He said, she said

Laurent Mauvignier, author of The Birthday Party, a novel longlisted for the 2023 Booker Prize, describes translation as a “safeguard of the teeming biodiversity of literature”, and sometimes I firmly believe that truer words have never been spoken. Literature and writing are an art. They are of human creation (and I adamantly hope they remain that way), and this makes them universal. Translated literature in and of itself is so important to culture because it bridges gaps, exposing readers to diverse worldviews and expanding horizons beyond their own experiences. In a world where translated literature does not exist, we would undoubtedly be limited and restricted, unable to form necessary relationships with the remainder of the world. For some people, this may be their reality. Their ignorance, or even refusal, to consume media outside of their native language has led them to a navel-gazing livelihood, dull without the complexities of the rest of the world. 

It’s undeniable that translated literature and translation itself have had an irrefutable impact on our worldly understanding. It not only offers unique insights into different cultures, widening audience reception and promoting understanding, but it is also a path in fostering connection and empathy. Much of translated literature shares universal themes such as love, loss, triumph, and labor, revealing our shared humanity across the universe. It allows us to democratize knowledge, making texts accessible to people who are geographically or linguistically isolated, enriching people intellectually. By supporting and celebrating translated literature, we are able to enrich the literary canon, diversifying voices and ensuring a richer cultural exchange. When people ask me, as a native English speaker, why I choose to read novels translated from French or Japanese or Russian, the answer seems pretty obvious to me. The American-centric worldview that many citizens of the U.S. hold prevents us from expanding our taste and knowledge of the rest of the world. Why do we believe that the best written literature, the most talented writers of the time, are in English? Who’s to say that there aren’t more exceptional works out there, undiscovered by our own means, because we have yet to lift our heads to see that there is more out there? 

I have found some of my favorite novels through translation (see: Heart Lamp by Banu Mushtaq; The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera; Madonna in a Fur Coat by Sabahattin Ali), but at the same time, I recognize the imperfections of translation. Languages themselves are deeply tied to their specific cultural contexts, historical nuances, and unique rules in grammar and syntax. Herein lies the term “lacunae”, which means an unfilled space or interval. Lexical gaps mean that some words or concepts are so inherently specific to their native language or culture that there exists no equivalent in the target language, creating an untranslatable gap. This is linked to cultural context. A translator must not only understand and interpret the words but also cultural distinctions. This alone can be difficult or even impossible to convey accurately in a different cultural framework. 

We must also understand the gap between denotation and connotation. With translation, we can lose nuance and intent, as the new text often fails to capture the original language’s tone, style, and subtle meanings. The primary text may hold distinct connotations that translation may lose along the way, relying solely on the denotation of the translation to carry the purpose of the prose to the reader. Additionally, as translation is still at the helm of humans, there is no concrete way to prevent human bias or error as well. We underestimate the power a translator holds. They have the ability to reshape, remold a story as they wish to. The translator’s own stylistic approach and interpretation also play a role in the translation process, inevitably altering the original words to some degree, even without their explicit knowledge. 

When I think about what is lost in translation in literature, I find myself disheartened by what I could be missing because I can’t read the story the way the author intended. However, I then remember the broken vase metaphor when it comes to translation. Imagine a beautiful vase, whole and undamaged; this is a piece of literature in its truest form. This vase is then shattered into a bunch of pieces. As we pick up these pieces, we can see that with every piece, we can still see the intricate and purposeful design of the original vase. We understand that each of these pieces belongs to the other to create the vase. However, as we try to piece the vase back together, some pieces do not fit perfectly back into the other, and some are chipped beyond repair. These pieces represent each translation of the original text. We recognize the origins of it, but it is not what it was exactly before it was unbroken. Yet, despite these imperfections, we also see that each piece is unique in itself, still beautiful, still conveying the message that needs to be received. Translation is imperfect, but in the end, it is still able to help us foster empathy, nurture curiosity, and develop a better understanding of not only the world but of ourselves. 

The sole truth that translation can take literature outside the borders of its original language is almost magical. We are not only gifted with the ability to simply enjoy creative and unfamiliar writing styles, but also the opportunity to gain new perspectives. How incredible it is that as we are reading translated literature, we are not reading a story of one voice but rather two?! We are reaching into history and balancing a modern and a historical narrator, both working in tandem to communicate prose to the rest of the world. How lucky we are to exist in a time where so much knowledge, so much poetry, and lyricism are accessible to us, right at our fingertips? Literature is art, and a good translation of itself is also art. Who are we to deny ourselves the privilege of it?