On the Isle of Antioch is lauded Lebanese-French author Amin Maalouf’s philosophically rich take on the end-of-days novel. Told through the journals of Alexander, an artist living out his days on an island he shares with only one other person, this solitary existence is suddenly upended by a total communications blackout and power failure, followed by growing threats of global nuclear warfare. Through this narrative that builds on our contemporary forebodings, Maalouf weaves in the grand resonances of history and delicate moments of human connection to gather the touchpoints between consciousness and civilization, reality and belief. Skillfully taken into English by award-winning translator Natasha Lehrer, this modern myth was our final Book Club selection for 2023, and in the interview below, we speak to Lehrer about On the Isle of Antioch’s massive range, the novelist’s role, and the importance of ambiguity.
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Ruwa Alhayek (RA): On the Isle of Antioch resonates strongly with contemporary events like the COVID pandemic or current geopolitical tensions; it’s intriguing how the novel captures such fears, then deviates from initial impressions. Did ongoing events have an impact on your process of translation?
Natasha Lehrer (NL): The narrative absolutely echoes real-world concerns like the Ukrainian invasion and geopolitical tensions between the U.S., Iran, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. Sardar Sardarov initially appears as a Central Asian warlord, a nod to figures from the former Soviet Union. The theme of missing nuclear warheads also aligns with post-Soviet anxieties, cleverly naming and then subverting those fears.
But personally, translation is more of an intellectual exercise for me. I focus on achieving the right tone and voice for characters, especially when translating philosophical dialogues. For instance, translating an American character from French back into English is quite interesting, and Maalouf’s characters often speak in a philosophical manner rather than realistic dialogue. Reading the novel again after a year, I’m struck by the atmosphere of dread, fear, and eroticism. It’s exciting to realize that it works well, even though I wasn’t consciously conjuring specific atmospheres during translation. It’s more about accurately conveying Maalouf’s ideas.
RA: Considering the diverse range of writing styles in the novel, from monologues to presidential addresses, it’s impressive how you maintained the distinctions. Can you elaborate on how you approached translating these different styles? For example, when dealing with presidential speeches, did you consciously aim to mirror certain rhetorical patterns or language conventions?
NL: Absolutely. Each style presented its own set of challenges. When tackling presidential addresses, I delved into real American speeches to understand the typical phrases and rhetoric. I wanted to ensure authenticity in how the characters addressed their fellow Americans. It involved a bit of linguistic research to capture the nuances.
Reading aloud was crucial, as it allowed me to hear the distinctiveness of each style. For instance, when dealing with the mythical narrative voice, I had to tap into a different realm, balancing the ethereal with the concrete. It’s about finding the right sound and rhythm that resonates with the intended atmosphere.
RA: Let’s touch on the novel’s broader themes. The interplay between past, present, future, and the blending of reality with myth create a unique narrative landscape. How did you manage to convey these temporal and thematic complexities in your translation?
NL: The temporal and thematic complexities were indeed challenging, but also immensely rewarding to work with. I approached it by immersing myself in the narrative’s flow, almost like stepping into a river with different currents. The mythical elements required a certain poetic resonance, while the contemporary references needed a more straightforward yet nuanced translation.
Reading the novel repeatedly allowed me to grasp the interconnectedness of these elements. It was crucial to maintain a balance, ensuring that the reader experiences the seamless transition between different temporal and thematic layers. Ultimately, my goal was to convey the richness of the novel without losing its intricate threads.
RA: I think part of the novel’s clarity also has to do with the fact that it’s in the form of a journal, and Alexander is recording everything as mundanely as he can. Have you ever translated something that is so concerned with cataloging every moment?
NL: What Maalouf is trying to do in On the Isle of Antioch is to put the reader in the moment, to experience everything as it’s happening. I think that Alex is the most hilariously nerdy character—kind of super uncharismatic. I can’t quite work out how he manages to seduce Ève in the end. Also, he comes from Montreal. It’s never specified whether he’s a Francophone or not, but I decided to think that he was, so I decided to make him not really fluent in French. That was another way of differentiating him from the other characters, because Ève, his friend Moro, the President—everyone’s an Anglophone except for Alexander. And I thought he was such a funny character because he’s so nerdy and awkward emotionally. That’s why he’s living on his own on the deserted island. Obviously, you couldn’t possibly not be awkward socially.
RA: But he’s still kind of in control of the narrative, because it’s his journal. How seriously and reliably do you perceive him as a narrator, especially concerning his perception of Ève? To what extent is the narrative a reflection of his perspective?
NL: That’s an interesting question. When considering the protagonist as a narrator, one could interpret it through various lenses, but I see him as a reliable narrator, mainly because his thoughts are eventually corroborated by others in the story. It’s almost as if he’s saying: “I see things clearly, and I’m sharing them with you through fiction to enhance understanding.” He’s quite nerdy and self-aware of his shortcomings, yet possesses a peculiar intensity that feels factual, with everything meticulously laid out. Unlike certain novels where the narrator turns out to be completely unreliable, I don’t see any indication here that we shouldn’t believe him.
The novel also presents him as entirely reliable. The lingering question is what Ève sees in him, considering his thorough descriptions of her character. He assumes a lot about her reliability as a narrator, yet she appears to be a dynamic personality—a firecracker, so to speak. Perhaps there’s a lesson in that: in the assumptions we make about others. The ending, although slightly disappointing, may carry another lesson. It seems to wrap up with a “happily ever after” scenario, but perhaps there’s more to it that we haven’t fully grasped.
RA: What, in your opinion, is the role of a novelist in the broader context? How does this role extend to readers and translators, especially in the face of the existential themes presented in the story?
NL: Well, that’s a complex question. I might not have a definitive answer, but it certainly invites contemplation. The role of a novelist goes beyond mere storytelling; it involves shaping perspectives, offering clarity, and perhaps guiding readers through the intricacies of human experience. As for our roles as readers and translators, we become interpreters of these narratives, contributing to the broader understanding of the human condition, even in the face of impending apocalyptic scenarios. There’s a collective responsibility in engaging with these stories, reflecting on our own roles, and finding meaning in the midst of uncertainty. It’s a profound exploration that extends beyond the pages of the novel.
RA: That idea of the novel offering a broader understanding of the human condition also made me consider how On the Isle of Antioch invites contemplation on how we perceive others as different or what defines someone as “other”.
NL: Indeed, it’s a recurring theme throughout history. Take, for instance, the Mamluk Empire. The phenomenon of redefining “others” didn’t just happen in a distant past but occurred less than a century or two ago. In a humorous way, many contemporary conflicts revolve around people fighting for their version of history. It echoes the question posed in the novel: what’s more important, preserving your civilization or prioritizing humankind? In the face of potential obliteration, the conversation shifts to whether we hold onto the constructs of our civilization or prioritize the survival and continuity of humanity itself. It compels us to re-evaluate what truly matters when faced with the prospect of rebuilding from scratch, with no assurances of preserving the literary treasures or cultural milestones we hold dear.
When it comes to these larger existential questions, the exploration of belief in the novel is especially profound, challenging humanity’s perception of having the upper hand. It particularly delves into the perspective of believers who attribute existence to a higher power—though not necessarily God—and the author skilfully guides us through this understanding. It’s a brilliant attempt to make readers grasp the complexity of belief. And as we discuss these themes, it becomes evident that belief, as portrayed in the narrative, differs significantly from contemporary notions of spiritual belief. The author introduces an idea that’s harder to dismiss, almost like providing proof of the existence of a higher power, albeit not explicitly God but something akin to it.
What’s intriguing is that this exploration ties into other fascinating elements, like the philosophical reflections on time and age. The narrative challenges our conventional notions, highlighting the stark differences in how the characters perceive these concepts compared to our contemporary understanding. The notion of time and aging becomes a central and stimulating part of the book, forcing readers to confront the contingency of our cultural constructs. Moreover, the incorporation of magical elements into the medicine practiced in the story, reminiscent of historical practices like shamanism, adds an enchanting layer to the narrative.
The author masterfully reintroduces these magical aspects in a way that’s both unarguable and thought-provoking. It’s not merely about storytelling; it’s about questioning our own scepticism, especially regarding miracles. The narrative poses the intriguing question: What if miracles were true? This shift in perspective challenges our preconceptions and leads us to reconsider our stance on the miraculous, even if it may be unsettling for some.
RA: This perspective on Maalouf’s stance is intriguing, since in the novel, the miraculous literally transpires in the form of completely healing medical treatments. It remains unclear, however, if he’s casting these incidences in a positive or negative light.
NL: That ambiguity is one of the book’s most interesting aspects. Maalouf doesn’t provide clear answers, urging readers to reflect on their feelings about concepts like curing diseases. He challenges the Western tradition’s rejection of dualism, proposing a thought experiment involving the coexistence of spiritual and material elements. For me, it’s about belief and transforming abstract ideas into tangible realities. He questions conventional notions and encourages readers to contemplate the implications of advancements such as medical ones, in which the fear of overpopulation and such ethical dilemmas arise.
RA: I hadn’t considered the idea of dualism, but in the first lady’s speech, she mentions a criminal hand mingling their blood with ours. Can translation similarly mingle faiths and cultures?
NL: Translation is enriching and deeply personal. It involves a symbiosis between the translator and the text. Every word becomes significant, and the translator develops an intimate understanding of the original. It’s a form of reading that immerses the translator in the text, allowing them to know it even more intimately than the author.
In translating a book set in Casablanca, I faced the challenge of maintaining the distinction between foreign languages. I left Arabic terms in italics while integrating French seamlessly into the text, a decision made to avoid exoticizing languages. It added depth to the text and highlighted the cultural interplay.
Translation is a dynamic process of bringing languages together, creating a more vibrant and authentic narrative that transcends linguistic boundaries. The goal is to avoid domestication, ensuring the translated text retains its unique cultural flavor. The mingling of languages and cultural references enhances the richness of the narrative.
Natasha Lehrer is a prize-winning writer, translator and editor. Her long form journalism and book reviews have appeared in the Guardian, the Observer, the Times Literary Supplement, The Nation, Haaretz, and Fantastic Man, among others. She is an award-winning translator of twenty-four titles, and has contributed to several books, including most recently Looking for an Enemy: 8 Essays on Antisemitism, edited by Jo Glanville (Short Books (UK) 2021/Norton (US) 2022). She is literary editor of the Jewish Quarterly.
Ruwa Alhayek is a Ph.D. student at Columbia University, studying Arabic poetry and translation in the department of Middle Eastern, South Asian, and African studies. She received her MFA from the New School in nonfiction, and is currently a social media manager at Asymptote.
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