Maintained in Translation?

Reading and discussing Brain Friel's play, Translations for class has provided us with numerous ways in which things can be "lost" in translation--whether those things be meaning, sound, feeling, or something else.

My mission in this blog is two-fold: First, I would like to suggest, using the text of Translations as evidence, that often this phenomenon of "losing" things in translation occurs as a result of human laziness; and, secondly, I would like to provide an example of a "translation" that maintains the integrity of the original in order to prove the point that things don't have to be "lost" in translation if we make the effort to prevent that loss.

Mission Part 1: Human Laziness is to Blame (Surprise, Surprise) There is a scene in Translations that really suggests that sometimes we lose meaning of words (and sometimes the words themselves!) in translation because we, as human beings, have a tendency to be lazy and easily frustrated. This occurs on page 59, while Owen is trying to translate a conversation between Yolland and Maire. As we learn later, Yolland and Maire become romantically involved, and this scene may have been the beginning of their romance, as they attempt to share an "intimate" moment while discussing their waving to each other across the fields: Maire: We wave to each other across the fields. Yolland: Sorry-sorry? Owen: She says you wave to each other across the fields. Yoland: Yes, we do; oh yes, indeed we do. Maire: What's he saying? Owen: He says you wave to each other across the fields. Maire: That's right. So we do Yolland: What's she saying? Owen: Nothing--nothing--nothing. (to Maire) What's the news? (59). It is obvious that Owen has no interest in the awkward flirting going on between Maire and Yolland or the romantic undertones in their words, and he eventually grows frustrated with the whole conversation and stops translating; what could have been a romantic moment turns suddenly business-like. As a result, that nervous, awkward, "butterflies-in-your-stomach" romantic vibe between Yolland and Maire is "lost in translation." This seems to be a direct result of Owen's laziness, lack of interest, and frustration.

Mission Part 2: We Don't Have to Lose the "Feeling" of Words through Translation!



In my poetry class, we are currently studying the work of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Rilke has written some amazing poems, and the text we have by him includes both the original German versions and their translations by Stephen Mitchell. Mitchell does such a magnificent job translating the emotion, feeling, and images that Rilke creates in his poems that the English versions are extremely powerful. You can read and listen to both the English and German versions here. I admit, I don't speak German, but I think the fact that I find the English translation so powerful suggests that translation doesn't have to result in a loss of feeling.

For those of you who have studied abroad, have you ever "lost" something in translation due to your own or another person's laziness or frustration? Is maintaining the "feeling" of words worth the extra time and effort it requires?

Death vs. Banishment

After we discussed the differences between the U.S. judicial system and that of the Taiga tribe in the novel Power, I realized one of the critical aspects of a judicial system that we failed to mention: punishment. I would like to briefly address this issue here, with the hope that I may spur some thought or discussion that the rest of you may choose to pick up on via your own blog or a comment on mine.

In Power, the Taiga tribe sentences Ama to be "banished" for her crime of killing the panther and failing to bring them its hide. In the U.S. legal system, we do not really have a "banishment" sentence, although life in prison is probably pretty close. In some states, however, we do have the death penalty; and I would say this, in terms of the "worst" punishment that the convicted can receive, is the U.S. equivalent of "banishment." To the Taiga tribe, "banishment is equal to death" (172). The Taiga believe the most devastating punishment receivable is "to be split from your own people, your self, to go away from the place you so love" (172). In short, the Taiga believe feeling isolated is the worst thing a person can experience. The U.S. legal system takes a different approach, believing that death is the ultimate punishment.

Why (from the U.S. legal system's viewpoint) is death worse than banishment and isolation? Is it because we are so caught up in material wealth and possessions that the prospect of losing them is unbearable? One could argue that death also seems the worst punishment possible because it also results in the loss of relationships with loved ones, but banishment and isolation accomplish that as well. So what are the major differences between the isolation caused by being banished and death itself? In a way, death seems like the easier of the two, especially for someone who is truly guilty of a terrible crime. Both death and banishment result in isolation and loss of relationships, but death--depending on what you believe--may also provide escape and relief. A dead person does not have to relive his guilt and suffer his lack of relationships every day of his life.

Of course, this could easily evolve into a religious issue that hinges on personal belief systems, but I'm still curious: Which is the worse punishment in your opinion?

Running in the Rain

MIAA Cross-Country Conference Championships 2007 (My Freshman Year at SMC)...A Rainy and AWESOME Run!!!

Omishto's connection with nature in the novel Power caused me to reflect on some of my own experiences with nature. I ran cross-country and track all throughout high school (I was also on the Saint Mary's cross-country team last year, but I had to sit out this season due to injury...I am hoping to return to competing next season). Running has always been a major stress-reliever for me, but it also helps me feel connected to nature (one reason that I detest running on treadmills). I have always felt particularly connected to my high school cross-country course, which includes a lot of trails and wooded areas, as well as a very STEEP and infamous hill that has been christened "Agony" (I know we have been discussing analyzing names in order to uncover their significance, but I think this one speaks for itself). Reading about Omishto's experience in the storm as well as some of her amazing imagery and personification of nature compelled me to compose the following prose piece about one of the semi-state cross-country meets that I ran in high school, which was held on our home course at New Prairie High School on a particularly cold and very rainy Saturday morning.

Frigid and penetrating, the icy raindrops cascade down my spine as my toes squishes and squirms through the muck to find its pace along the newly-smeared line of white paint. The crack of the starting gun reverberates through my skull as my nearly-numb feet struggle to push off of the soggy ground and begin navigating the swamp that is left of the course. Sheets of rain create a curtain of hazy gray. My eyes squint and catch glimpses of images that are blurred by the rain and my speed: a fallen orange cone, collecting rainwater; a familiar face, sheltered under a midnight black umbrella, shouting incoherent words of encouragement against the wind's deafening war; and, finally, the sight that evokes that peculiar mixture of dread and adrenaline: Agony.

Pulsating with veins of rainwater, she towers over me: strong, intimidating, seemingly alive, and needing to be conquered. The silver points of my running spikes mercilessly stab her as I begin my ascent. A sudden flush of heat rises to my cheeks, contrasting with the brisk coolness of the unrelenting raindrops. Perspiration steadily trickles from my forehead, stinging my eyes. The scents of sweat and this morning's shampoo invade my nostrils, while my taste buds cringe from a mixture of kicked-up mud and regurgitated Lucky Charms. My pumping arms rub against my cotton uniform, and the friction creates a fire along the inside of my inner biceps. I reach the top of my mountainous foe, my legs cramping from the effort but relieved that she's behind me now.

With the finish line in sight, I sprint through tunnel of brightly multicolored flags. The rains stabs at my face like thousands of little needles, and pinpricks cause me to wonder if Mother Nature has taken up acupuncture. The crowd screams, fueling the lactic acid surging through my muscles. My legs stride out, hungry for the white line ahead of me that will provide them with relief. And then I'm done, and too tired to feel anything anymore.

A Perfect Fit: Lucy's Cover

The painting by Paul Gauguin on the cover of Lucy is a perfect reflection of what lies beneath it: the story of a young woman exploring and embracing her sexuality and discovering who she is. The woman in the painting on the cover of the novel is obviously very open and comfortable with her sexuality, as she is naked from the waist up (this is actually a common form of "dress" in Gauguin's work). Interestingly, a picture of Lucy depicted in nearly the exact same way as the woman on the cover of the novel is described on page 155: "He [Paul] brought us...a photograph he had taken of me standing over a boiling pot of food. In the picture I was naked from the waist up; a piece of cloth, wrapped around me, covered me from the waist down." This picture (and the one on the cover) helps us understand that, although Lucy is very open about her sexuality, she does not use it with the intention of forming relationships with the men she is with. In the painting on the cover, the woman has her hand raised slightly, almost as if trying to distance herself from the people looking at her; she embraces her sexuality but avoids attachment. Similarly, when Paul gives Lucy the photo described on page 155, Lucy says, "That was the moment he got the idea he possessed me in a certain way, and that was the moment I grew tired of him" (155). Lucy loses all sexual interest in Paul as soon as she sees that he thinks he has some kind of ownership or relationship with her. The painting on the cover serves as a visual depiction of Lucy's sexuality and desire for independence throughout the novel.


Another interesting aspect about the cover art of Lucy is the title of the painting, Savage Poems. This has several connections to the novel. First of all, it reminds us of the daffodil poem that Lucy had to recite in school when she was young (for more on this subject, refer to my blog post directly preceding this one). Secondly, the word "savage" takes on several meanings. Perhaps this is how Lucy feels others view her, or maybe this is how the English colonists (like the ones who made her recite the daffodil poem) viewed the people living on the island that she comes from.

I hate to use a cliche, particularly given the fact that I am an English Wrting major (hopefully none of my English profs will read this blog), but sometimes a picture really is worth a million words. To evoke a less corny and overused argument for the power of the cover art, I'll refer you to a question that Lucy poses on page 121 and encourage you to share your responses to it: "Why is a picture of something real eventually more exciting than the thing itself?" Do you agree with Lucy that pictures are often more intriguing than the things depicted in them? Why or why not? How would you interpret this question with regard to the cover art of Lucy or the photograph described on page 155?