of the time. But I enjoy collecting, but are not systematic or any claim or anything like that, some of the time when the translator betrays, sleeps up to Homer and rave like the Beltenebros wanted to emulate. Here's a really egregious case - and sorry for the anglicized.
I have before me the essential anthology of English poetry by Angel Rupérez prepared for Austral library, which was released in 2000. Rupérez poet himself, and prose writer, literary critic for various literary supplements, and even once, to the astonishment of strangers and I guess even own, the author of opinion pieces published in El Pais , associate professor everlasting Complutense, and as such partner My (fairly superficial, why deny it) during my years of purgatory in this cuboid evil, "is considered one of the most knowledgeable of opera in English in our country, founded by a prestigious anthology, Lyric nineteenth century English , beautifully edited by Trieste in 1987. (How beautiful books of Trieste, which printed it, what nice to have on hand and read. And how few editors today seem to value these things.) Almost fifty names that populate this anthology are those the reader would expect, from Thomas Wyatt to Andrew Motion, through the inevitable Spenser, Sidney, Shakespeare, Donne, Dryden, Pope, Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Many, Many Others . (Although one wonders what Chaucer has made the poor for not appearing here.) Apart from the anthologized poems, in translation, offers a reflection Rupérez "On Translation" (pp. 49-54), which warns the giddy readers, the discrete come and warned of home, of course, risks, limitations, shortcomings and deficiencies of any translation of poetry, and transactional nature to be all poetic translation is: you lose, no doubt, in the process but let us focus on what remains in the translation, not what was lost (though one, of course, Machado gets, and his lucid perception that is precisely what is lost what is sung -for all purposes ). No warning, with tragic results, as discussed, other pitfalls lurking for the translator, other potholes in the translation of poetry can and often falling down.
change directions, but we move forward towards our goal. I'm pretty sure one of the poets anthologized by Rupérez not deserve even a second of my attention when I read "partial and selective, the book lazy naps in the summer of 2000, but in recent years, however, his name has appeared in my life for various reasons. This is John Betjeman, whose centenary was celebrated in 2006 with an exhibition at the Bodleian Library; Betjeman, who was a student of Magdalen College, was character of some notoriety and a poet of wide acceptance in British society, because he knew wrapped in poems of the mindset of some part of it. My friend and colleague David Pattison is a member of the Betjeman Society, cult Senate that seeks to keep alive the work and figure of Betjeman by conferences, lectures , Recitals of his poetry and other forms of poetry-reading revival. All these circumstances led me to become interested in Betjeman, and extensions to wonder if my curiosity was Betjeman's poetry was translated into English. When I asked my colleague and friend Pattison, said no, he knew, and most likely the reason is local and situational nature of many of Betjeman's poems, to escape, if not understanding, itself to the enjoyment of those unfamiliar with local circumstances. The consultation of on-line catalogs several English libraries and the catalog of the English Agency of ISBN confirmed the impression from my colleague.
One day I asked if Betjeman would have deserved the honor of being canonized - more Bloomian - by Rupérez. And yes, indeed it was. And between Robert Graves and WH Auden, nothing less. Pages 377 to 382 of the Anthology of Rupérez contain, apart from a brief vita that some errors are repeated, on the other hand, are common even among English critics, for example, the reasons for the animosity that flamboyant young Betjeman professed her austere guardian CS Lewis, David Pattison recently specified in a notice published in the Floreat Magdalena Hilary 2009 -, two fragments of two poems by Betjeman, "Christmas" and the largest "Summoned by Bells ", and epicedio which he dedicated to the memory of fellow of Pembroke College Walter Ramsden, a poem that captures the quintessence of a certain mode of life genuinely Oxonian. Both, of course, translated by Angel Rupérez.
And here is where the two sides agree in writing until now. Rupérez prints the following, in his fragmentary translation of "Christmas"
And is it true? Because if so,
fingers or the loving ties that give
in this paper frills,
or the sweet and silly Christmas things,
or Bath salts or the cheap perfume
or the horrible ties that seek to affect,
not love living in families,
[...]
be compared with this simple truth:
that God became man in Bethlehem
and in the Bread and Wine is still living.
When you check out the translation of Rupérez, draw little attention to the "Bath salts" which appear in these lines: given a taste of Betjeman by the material things that bring memories of his past, one might think that we are facing a typical product of the city of Bath such as the delicious and Bath buns dulcérrimos . But no, we are dealing with a typical manufacture of melancholy and elegant city of Somerset. Let's take a look at the original text, for help.
Leaving aside the many considerations-many- poetic taste and value that could be possible, even necessary, to ask, here are the original lines for the translated up there:
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
fripperies tissue,
The sweet and silly Christmas Things,
Bath salts and inexpensive
And hideous tie so kindly meant to,
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare:
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.
The mystery is revealed: it is, of course, bath salts. One, of course, even accepting the excuse of the potential confusion created by the use of the universal-that it would be hard to accept, "should reflect on what has before it, and few I argue that, without a shadow of doubt, we are faced one of the greatest moments of philological incompetence that a translator may have ever shown.
0 comments:
Post a Comment