Alienation

What is it about books in translation?

Kim and I had a long discussion about books in translation recently.  I  said that I find something distancing about books that have been translated–that the very nature of their not being read in their native language makes them feel a little less emotionally present for me.  

For instance, as much as I enjoyed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the characters never felt entirely real to me.   (Read this for Kim’s take on that book and its sequel.)  I was fascinated by their story but I didn’t live it along with them.  Maybe it’s a stretch to blame that on the fact I wasn’t reading it in the original Swedish, but I genuinely did find some of the writing jarring.  Sometimes the tone of the book was very slangy and relaxed; other times, it felt oddly formal.  Of course, for all I know, that was exactly what the author intended.  But to me it felt like a translation issue.

Kim argued that it’s the type of book I’ve read most recently in translation that’s made me feel distanced from the protagonists, which is a valid argument.  I tried to think of a book or books I’ve read in translation that’s completely swept me up, and the only thing I’ve come up with so far are Colette’s Claudine novels.  Claudine’s voice always felt real and close and fresh to me.  I believed in her and cared passionately about her.  I can’t say I felt quite as drawn in by any of Colette’s other books, but that does mean that my theory of translations being inherently alienating doesn’t hold true 100 percent.

The book I’m currently reading in translation–Celine Curiol’s Voice Over–is about as alienating as you can get.  Curiol goes out of her way to keep her heroine remote, starting with not giving her a name.  The poor woman is only referred to as “she” throughout the novel which becomes somewhat confusing when another female character is referenced in the preceding sentence.  I found myself thinking, “Oh, THAT she,” after perplexedly rereading a sentence more than once.

The heroine herself is a creature of alienation.  She slinks through life remote from other people.  No one she works with likes her or talks to her.  She’s often silent in public.  She’s an observer, not an actor.  A man kisses her and she falls in love with him but he has a girlfriend.  When anything does happen to her, it’s usually out of her control: she has the attitude of a sleepwalker as she moves throughout her world.  There’ s a reason the author made her an announcer at the Gare du Nord: what’s more remote than a disembodied voice?

None of that is to say I haven’t enjoyed the book.  I have.  It’s beautifully written and there are crystalized moments of naked honesty that are quite powerful.  But it is definitely a book that thrives on alienation.

Still, I wonder: is it simply the tone of the book or does the fact that it’s translated add to my feeling of distance from the protagonist?  Kim argued the latter (she pointed out that this book fits into the genre of literature of alienation).  By way of retort, I read her a quote:  ”She realizes  that she has been waiting for him to phone.  How are things?  He never presents himself as if he were sure he is  the only man who calls her.”  Presents himself?  There’s something off about that translation–it may be literally correct, but we would say, “He never says who he is.”  Enough little differences like that, and maybe it affects how you read a book.

I’d be interested in whether other people feel that they tend to be less emotionally drawn into books in translation.   Of course, you can love a book that leaves you slightly alienated–emotional investment is not the only criterion by which you should measure your reading pleasure.  I still remember the chill I felt reading the first line of Camus’ L’Etranger: “Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.”   Talk about alienation.

Looking up that first line in translation, I found as many different versions of it as there have been translators.  “My mother died today, or perhaps it was yesterday.”  “My mother died today…or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.”   “Mother died today, or maybe yesterday.”    And so on.   Subtle, minor differences, yes–but writing is a subtle art and small decisions can have a big impact.

In the end, I have to believe that I feel alienated from Voice Over for the same reason readers feel alienated from The Stranger–because that’s the author’s intention, and I’d recommend the former wholeheartedly, especially to people who enjoy books that revel in those feelings of alienation from our strange, modern world.   But I’m not going to embarrass myself by “recommending” The Stranger.  Camus has done pretty well over the years without my support.