Translated literature

Is literature - especially poetry - different after translation? Short answer, yes. Long answer, still yes. I suppose I'll need to elaborate for it to actually be the long answer, though.

First thing to consider in translation would be language: the language of the original piece of literature, the language the literature is being translated to and the difference of those two. How does one translate metric poetry without changing the message? A stanza written in Russian, English or Finnish are quite different from each other, as even the morphology of the languages differs quite greatly. How can you translate metric lines without either changing the meter, the message, or both? What about names? In much of literature, especially fantasy, names carry meanings and implications. Should they be translated, especially as they are often so tightly wound into culture that if translated, they lose half of their meaning? What about other cultural reference? Of course, even time dims culture so that, without actually seeking the information, you will not know what has been meant and what underlying currents can be found in any given text or message.

Translated fantasy and science fiction prose from the 90's (translated to Finnish, that is) is an outstanding example of astoundingly badly translated literature. For example, in Robin Hobb's Farseer books' Finnish translation, no one is wearing pants: the original piece has everyone wearing leggings, which the translator has translated as gaiters (säärystimet). I suppose he might've been meaning breeches, but the effect was quite confusing as I first read the translated books. Translatory variation and dissonance, especially with names, appears throughout the decade: in Hobb's books, in Gaiman's translated works, in Pratchett's translations... Earlier translated works of the aforementioned genres are rather interesting reading as well as words have been made up - a brilliant example of this being Kalpa Kassinen and Liskiö (you may google these if you wish). Most of the fantasy and scifi translated to Finnish in the previous century does stand out as being slipshod, as if no one actually bothered. Then again, how well could it be translated?

As I mentioned previously, I had quite the epiphany while discussing Walt Whitman's Song of Myself: I read it in English, while the rest of the participants read the Finnish translation. Song of Myself is not exactly metric, so one could have translated it meaning to meaning. Some phrases had, however, been changed from positive to negative, or the other way around: some words were missing and others had been added, to give atleast a different implication, if not a completely different meaning.

All this sparked a question: can translated poetry be discussed as the same piece as the original? Personally I have yet to see translated literary works that would stand in comparison to the original: while they can be discussed in reference, they aren't actually the same. Sometimes even discussion in reference can be considered impossible: if one were to discuss a poem, and its implications and references are different in the two works read by the people discussing, it rather feels like one was discussing two different poems. How far apart can the translation and the original be from one another until they should be considered two separate works, or should they be considered such from the beginning? How can you draw the line?

On happiness and writing

Some conversation about writing, the answers I got on my previous post, and some friends reading The Sorrows of Young Werther have brought me back to a subject I visit sporadically but recurringly. Happiness and literary works.

If we are to believe romantic literature - especially old(ish), Mid-Europian romantic literature - true creativity is spawned from misery. If one were to look at movies made, books written or stories told of great writers of old, a common theme could be found: all of them seem to have been definitely unhappy. Of course, common happiness is rather dull, and therefore not very noteworthy, but still it seems that every literary genius until the twentieth century (and somewhat through it) had to have some great misdeed, unhappiness or malady to spur their writing.

I discussed writing with a friend, and mentioned my "write something every day" promise I made to myself. We began to discuss what it was I wrote. When we got to the fact that poems - or something very much poemlike, but where and how does one draw the line - made up most of what I wrote (my prose comes in spews and gusts: I did finish the muse piece though) he mentioned that he had not written almost anything for ages. It was interesting, as before he was one of the industrious striving desk drawer poets I knew. He had a theory of it, which, summed up, would be along the lines of "I'm too content with my life, and therefore have no great feelings to base any great lyric works on." I had no argument to counter him: it was what he felt, and there was no way of proving him wrong. There was a question this provoked in me, however, that gestated for quite a while before solidifying.

Is it truly only misery that spawns creativity? Foes writing reflects the writee (yes, it's writee on purpose), or the setting of the writing in some detail or undercurrent? Certainly, when browsing through most of what is listed as the great literary works of the world, one stumbles upon bad setting, bad luck or just generic bad something quite a deal, but surely there must be happy feelings down there? I have yet to take a plunge through the literary works of our forebearers, but I did do a routine check of world literature classics in the book sets that are laid out for literature studies in our university. Finnish literature shall hold steadfast to everything sucking for atleast someone (it is Finnish literature, after all) so I discounted it from my search.

For basic studies I found three arguably "happy" pieces: Decamerone, Don Quixote and Gulliver's Travels. As Don Quixote's focus in on mistravels, mishaps and, well, mis-everything, we shall discount that. The whole setting of Decamerone is rather morbid and most of the stories end rather sadly as well, it shall be discounted as well. Well, atleast Gulliver is jolly as can be, is it not? Let us consider what it was when it came out: a piece on corruption and faults of a nation, dressed and veiled in satire. Quite unappealing for the jolly folk. Alas, we are left with no happy books for basic studies. To have a few examples of other pieces on the list, there are E. A. Poe's The Raven (and other works), Goethe's Young Werther, Sofokles' King Oedipus, Tolstoi's Anna Karenina and Kafka's The Trial. For later studies, the list has few brighter spots.

Actually, I must digress myself: I just remembered atleast one piece that is happy, or atleast truly claims to be. Given, it is of mid-nineteenth century, but still. Walt Whitman's Song of Myself, fist published in 1855, is a first-person narrated poetic epic of the miracle of life in all it's forms. I suggest it to everyone (in it's original language: I'll perhaps write about this later).

Well, no matter how we look at this, it seems most of the great literary works of the western world are sombre, sad things. Perhaps great inner turmoil does create better art. Personally, I find sombre subjects in my writing more often than not, but maybe it's just my Finnish blood. You can't help what you're made. Either or, I still write something each day. My cellphone is slowly filling with saved messages after I wake up in the middle of the night only to realise the day's writing remains undone, tap something in the phone and just slam the cover. Thankfully, the automatic settings save whatever's on screen when I do this.

For today, my writing is done and it's time to skip to bed. Perhaps one of these days I'll actually get around to sorting through all of the photos I've taken in the last six months, and come up with some pictures up here. It's been a bit, shall we say, texty up here lately. And yes, I know my puns suck.

Inspiration

A favorite writer of mine, Neil Gaiman, once wrote in the introduction of a collection of short stories - and probably said or wrote it down many times before, and after - about how journalists and suchlike ask him where he gets his stories, and out of exasperation, he started answering each of these questions with "from the back of my head." After a while, he thought it over, and came to the conclusion that, though the answer was given as a sort of a quirky joke, it was the truth. Terry Pratchett, another writer I view rather highly, once said he simply writes down what comes to his head, and then waits for more of the story to arrive. I think he probably means the same thing.

I asked a friend of mine, who writes mostly poems, the same question, although as I write some myself, I knew the stupidity inbred in the question. He blogged about how he writes his poems: you can read his thoughts here. http://samuraikettu.wordpress.com/2011/02/21/4-ohjetta-taiteen-tekijalle-eli-miten-runoni-syntyvat/ The blog is in finnish, so here're the highlights: 1. Find out what you're good at, and use it in your favor. 2. Write a lot. Ridiculously lot. 3. Even bad and mediocre will do. There'll be pearls. 4. Good method is better than good work. After reading his post, and stumbling upon Neil's thoughts again while reading and re-reading his works, I started thinking.

My inspiration has always been sporadic: it's kind of like having a muse that spends most of her time sulking, or teasing by giving fragments of stories. I have some ten beginnings of a story, all different, written down somewhere, waiting for me (or perhaps someone else) to find out how they continue. Sometimes I might write ten stories in five days, while another time I might write three lines and have exhausted my literary givings for the day.

I lamented on the lack of a muse a couple of weeks back. On the same day, I went to town, talked to a friend about it, had an idea of a story where the ancient muses could actually be hired from the yellow pages for one-time kind of jobs. After I got home, I stayed up until four in the morning, writing the story and another one, which already is here: a story currently under the name of Night Gaunts. After this, I began to write something every day. Even if I wasn't feeling creative, even if I felt like writing nothing at all, I wrote: a poem with three lines, a haiku, two random thoughts mashed up together, anything would do. After doing this for a while, I now have more ideas, more musings bubbling inside of me than I've had in perhaps years. This brought me back to an idea I have had earlier, and that Mr. Fox (my friend mentioned earlier, Fox is the alias he goes by everywhere and shall be the one used here), I think, had in his post.

Writing spurs creativity. Writing calls for more writing. The more you write, the easier it is to start. If you write every day, you'll write something good one of those days. If you don't write at all, how could you write anything worthwile? Simply by imposing the compellation of writing something every day on myself, I have began to write different, to write anew. And I do write every day: I have woken up to find a slip of paper on by the bed, or a file on the computer I vaguely remember scribbling or typing in the night. By writing, I write more, and I write better.

I suppose I should draw this to a close by giving some kind of an answer to my question as well. Where does my inspiration come from? My inspiration comes from all my senses, from my feelings, from what I am and see and feel and smell and touch. My inspiration comes from the back of my head. I see the moon, and start thinking what it might see, on it's constant vigil in the sky. I see somebody dance, and think about how I could bind it down to paper. I think that, to write, you need the set of mind for it. Inspiration lurks somewhere in everyone's head: you just need to let it out.