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?

Daffodils, Poetry, and "Two-Facedness"

"I did not know what these flowers were, and so it was a mystery to me why I wanted to kill them." --Lucy, page 29

In Lucy, Lucy remembers having to memorize a poem about daffodils when she was young and claims that her recital of it to "parents, teachers, and [her] fellow pupils" marked "the height of [her] two-facedness" (18). Years later, while walking with Mariah and encountering real daffodils for the first time in her life, Lucy asks, "Mariah, do you realize that at ten years of age I had to learn by heart a long poem about some flowers I would not see in real life until I was nineteen?" (30). It seems that the reference to Lucy's "two-facedness" arises from her acknowlegement that, at age 10, she saw herself as a bit of a hypocrite, passionately reciting a poem about something she had neither encountered nor truly understood. Perhaps this is why, when she finally sees the objects that she so wonderfully (and obliviously) described during her poetry recital as a child, she "want[ed] to kill them" (29). The dandelions represent not only the resentment she had for the British colonization of her home and the corresponding oppression it made her feel, but they also remind her of the "two-facedness" she felt after reciting the poem as a child.

In a way, I can relate to Lucy's feelings about the daffodils and the feelings that her memory of the poetry recital invoke. When I was in junior high, I had to memorize and recite "The Village Blacksmith" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to my literature class (when Prof. Ambrose asked us in class on Thursday if we ever had to memorize a poem for school, I mistakenly said I had to recite a Robert Frost poem...I didn't realize my mistake until I "googled" some of the lines of the poem that I could remember...I apologize for the error). Like Lucy, when I had to recite the poem when I was young, I had no idea what the words of the poem really meant. I wasn't as worried about the meaning of what I was saying as I was about stumbling over words like "sinewy" and having to say the word "sexton" in front of my just-entering-puberty 7th grade peers. However, when I read the poem today after googling it (admittedly, the first time I have done so since that horrid 7th grade experience), I do feel like my recital of it in junior high (complete, like Lucy's, with "special emphasis in places where that was needed" [18]...I did get an 'A' after all) was a bit hypocritical. Now when I read the poem, I am reminded so much of my dad and how hard he has worked a blue-collar job all his life to provide for our family, something that I perhaps took a little for granted when I was younger. In a way, I am a little angry at my junior high self for not taking the time to grasp the meaning of the words I was saying...back then, all I cared about was getting a good grade.

Can you relate at all to the resentment that Lucy feels upon seeing the daffodils? Is there any specific place or object that makes you feel a certain way because it reminds you of something from your past? Do you think that Lucy's admission of being "two-faced" is accurate, or do you think that her recital of the poem without understanding its meaning was just an instance of childhood naivete?

A "Pilgrimage" Story?

I think that Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story, "This Blessed House," is a pilgrimage tale, but perhaps not in the traditional sense of the word. Twinkle does indeed seem to be on a journey in search of great moral significance, but I don't think that is it necessarily the religious qualities of the relics she finds that she is interested in. According to the Wikipedia article about pilgrimage, "Christian pilgrimage was first made to sites connected with the birth, life, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus." In a sense, I feel that Twinkle's "pilgrimage" is a journey/attempt to "resurrect" her marriage. It does not seem as if Twinkle is looking for religious answers in her obsession with the search for Christian relics, as she clearly states to her husband that "[they] are good little Hindus" (137). Rather than religious ideas, the objects that Twinkle finds represent hope, beauty, and optimism for the future: when Sanjeev notices the Ten Commandments dishtowel that she finds, Twinkle tells him to "[f]ace it. This house is blessed" (144). In a way, there is a parallel between the condition of their house and the condition of their marriage; both may need "to be dusted" (137) in some spots, but if Sanjeev and Twinkle work/search hard enough, "God only knows what... [they'll] find" (153). The house (and marriage) contain all kinds of hidden treasures. When Twinkle asks Sanjeev if he thinks "the previous owners were born-agains," it is almost as if she is asking him if he thinks they too can be "reborn" in their love for one another (137). In some ways, this "pilgrimage" does lead to great discovery: at the end of the story, Twinkle's discovery of the solid silver bust of Christ leads Sanjeev to have an epiphany of sorts. When he sees that the bust "contain[s] dignity, solemnity, beauty even," he discovers that "to his surprise these qualities [make] him hate it all the more" (157). Perhaps this is suggesting that Sanjeev has finally discovered the "dignity, solemnity, [and] beauty" in Twinkle as well as the silver bust she found, and he realizes that he does not (and perhaps cannot) appreciate these qualities. To summarize, the real "pilgrimage"--the real journey--of the story is the search for true beauty, which is discovered at the end. Twinkle seems to appreciate this beauty, while Sanjeev comes to hate it.

Perhaps I am over-reading the text, but this is just one way in which I think the story can be interpreted as a "pilgrimage tale." I'm sure there are other interpretations out there, as well as counterarguments to my own interpretation, and I would love to hear them; please share. :-)

In closing, I would like to leave you with a brief clip from another "pilgrimage story." I know it would be wrong of me to post a youtube video without tying it into the text we are studying in some way, so I'll do my best. I've posted the similarities I see below the video. This is one of my favorite scenes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, a "pilgrimage tale" about King Arthur's quest for the Holy Grail. Enjoy!!


Ties to "This Blessed House:"

1. King Arthur is on a pilgrimage, and as I've discussed above, I see This Blessed House as a "pilgrimage tale."
2. King Arthur is in search of the grail, a holy relic, and Twinkle is in search of Christian objects--these are both religiously affiliated.
3. King Arthur tries to recruit the Black Knight to join his search. Twinkle sort of recruits the guest at her party to join her search: "the whole party joined forces and began combing through each of the rooms" (153).
4. The Black Knight reminds me a lot of Sanjeev. He tries to block King Arthur from continuing on his quest, much like Sanjeev discourages Twinkle's search for and display of Christian relics; he refuses King Arthur's offer to join the quest, and Sanjeev "had no desire to join" Twinkle's group in searching for objects; the Black Knight says "I move for no man," which is similar to Sanjeev's stubborn and superior attitude throughout the story; and finally (and this one's a streeeeeeetch), all that remains of the Black Knight after his encounter with King Arthur is his torso, sort of like the silver bust of Christ that Twinkle brings down from the attic (teeheehahaha).
   

I was reminded of something we talked about in class while I was travelling back from Georgia after spending the duration of my spring break there with my fiance, Andy. Before break, we spent a good portion of one of our classes discussing the concept of "displacement" and what it means. When I looked back at some of the definitions we came up with during my THIRTEEN HOUR DRIVE BACK to good 'ole Indiana (yes, I took my HUST notes with me so I could study for the midterm...I know, I'm a nerd), I realized that I had experienced, witnessed, or talked about several of them over the course of my time in Georgia. I think the most efficient way for me to explain/demonstrate this is through some type of bullet list, so here we go. I've listed some of the definitions we came up with in class in red and followed them with the way in which I encountered that definition in blue (color coding that's both efficient AND patriotic...I know, I know, even I am impressed at my ingenuity sometimes):

• Being away from home : When I was in Georgia, I was away from my geographic home of Indiana. I have only been to Andy's apartment in Georgia one other time, and I definitely felt a little out of place in the area because it was still pretty unfamiliar. I didn't know what streets led to where, where the nearest grocery/convenient stores were, or how to navigate the area; it was definitely an unsettling feeling.
• Lonely : Okay, so saying I felt "lonely" sounds like a major bash to my fiance. I was never lonely while I was with him, but there were a few times when he had to report to base for work (he's a 2nd LT in the army), and without him around, I definitely felt a little lonely, especially since I was in an unfamiliar setting. This kind of makes me think that displacement can be both a physical AND emotional sensation, and that feeling "displaced" in one of these areas has a direct effect on the feeling of "displacement" in the other. My emotional sense of displacement was exacerbated by my physical one.
• Forced to leave; unsafe : Ok, so I was not FORCED to go to Georgia and I certainly wasn't "unsafe" there, but I did encounter this definition through a conversation with Andy, who had just finished Ranger School (I was there for his graduation). For those unfamiliar with the Army, I'll give a very brief, layman's definition of Ranger School: two months of hellish survivor training in which the participants are deprived of food, sleep, and any communication with the "outside" world apart from letters. So, when Andy was roughing it out in the mountains in -18 degree wind chills, tired and hungry, I would definitely qualify him as being "unsafe." He told me that he has never been that cold in his life and that there was actually a point during which he felt like he was actually going to die. I am definitely glad I only had to hear about this type of "displacement" rather than experience it for myself.
• A break in routine : Ok, so this was a BIG one for me. Usually, my routine is what keeps me sane throughout the day (I'm kind of anal), and when it's broken, I feel like everything is just crashing down on me. When I went to Georgia, everything about my routine changed: when, where, and how I worked out; when and what I ate; how I spent my free time; etc. This also ties in to another definition our class came up with: feeling out of sorts, which happened to me when my routine got messed up.

I have already probably surpassed my ramble quota in this blog, but I want to do a quick follow-up on these definitions of "displacement" that I encountered on my trip by answering a question that was posed to us in class and using the answer to that question to tie into something that Scott Russel Sanders said in his essay, "Writing from the Center." The question posed in class regarding displacement was "Can it be temporary?" My experience in Georgia proved to me that it can. Although there were times that I felt a "break" in my routine, "out of sorts," "lonely," and "away from home"--in other words, that I felt "displaced"--there were also times that I felt just as safe and as firmly in place in Georgia as I do when I am at Saint Mary's or at my actual home with my family. When I was spending time with Andy watching movies, laughing, or just hanging out, or when I was writing poetry (something I enjoy doing), I felt totally at ease. This proves that the feeling of displacement--whether emotional or physical--can be overcome. In "Writing from the Center," Sanders tells us that "[n]o matter where we live, the energy of creation flows in each of us, every second" (162) and that"we already dwell in the place worth seeking" (164). This implies that if we do lose ourselves--if we do find ourselves suddenly "displaced"--we can overcome that condition by tapping into "the energy of creation" that dwells within us and using it to discover the things that make us personally feel most firmly in place.