Lost in Translation

Winter                                                                    Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

 

What happens in the act of translation?  After years of reading translated texts and noticing the often wide discrepancies among various translations of the same underlying words, I have wondered how such drastically different English versions can come from the same work.  Understanding this, really translation as a whole, and understanding Ovid’s Metamorphosis in particular, is what led to my current project, learn Latin and make my own translation of this Roman masterwork from the time of Augustus Caesar.

Some of that learning has already begun to happen.  Though I’m only 60 verses into the first of 5 books in the Metamorphosis, I have learned a complex truth about translation.  There is no such thing as an exact translation, probably not even such a thing as a literal translation.  Why?  Several things.  First, grammar has rules, sure, but the application of those rules can lead to different English.  In Latin a good example is the participial phrase.  Latin uses participles much more often than English and in ways we never do.   One such use, the ablative absolute, can consist of as few as two words, perhaps neither of them a verb, that gets translated into a subordinate clause in English.  Sometimes, in order to translate, you have to add a verb, almost always you have to add a conjunction.  There is no right conjunction nor is there one way to translate the participle into a verb in the clause though in both cases you can make an educated guess from the context.

Second, the words themselves, as in English, are polyvalent.  Example:  nebula.  It can mean mist, smoke, vapor, fog, exhalation.  Again, context helps, sometimes the desired English word is obvious, often not.

Third, at the level of a sentence or a paragraph, it may be impossible to render in any exact way what the author intended.  Instead, the translator has to read the Latin, understand the author’s intent as well as possible, then create an English sentence or paragraph that conveys the sense of the Latin rather than an accurate word for word translation.  In other words, translation is interpretation from the very beginning, in essence.

Fourth, as Greg and I found in today’s Ovid, texts themselves vary.  His text had three words in one phrase that mine did not have, one missing altogether in mine and two with different cases.  This is a phenomenon very familiar to me from study of the Bible, that is, textual criticism, where judgments must be made about the authenticity of the original text.  Usually, in textual criticism, it is assumed that the more difficult rendering is the older and therefore closer to the original, while the easier is assumed to be a scholarly “cleaning up” of a problematic passage.  So, the text used for translation matters.

Fifth, once you’ve cleared these hurdles, in a text like the Metamorphosis, you have to deal with the difficulties the text presents because it uses poetry rather than prose.  This means words may be in odd locations to justify rhyme schemes, metaphor or other poetic devices.  In particular words that need to be together in English may be separated by several other words, the relationship only apparent at all because of endings.

Sixth, in the case of poetry you have to consider the challenge in creating English poetry from Latin poetry. Often the decision is to render the whole in prose, because making Latin rhyme schemes, for example, work in English may be next to impossible.

So, even though I’m still far from my goal of fluent translation, I’ve already learned, from the inside, several things that explain vast differences in translated texts.

Listen, This New Year’s Night

Winter                                                                       Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

Have you ever been touched, brushed by a faint wing as it passes?  Perhaps a brief hesitation in an other wise confident progress, or a stutter in your step as you return home?  Some of us feel the passing of these birds of pray more than others.  We’ve not yet perfected the thickness, a protection against stooping falcons of unrest, leaving our Selves out there, unprotected, waiting for the faintest grazing, perhaps seeking it, knowing the tentativeness is real, life fleeing either before us or behind us, who can tell which?  Until it fails us altogether.

I’ve always been this way, though it got a burnishing after I entered college and studied philosophy, then anthropology.  Doubt, skepticism, questions come so naturally to me I have trouble noticing when they take me too far, leave me out there, dangling by myself, a victim of my own questing beast.  In my life there is no such thing as certainty.  Perhaps I was born post-modern, always aware of the interpreter, always aware of the Self as interpreted, subject to oceans of ideas, rivers of feeling, no life guards on this beach, the tide out, vanishing out to sea.

It sounds, I don’t know, dark, or at least gray, but I don’t experience it that way.  Instead, I take in things anew, fresh, not as expected, but as inspected, weighed, considered, felt.  This gives life a newness, a just been seen character that, no matter how exasperating to the other, gives me a world born again with every breath, every step, every sight.

It also means you can’t count on me to agree with you, can’t trust my perception of things since it’s so idiosyncratic, in fact, I don’t trust the things I perceived a day ago.  Perhaps this is true of everyone though I doubt it.  It is the fruit, whether rotten or delicious, of trying to know myself.

When I set foot in Delphi, walked the sacred way up to the temple of Apollo and put myself on the ancientrail of others seeking wisdom from the oracle, I was at my holy of holies.  Here you either learned to know yourself as the sign on the door way commanded or risked losing a kingdom.  Just ask the shade of Croesus.

Listen, this new years, for the sound of flight, air moved aside by feathers, softly.  It might be a raven who owns the sun, or an albatross who has ceased to follow the Ancient Mariner.  If you hear her, go still, watch.  Perhaps you can follow toward those caverns measureless to man.

A Visit From the Goon Squad

Winter                                                               Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

More time with Ovid.  It went slower today, but I’m down to verse 60, at least with my rough draft translation.  Tomorrow Greg and I will go over it, give me a lesson in Latin vocabulary and grammar, polish my work.  We’ll also further refine my knowledge of ablative absolutes and the passive periphrastic.  Which needs, I must say, refining.

Kate’s down to 8 days, 7 days after tonight.  She’s almost giddy.  We’re still putting the finishing touches on her party.  It will be a lot of fun.

Started the HBO series, The Pacific, tonight.  I know something about the European theatre of WWII, but almost nothing about the Pacific.  This should be a good start, give me a way to guide some future reading.

I’m reading a holiday gift, A Visit From The Goon Squad.  The goon squad is time.  Jennifer Egan has taken material not very interesting to me, the music business, lives of socal punk era kids and made them into a combination medieval morality play and cinema verite.  A good read.  I recommend it.

Snow in LA. Earthquake in Indiana. Ice Here. End Times?

Winter                                                                         Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

Headlines you never expected to see:

Wind gusts topping 90 mph topple trees in L.A. area, blocking roads; snow closes I-15

Magnitude 3.8 Earthquake Rattles Indiana

Whoa.  Earthquake.  Indiana?  What the…   Here’s an example of today’s news coverage.  My old buddy Ed Schmidt made a joke on his facebook page about an earthquake.  Just to be sure I checked google.  Sure enough:

“Officials from the U.S. Geological Survey said an earthquake with a magnitude of 4.2 has been registered in Indiana, just north of Indianapolis near the small (hmmm. where are their fact checkers?) town of Kokomo (46,000+).

(USGS earthquake epicenter map)

No damages or injuries were reported as a result of the quake that hit at 6:55 a.m. central time, officials said.

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Some people in the Chicago area said they felt shaking from the earthquake, though it’s unclear if a 4.2 magnitude quake in Central Indiana could be felt as far west as Cook County…

The earthquake’s epicenter was about three miles beneath a farm field a short distance south of Pingree Grove, near Route 20 and Switzer Road in western Kane County.

That quake was caused by a previously unknown fault line that has not generated any shocks since geologists started keeping track 150 years ago.

In Indiana, Howard County Chief Sheriff’s Deputy Steve Rogers says the department was bombarded by phone calls after the quake from people wondering what had happened. He says some people reported hearing a loud boom.

Indiana University geologist Michael Hamburger told Indianapolis television station WTHR the quake was felt across Central Indiana and into western Ohio. He said the temblor occurred in an area “that’s seismically very quiet.”

The Indianapolis Star is reporting the quake was felt as far west as New Castle, Indiana, and that items shook off the shelf in Martinsville, located in northeast Indiana.”

Meanwhile, here there be ice.  Out, out damned ice.  Be gone.  Snow we can deal with, but ice?  Four-wheel drive’s no good, just slipping and sliding out of control.  Skidding into the New Year may be some people’s idea of a good time, but not mine.

Kate and I had plans to go to the Spectacle shop today and spend year end money left over in our pre-tax medical account.  Will have to wait till tomorrow.  When we go, I plan to get some up to date reading glasses and a new pair of driving glasses with the graduated lens.  Gonna stick with round lenses, not sure why but I’ve come to identify myself with them.  My correction is sort of odd in that I can read without glasses since I have offsetting problems, but now when my eyes get tired or I read a lot of small type, blurring occurs.  In the past, when that happened, I could put on my reading glasses to sharpen things up, but now they’re just enough off that they make things worse.  An aging body is such fun.

We have a grand-dog in surgery today.  Solly, Jon and Jen’s youngest dog, has some kind of digestive tract problem.  He doesn’t eat and has become thinner and thinner.  Hope he comes out of that ok.

Banned Art

Winter                                                             Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

I have now seen “A Fire in My Belly.”

What did I think of it?  Much of the movie disturbed me:  scenes of lucha masked wrestlers throwing each other to the mat, a grainy clip of bull fighting, occasional interpositions of an Aztec priest lifting the heart out of a sacrificial victim, gamecocks fighting to the death, legless beggars walking a city street and panhandling in traffic, a man’s mouth being sewn closed, young boys breathing fire on Mexican city streets to make a few coins.  Frankly, the ants crawling across the crucifix, I didn’t see them biting the ivory figure but maybe the Catholic League paid closer attention, didn’t have near the shock value I anticipated from the news releases and very little compared to the much more violent or voyeuristic images I’ve already mentioned.

I’ve added some material below from the Catholic League and the Walker.  The Catholic League’s argument is a farce from a logical perspective.  It suggests, for example, that because the first amendment prohibits the state’s establishment of religion that it should not be able to fund things that “bash” another.   Whether or not this is bashing may lie in the eye of the beholder, but the argument that prohibiting establishment somehow contains a negative constraint against critiquing religion just doesn’t follow.  At all.

As a work, I found “A Fire In My  Belly” obscure as to meaning and intent, though with some powerful images that display the underlying violence of Mexican culture.  Just why he chose the savagery of Mexican cockfighting, wrestling, bull-fighting and human sacrifice, I don’t know, but linking it to the kind of brutality that could crucify a god on earth seems like a powerful pro-religious statement.

Images of Coatlicue, She of the Serpent Skirt, show up frequently in the film and may provide an interpretive key.  Among other things, she is the birth giver from whom all life comes and to whom all life must return in the eternal cycle of death and rebirth. An art historian familiar with this sculpture from the Mueso de Antropologica in Mexico city, says:  “In effect she symbolizes the earth, but also the sun, moon, spring, rain, light, life , death, the necessity of human sacrifice, humanity, the gods, the heavens, and the supreme creator:  the dual principle.”  (material quoted from The Flayed God, pp 220-223)

Thus, her presence signals the deeper mythic significance of the individual images from Mexican culture and places the crucifix, certainly bound up in the eternal cycle of death and rebirth, in an artistic context.

This is not an easy piece, either viscerally or art historically, and may be as much a cry of pain as anything else.  The more I think about it, the more powerful it becomes.  So there, Catholic League.

Continue reading Banned Art

First Amendment

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Walker stands with national peers in support of artistic freedom.  This is a big deal and I’m proud to be part of a community and an artistic/museum community that supports artistic freedom.

54 years ago I began carrying newspapers for the Alexandria Times-Tribune, a paper route that went west on Monroe Street from Harrison, then fanning out toward the then brand new elementary school.  Learning to fold the evening paper, the Trib was a daily back then, in a square, and how to pitch it in a gentle arc that landed on my customers doorsteps gave me physical pleasure, a manual skill.

My dad was editor of the paper then, so the question of freedom of speech was, at least in our house, not a question at all but a loud proclamation, made every day about 3:30 p.m. when the Trib hit the streets courtesy of myself and several other carriers.

(This artist made the banned movie:  David Wojnarowicz   Four Elements  1990 lithograph on paper  T.B. Walker Acquisition Fund, 1991)

Dad did a couple of things that stuck with me though I imagine he did many more.  First of all when the John Birch Society raised its impeach Earl Warren/US out of the United Nations flag around town, Dad got a copy of its founder’s book, The Blue Book.  In it Robert Welch outlined clearly anti-democratic, plutocratic views.  Dad published relevant portions in the Tribune.  Gutsy in a town of 5,000.   Later, he also published a letter to the editor by a would be English teacher rankled at Dad’s opposition to this coach becoming a teacher of the language.  He printed the letter as received with many spelling and grammatical errors.  Coach did not get the job.

Extraneous sidebar:  the same coach got himself arrested years later in southern Indiana when he stole a bucket of quarters while gambling on a river boat.

You may know the John Birch Society best in its present day position of influence behind the Tea-Party Mad Hatters.  My hometown was and is a hotspot for extremist right-wingers.  Back in the day it was the John Birch Society and the Minutemen, later the KKK and now the Tea-Party.  In fact, the Alexandria, Indiana leader of the Tea-Party got arrested for drug possession last week.  My old buddy, Ed Schmidt, alerted me to that piece of news.  Ed was mayor of Alexandria for a couple of terms.

Muzzling critics, whether political or artistic, cannot be countenanced in a society built on a free exchange of ideas.  The need to speak truth to power demands that we go out of our way to listen to voices on the margin, to open ourselves to what might be unpleasant messages or messages wrapped in unpleasant containers.  The freedom they’re saving just might be your own.

Grab It, Now!

 

Winter                                                      Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

Just back from the former Kinko’s, printing the invitation for Kate’s retirement party, Coming of Age: the Art of Retirement.  We have entered the good-bye phase of life.  Good-bye to work.  Good-bye to cousins, aunts, uncles.  Good-bye to homes and states.  Good-bye to life.  Viewed from the vantage point of youth this must seem a dreadfully depressing, black life stage, in fact the opposite is true.  As death comes closer, most of us finally get the message:  live in the now.  Live today, not in regrets about yesterday or anxiety about the future.

A calmness comes with this perspective, a realization that this life, this moment has the only juice you’ll ever get.  So, we try to ring as much as possible out of the day:  Ike’s funeral, Kate’s retirement, the days we have when we’re able to garden and tend the bees, the opportunities we have to work on environmental advocacy, to roam the museum and spend hours talking about art, to eat and talk with friends like the Woolly Mammoths.  These are life.

Corny as it sounds, I always liked the very existential Schlitz ad:  You only go round once in life, grab all the gusto you can.  Laissez bon temps rouler!

Good-Bye, Ike

Winter                                                      Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

The oldest cousin on my mother’s side died on Christmas Eve.  Isaac, Ike, Jones always had a special place in the family as the first child of my mom’s five siblings.   The last of mom’s siblings, my Aunt Roberta, died several years ago and we cousins became the older generation.  Now, for the first time, death has invaded our numbers.

Ike’s death was, in many ways, a blessing.  A victim of a nasty spinal condition that left his head permanently inclined forward, Ike suffered a bad fall in March and never really recovered.  In the end his lungs gave out.  We weren’t close, perhaps he was the most distant of all the cousins, but he’s still family, part of us and now part of our memories.

No one really knows what death, the most shrouded ancientrail is like.  Does life just wink out with the last breath, the last heartbeat, the last brainwave?  Jews believe the spirit stays around the body for a few days, thus the careful and personal treatment a corpse receives in traditional Jewish practice.  My friend, Gyatsho, believed that after 49 days his soul got a new incarnation based on karma and the attitude near death.  Many people in the obituaries believe the dead meet Jesus, or go to heaven, or greet family and friends who died before them.

You never see it in the obituaries but some believe in a place of eternal punishment, the last fork on the ancientrail leading to hell.

I have no idea what happens after death though the most likely thing to me is extinction.  We simply become no more as a Self, eventually dispersing our elements back to the universe from which they came.

The Greeks, it seems to me, had the most cogent idea; that is, we live in our deeds, our family, our legacy.  Even so, for most of us, the legacy will not amount to much, perhaps a generation’s remembrance at Thanksgiving meals, family reunions.  Then, we’ll become one of those sepia photos  a later generation will pick up and say, “Who was this?”

Or, perhaps not.  It’s possible that the internet has become an engine of immortality, allowing our words, pictures, even our consumer habits to live on, perhaps in the cloud?  In this case perhaps my great-grandchild will access Ancientrails much as you do, reading of one life, at least the bits and pieces that end up on a page or in photographs.  What might we call this?  ByteLife.  CyberMemory.  Life in the Cloud.  SiliconeForever. (no, wait, that’s those breast implants.)  Life According to Electricity.

You, Yes You, Are Invited

Winter                                            Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

If you read ancientrails, you’ll likely get an invitation either by e-mail or snail mail or by hand.  But, if you don’t, and you see it here and can come,  please come.  The idea is the more the merrier. Kate’s retiring and we want to mark the occasion with friends of both of us.

We’ve scheduled the party during the Third Thursday event at the MIA because the museum puts on a different face and has lot of extra activities.  We’ll have appetizers and beverages in the Wells Fargo Room.

The art work here is a piece I commissioned from Chicago artist, Deb Yankowski, in honor of this transition.   More details to come.

You’re Invited To An Event

Coming of Age:  The Art of Retirement

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She opens her mouth with wisdom

And the teaching of kindness is on her tongue

Give her credit for the fruit of her labors

And let her achievements praise her at the gates.

(English translation)

January 20th, 5-9 P.M.  Minneapolis Museum of Art

Cooking With Clay

Winter                                            Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

A long time ago I got a clay pot for cooking, a romertopf.  Over many years I used it at least every several weeks, then it went in the cupboard, not to come back into the kitchen.  Until today.  A free-range chicken, 40 of our garlic cloves, two of our onions and the last of our leeks went in with the last of our carrots and 7 small potatoes.  Cook for 1 hour and 15 minutes at 475, take the top off to let it brown and voila!  A tasty, moist chicken with sides already done.  Throw in a steam in the bag collection of green beans, a Kate made chicken gravy and we were ready for lunch.

My cooking tends to be like that, large amounts with leftovers, whether soup or chicken.