" everything he wrote is gold " : an interview with gabriel garcía márquez' s translator.
The Washingon Post (usa)
wp. OPINIONS
" everything he wrote was gold ":
an interview with gabriel garcía márquez' s translator
by Carlos Lazada, Published: April 19- E-mail the writer
As a translator, it may not get better -- or more daunting -- than bringing the work of Gabriel García Márquez to new audiences. Begining with the 1885 novel ' Love in the Time of Cholera' Edith Grosman has rendered in English the Nobel laureate' s work. In an e-mail echange with Outlook editor Carlos Lazada following the writer' s death on Thursday, Grossman reflects on the art of translation, Gabriel García Márquez' s pet peeves and which of his novel was her favorite.
When did you learn Spanish ?
I first studied Spanish in high school in Philadelphia. My family were not Spanish speakers.
How did you become a translator ?
A friend who edited magazine asked me to translate a piece by the Argentine Macedonia Fernandez. When I said that I was a critic, not a translator, he said, " You can call yourself whatever you want, just translate this piece ". I did, and the rest is history.
How involved was Gabriel García Márquez in the work of translation ?
He was not particularly engaged in the process on the other hand, I normally don' t consult with an author until I ' ve finished the translation. I usually take about six month to do a novel, depending on its length and difficulty.
Did he have any ruler about how he wanted his work translated ?
He did not like adverbs that ended in- mente ( in Spanish, the English equivalent is- ly)
I sometimes felt like a contortionist as I searched out alternatives.
Which work of his did you find the hardest to translate ?
Everything the wrote was gold. They were all wonderful to work on; I can' t say which was the most difficult.
Do you regret not translating " One Hundred Years "?
Yes, of course. I wish I' d translated " One Hundred Years ". I wish I' d translated everything he ever wrote
You 've said that translation is not about creating an equivalent text from one language to another but that it is a " rewriting of the first text ". What did you mean by that ?
Translating means expressing an idea or a concep in a way that' s entirely different from the original, since each language is a seperate system. And so, in fact, when I translate a book written in Spanish, I' m actually writing another book in English .
Did you feel you had to get into Gabriel García Márquez head to understand what he meant to convey ?
I' ve always felt that you get inside an author' s head by translating his or her work and begining to see the world through the writer' s eyes. Everything you need to know about an author is the writing.
As a reader, do you have a favorite Gabriel García Márquez novel ?
I think my favorite may be " Love the Time of Cholera ".
You also translated his memoir " Living to tell the Tale" . How different is it to translate fiction and memoir ?
I didn' t approach the memoirs differently from the fiction. He used to say that writing journalism and writing fiction are on the same continuum, and he didn' t differentiate them in any hard-and- fast way .
What do you make of the "magic realism" label. Is that the right way to think of Gabriel Garcia Márquez work ?
I don' t think the term " magic realism" is especially helpful. All fiction' s is made believe that comes out of the imagination and fantasty of the writer. Fictional worlds may use elements of realitty,but they are the products of an indivdual mind.
You' ve also translated Cervantes' s " Don Quixote " ?
When Gabriel García Márquez heard that I was going to translate "Don Quixote", he said,
" Dicen que me esta' s pomiendo cuernos can Cervantes ". -- " I heard you' re two-timing me with Cervantes. " Brillant".
Who are the young novelists writing in Spanish today that you are of admire ?
I' m very fond of the work of Santiago Roncagliolo, a Peruvian who currently lives in Barcelona.
What do English speakers miss by reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez work in English . What is lost in translation ?
I try not to think about is lost but what is gained. For the reader who does' nt know Spanish, this a chance to read books that otherwise would be out of reach; for English, translation adds to the expressive capability of the language by introducing elements that right not have been there otherwise .
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gabriel José de la Concordia Garciá Márquez, ( 6 March 1927- 17 April 2014) was a Columbia novelist, short story writer, screenwriter and journalist known affectionately as Gabo throughout Latin America. Considered one of the most significant authors of the 20th century, he was awarded the 1982 Nobel Prize Literature. He pursued a self-directed education that resulted in his leaving law school for a cereer in journalism. From early on, he showed no inhibitious in his critism of Colombian and foreign politics. In 1958 he married Mercedes Barcha, they had two sons, Rodrigo and Gonzalo.
Garcia Márquez started as a journalist, and wrote many, acclaimed non-fiction works and short stories, but is best known for his novel such as " One Hundred Years of Solitude" ( 1967),
" The Autumn of the Patriarch" ( 1975) and " Love in The Time of Cholera"(1985). His works have achieved significant widespread commercial success, most notably for popularizing a literary style labeled as " magic realism ", which uses magical elements and events in otherwise ordinary and realistic situations. Some of his works are set in a fictional village called " Macondo"
( the town mainly inspired by his birthplace " Aracartaca' and most of them explore the theme of 'solitude'. WIKIPEDIA .
in Africa + ..., poems by edwin thumboo (singapore)
TENGGARA 2 / 1968
Dept.of English-Univ.of Malaya
Kuala Lumpur/ Malaysia.
EDWIN THUMBOO'S POEMS
In Africa
This airport is nicely rural
But it grows and will get up-to-date
This landing trip where kites circle for prey.
Unlock the sky,
This scar in the earth to which night comes
When glow worms fly,
Will soon to be better lit.
The country's flag is new
Unfurled just modestly.
An old colonial cannon sits
Just quietly.
But hear the trucks and tractors, busy with the earth
Pushing the trees quite out of sight,
Dismantle the frame of land
The green -ref flowers.
There a nocturnal lizard finds a sudden day,
Moves unnaturally, glaring at the sun,
Displaced into the century.
Proposal
General speaking, we can allow
That marriages are made in Heaven,
For better or for worse,
But whatever the heavenly reason
Proposals are uttered here on earth,
Some seriously, some out of season
When the flower is lost,
The tree heavy with fruit,
Others to mend ordinary lives .
To put it simply
A man proposes, the farther disposes.
So a clever girl will say :
" Speak to my father. "
But proposing ta a father
Fat and fifty,
In his comfortable rocking-chair,
For his daughter's hand ,
Soft and twenty, skin-creamed, perfumed,
Into quiet perfection ...
But proposig to a father
Is never easy,
Espescially if you are in love
And he proposal-prone,
Having married three daughters off.
The young man with a proposak in his head,
When he is lest his bachelor self,
Drops to see the family,
Suffering in sense of vague finality,
Choosing a simple, uncongested evening,
When she , the object of his hand and heart
Is away at the Annual General Meeting of
Her Old Girls Association.
The family gathers --- father, mother,
Brothers, sisters, a few sly neighbours,
All curiously aware
Of the anxious visitor,
The happy casualty,
Who fidgets, moves his chair,
Looks almost sacrifical,
Wonders if he should comb his hair,
Or cough nonchalantly or stare
At his unpolished shoes.
Dinner is served, then tucked away
Politely. The father-image moves
Across the hall , into the verandah.
The frangipani is in bloom.
They smell sweet and he remembers
He has come to make proposal ... about the weather,
The heavy traffic at Newton Circus,
Mumbling ' I want to marry our daughter .'
His never slips a notch or two, but no matter,
The father-image understands,
Approves the nervouness,
Steers the evening, the scent of bloom,
The stars, one corner of the rising moon,
Into the practicalities or civil, then listing
Matters on which there could be compromise.
It is soon over and the marriage is made in Heaven.
When you are old and
Fat and fifty, comfortable in a rocking-chair
Remember it is never easy to propose .
edwin thumboo
( TENGGARA 2 / 1968 - p . 68- 69 )
that day + ... , poems by masako takiguchi ( japan) / translated by shonosuke ishii
TENGGARA - 2 - 1968
Dept. of English - Univ. of Malay
Kuala Lumpur- Maylaysia.
masako takiguchi' s poems
translated by Shonosuke Ishii
THAT DAY
In memory of Miss Michiko Kamba, killed walking among the group of students
demonstrating against the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty .
That day
Her big eye
" Anyway I've got to go, mother,
But I won't be gone long "
She hated to live on secretly and quietly
Under the roorf that bends
With heavy dark days piling upon it,
She hated to die in such a house
That day
Michiko Kamba
Joined a big group of people
And walked at its head
That day, In the confusion, someone struck her dowm with his gun
Someone trampled her under his cruel boots,
The soft body of that young girl.
Feigning ignorance,
A voice shouted, "Keep quiet" again and again,
To smother up slyly what had been done,
The 15th of June, 1960 ---
That day
Michiko Kamba was killed,
The young girl must have wished
To have a spacious future to spend
In attemting at various things.
THE MAN
The man knows well
that between the slender nad straightened legs
Of the woman
In spring
In summer
In autumn
In winter
In different ways in different seasons
There blooms a flower.
The man like a clairvoyant
Teel of it frankly
In a load and powerful voice
Making the woman blush to the roots of her hair.
The man longs heartily
For his love to die early
To be able to convince himself of the fact
That she is his.
On a beautiful day in winter
He suddenly comes to her
And says from behind
"Die as soon possible;
Won't fail to carry your coffin".
The man is in haste;
He will ripen the green apricot,
He will tear open the bud of the rose.
He is convinced that if his hand
Touches the woman she will fall a ripened fruit;
He believes this as he believes in Jehovah,
And his palm i always wet
With his dark and greasy desire.
THE WHISTLE
Not knowing who I am,
Not knowing what I have in mind,
The wavy air of the whistle
Flows before me alluring,
The sound that comes from the profile
Has the coolness
Of oxygen
And thge dried up net of my body
Recovers the flexibility of its limbs.
Not knowing I myself am aimng at something,
The whistle tries to catch me.
I snap it back,
And in front of me
The whistle dances by,
With its sound like earrings
Gripping my heart,
Have no realation between,
And it's cleanly pretty all the more.
MASAKO TAKIGUCHI
(TENGGARA 2 - April 1968 - p. 13-15)
Thephong's poems :Kennedy + Asian morning western music ( TENGGARA 2 .1968)
TENGGARA 2/ 1968
Dept.of English - Univ.of Malaya
Kuala Lumpur / Malaysia
The poems reprinted here are taken from a mimeo-
graphed collection of poetry by the Vietnamese
poet, Thêphong, entiled Vietnam : the sky under
fire & flames, published in Saigon in May 1967.
The collection was obtained for TENGGARA by the
young writer, Bur Rasuanto, who was on a visit
there recently.
Thêphong was born in 1932 at Nghia Lô, Yên Bai,
and spent his childhood in the northemost part of
Vietnam. He took part in the resistance at an early
age and has been a farmer, soldier, school teacher
and editor, besides writing stories, poetry and
critiques. X.H., [Dam xuân Cân] in presenting his
English translations of Thêphong's poems in Vietnam:
the sky under fire & flames, wrote, " Thêphong's poems
are particularly difficult to translate, and I have
no illusion whenever about my command of Englsih.
I trust that one day a poet of talent will revise this
version and do more justice to the original ". Readers
are bound to feel that Dam xuân Cân does not do
himself justice
LLOYD FERNANDO
DEPT. OF ENGLISH
UNIVERISTY OF MALAYA
-----------------
Thêphong's poems
translated from the Vietnamese
by Dam xuân Cân
KENNEDY
In a whole evening
I wander
casting a glance at the sea
and the horizon
counting every quarter of an hour
while the sun appears and disappears
on the waves
my secret sadness
refuses to go
I wonder whether there is any meaning for life
in the wood Our Lady with innumerable pebbles
in this place I find no solace at all
the sea today is sad like me
furious waves do not cease rolling
and breaking on lonely rocks
and rocks seem to be shattered to pieces of russet color
thousand of yers ago
at the beginning of the universe
probably this hill was part of the sea
with billow roaring
after so long a time
now a lone man
I walk slowly, sadly
up and down this place
visit friends and inanimate things
and then depart once more.
Sitting in the evening shop, waitingto be served
looking at nude pictures on the wall
and hearing Western music
suddenly I realise
Christmas is coming soon
in this war-ravaged land
the hostess
after collecting money
leaves the counter
goes into the kitchen
to prepare roast fish
yesterday the duty cook
went to the training camp
women repalce men in all matters
except for being husbands
I begin to weep
over my lonely state
o my love
are you happy away from me
today
for dinners
I will eat more
thinking of your beautiful hands and body
I' ll smile in tears
Do you know
in this time of civil war we all have burning pains
let us turn away
not to see the obscene scene
a naked G.I.
shows his comtempt for prostitutes
by going out of the bath room
without a dress on
a wife turns wawy, looks at her husband and wait for him to react
head bowed
he goes on sipping his soft drink
aware that the blue-eye soldier
thinks all Vietnamese women are keen on seing naked bodies
in fact his beastly attitude should only shame
compatriots of hero Abraham Lincoln
whose statue was carved on great mountain
as for me I remember the photo of Kennedy
hero of the world with floating hair
assassinated not long ago
since then Vietnamese youths
night after night
look at his picture hung over the bed
feel respect and love for him
champion of New Frontier Policy
o the obscene jingle full of petty things
only makes prostitutes laugh
professionally
I will never forget this morning
I came to the cage like shop
surronded by wires for fear of terroist activities
there were four at a table
three Americans and a Viet woman
they seemed to be gallant like Europeans
I sincerely thought so
until the little waiter brought a small
plate full of cheese
he stuttered in front of an American
"she order this
gentleman
why you shake your head"
not knowing what had happened
the Viet prostitute went on laughing and talking
even after she admitted she had ordered this extra thing
her lover still shook his head
I felt sorry although I had breakfast twice
now I know another characteristic of a leading nation in the world
the American woman has her own purse even after she is married
this Vietnamese woman, the prostitute turned temporary
and profitable wife
has no money and has begged for a breakfast in vain
The memory of the G.I. opening the door
of the bathroom to let women appraise his body aches me
for him Americanism simply means this miserable husband
with gold-rimmed spectacles who
walks in the direction of the G.I.
and speaks so softly as if saying prayers
I at first take him to be a pimp
but after the quarrel breaks out
I understand the weeping woman in his legitimate wife
one afternoon
she left Saigon for the fresh sea air
but only to feel all the humiliation of her people
After the G.I gets out to consult his friends
on how to right his grevious wrong
he walks in
the red cap on his head
losing his arrogance he say softly
"I am very sorry
please accept my apologies..."
then firm handshake with the husband
as an acknowledgement of friendship
like the handshake insignia printed a bag
" I am sorry
I' m really very sorry
please accept my apologies..."
then a firm handshake with the husband
as an ackonowledgement of friendship
like the handshake insignia printed on aid bags
"I 'm sorry
for thinking all Viet women are
prostitutes
and dollars could buy everything"
Still another story
every time the interpreter goes on leaves
he sees on the highway
a love starved G.I. simply brandishes
his dollar coin
to find the woman he could go ahead with
In my war-torn land
every night
flares shine bright in every corner
of the country
deafening sounds of artillery disturb further
uneasy sleeps of war-weary people
never have I found the image of any man more shining than Kennedy's
now his image
fade out as bubbles
on the immensity of water
the wind in his hair
he seems to weep
at the Kennedy Square in Saigon
the man whose wife was mistaken as a prostitute by a man
of Kennedy's nationality
cannot fight back his bitter tears
Christmas night
stars are shining brightly
on the Saigon Basilica
evrything is shrouded in the fog of shame
war
and
war ...
CAP SAINT JACQUES
21st DECEMBER, 1965
ASIAN MORNING WESTERN MUSIC
This morning like any other morning
I open the eyes, stretch to greet red sunrays
which have burned the rancour in me for thirty years
love now is sweet, sour and bitter
my lips prick but I still hold a piment fruit
I cannot remain thoughtless before the big cup of black coffee
part of our diet in the barracks
looking at my lean silhouette
on the hot sands
I sadly think of my only amusement is eating rice
dearer to me than my sweetheart's caresses
let me live more days of despair and sweat
hour by hour my people are increasingly
suffering the war fever
in the sound and fury of mortar fire, tanks and jet fighters
rosy lips of beautiful women glisten amidst war
a young soldier ruins his future
with the hostess in the café on the beach too keen on betrayals
watching her guests with experimed eyes she orders drinks on
their behalf
what will be left to us after years of war
countless rosy lipped youths have died to
preserve bright eyes of yours
I am but a perfect stranger
last night I lived to my utmost
this morning
I feel ten years older
beautiful love is love in the morning
love
late in the night
is nasty
the European female singer with passionate voice
makes me feel like crying
tapping the this female dog lying at the road side
a G.I. pushes the door in
while I am sitting at this table to write verse
to bury sad days
the mountain not far from me has witnessed
the twenty-year long desultory war
1943
Japanese troops dug trenches for ammunition
1965
American troops rushed to Vietnam
with the ball point pen
I write line aftewr line
on the sea at Vung tau
are ship and carriers
last night there was a hilarious party
for Vietnam, US, New Zealand, Australia, the Phillipines,
Free China and South Korea
this is why I am often mistaken for another
even by a South Korean girl
I am Vietnamese, I am not a Korean
my skin is yellow and I want to defend my country
as any of my friends of other races
I look in her eyes
as if to tell her we should put old conflicts out of my minds
and carry on a new life for all of us
the European singer's voice has shattered
me in Eo Quan Vung Tau five years ago
O sweet memory alays dear to me
it has been flooding back into my consciouness
to me any Vietnamese girl is lovable
this is precisely why I worry
because weeping cadets
torment me prior to time to departure
o young soldiers
you will go and I will stay in this training camp
for how long I cannot tell
after your departure
head down I cry my eyes out
on account of communion the iron bed sweats
nothing is more gracious than highly exalted love
between youths og twenty and thirty
who swear to live and die together
who meet amidst the fury of fire
as none will bath twice
in the same river
we will never meet again
like this --the graduate night
of us all on the sands
dunes and hills crible away
and the moon shines not for our enjoyment
after your departure
I look around
in the studying, eating, and sleeping rooms
there is nothing left on the floor but desks, and chairs
and rubbish
there are women to entertain us for a moment
but I count on you
so that later on when I become an old man
leaning on the stick
I will sing of memories as a young man
O youths dying with head broken
where is peace that we will long for
later
of course
I can't meet all of you
an army is complete
only before the battle
who will be missing
o my dear brothers, my loved ones.
Birds warblings in the morning in the dreamlike coffea
arabica flower garden
dry brown terminalia leaves grace the pebble-covered lanes in the park
an old man with white hair and beard
walking past, leaning on the stick
is myself after years
sad sounds of music begin wounding my heart
I pray, I pray
so that eveything will be all right
and the rosy lips of the bar hostes with not hasten to fate
the lamps in the room will remain lighted
these things, however trivial
all contribute to our happiness
o my love
I am in the sulks on account
of your not so sincere words
though it is my understanding
women speak these in spite of themselves
o young lovers of tomorrow
do understand that insincerity is part of the love play
the Siamese cat with yellow fur lies in the sun
makes me think of a loving hand's caresses
you are walking in my heart
your lips and velvety eyes, though distant awaken on me
I'll surely love our first child
whether son or daughter
without you
how miserable I am
you still remember don't you
the golden afternoon you sat by my side
the setting sun
partly hidden by my helmet
my sunny smile is for you
in lieu of suffering people
love, though noble, is very selfish
but what I can do
when I am but a man
at thirty I love you
my love s ripe as bananas with tart- shaped dots
when autumn comes Hanoians have tears in their eyes
I met and loved you at Saigon and Vung Tau
the salty wind of the sea has been the witness of our love
we'll pass another winter
but don't you see spring is coming round again
and very soon
nature will be renewed
like our love today
we'll be happy
we'll be sad
my love, do feel more rancour
the heritage of us two
is years of despair
o my love my love
in order to break our solitude
let us cry more
and strengthen our love
without me
will you cry
o my love my love
without you
what is left to me
and how can I go on writing
to contribute to our literary heritage
lines of poetry
of bitter mornings and afternoons
surely our country
will lose a poet
with the name Thêphong
the sun has risen high
and is shinning straight
into my eyes
music is also fading away
in the morning café.
CAP SAINT JACQUES
23 NOVEMBER, 1965
the phong *
( TENGGARA 2 - 1968- p. 6 - 12 )
--------------
* .... In looking for the best work, by Southest Asia writers, TENGGARA plays it quite literally by ear. The 1967 number was much enhanced by among such other excellent work, the tragic simplicity of Taufiq Ismail's poems . Readers of that issue will know how Taufiq's poems were obtained. ( Indonesia. For the present issue we were fortunate again in discovering the English translation of a book of poems by the Vietnamese poet, Thêphong. The selection we publish here is a moving reminder of the devastation and waste his country has undergone for twenty years without respite. We hope to publish more of Thêphong's work in the near future ...
( TENGGARA DIARY 2 - 1968 - p. 97)
