Interviews

Unhurried Melancholy: Martha Tennent and Maruxa Relaño on Translating Mercè Rodoreda

March 19, 2020  |  in Book Club, Interviews  |  by Alyea Canada

In my opinion, it’s the perfect novel for a digital detox . . . or a quarantine.

Renowned Catalan author Mercè Rodoreda’s tender and meditative novel, Garden by the Sea, was our February Book Club selection. An essential name in postwar Catalan literature (and past Asymptote contributor), Rodoreda’s immersive yet subtle language is beloved for its captivating lyricism and simple, poignant depictions of everyday life. In these chaotic days, when many of us are looking to literature for comfort, the patient world of Garden by the Sea offers a quiet reprieve. In the following interview, assistant editor Alyea Canada speaks to the translators, Martha Tennent and Maruxa Relaño, a mother-daughter duo with a unique process and an unceasing admiration for Rodoreda’s singular style.

The Asymptote Book Club aspires to bring the best in translated fiction every month to readers around the world. You can sign up to receive next month’s selection on our website for as little as USD15 per book; once you’re a member, you can join the online discussion on our Facebook page!

Alyea Canada (AC): This is the second book by Mercè Rodoreda that you two have translated together. What drew you both to Rodoreda’s work in general and Garden by the Sea specifically?

Martha Tennent (MT): This is indeed the second Rodoreda novel we have translated together, since in 2015, Open Letter published our translation of her novel War, So Much War. I have always been an admirer of Rodoreda’s work, and for many years my apartment in Barcelona was just a couple of blocks from where she was born and grew up, in the Sant Gervasi neighborhood that figures in many of her short stories and in Garden by the Sea.

I started publishing translations of a few of her short stories, and that led, in 2009, to my translating her Death in Spring for Open Letter. At that time, I would say almost no one in the United States had heard of Mercè Rodoreda. Death in Spring is such a brutal, haunting book, but at the same time it is lyrical and painfully beautiful. Neither I nor Open Letter expected the book and the author to gain the following they have. It’s been amazing. Then I received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to translate her stories, also with Open Letter. And then came the two commissions to translate jointly her War, So Much War, and now Garden by the Sea. No one has done more to promote the work of this exceptional writer than Open Letter.

Maruxa Relaño (MR): The chance to translate Rodoreda was a treat to say the least. Garden by the Sea is my favorite of her novels. I like the unhurried melancholy that imbues the writing; you can open the book wherever you choose and find yourself in a Mediterranean villa in the middle of one “long hot summer,” with its occupants wandering about aimlessly, sunning themselves and squabbling on the veranda, a life of perpetual waiting, where as you mention, nothing seems to happen and much goes unsaid. We were especially drawn to Garden by the Sea for the vision of behind-the-scenes domesticity provided by the quiet, observant gardener, and the slowly developing unease and intrigue as the protagonists move gently toward catastrophe. In my opinion, it’s the perfect novel for a digital detox . . . or a quarantine. READ MORE…

A Titan of Brazilian Literature: John Milton on José Bento Monteiro Lobato

March 18, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Shelly Bhoil

Lobato’s adaptations of Peter Pan and Don Quixote have become more so the works of Lobato than those of Barrie and Cervantes.

José Bento Monteiro Lobato (1882-1948) is one of Brazil’s most influential writers, a prolific translator, and the founder of Brazil’s first major publishing house. His lifelike characters have become an integral part of the Brazilian society, so much so that restaurants, coffee shops, wheat flour, or readymade cake packs in Brazil are named after Dona Benta, an elderly farm owner in Lobato’s fictional works. Despite the largeness of his influence and the progressive ideas he sought to bring in Brazil through his literary endeavors, however, Lobato has been posthumously accused of racism in his literary portrayal of black people. His work, Caçadas de Pedrinho, has especially come under scrutiny for calling Aunt Nastácia as a “coal-coloured monkey,” and he continually makes reference to her “thick lips.”

Professor John Milton’s recently launched book Um país se faz com traduções e tradutores: a importância da tradução e da adaptação na obra de Monteiro Lobato [A Country Made with Translations and Translators: The Importance of Translation and Adaptation in the Works of Monteiro Lobato] (2019) examines how Dona Benta’s character is instrumentalized by Lobato in his stories to express his criticism of the Catholic Church, the Spanish and Portuguese colonization of Latin America, and the dictatorship of Getúlio Vargas, among other socio-political practices of the times. In the following interview, Professor John Milton speaks about Lobato, a household name of Brazil, stemming from his long-term research on the author’s life and works.

Shelly Bhoil (SB): Monteiro Lobato’s famously said, “um país se faz com homens e livros” (a country is made with men and books). Tell us about Brazil’s first important publishing house, which was found by Lobato, and how it mobilized readership in Brazil? 

John Milton (JM): Lobato’s first publishing company was Monteiro Lobato & Cia., which he started in 1918, but it went bust from over-investment and economic problems in 1925. Then, together with partner Octalles Ferreira, he founded Companhia Editora Nacional. Both companies reached a huge public. Urupês (1918), stories about rural life in the backlands of the state of São Paulo, was enormously popular, and within two years went into six editions. Lobato quickly became the best-known contemporary author in Brazil. Dissatisfied with available works in Portuguese to read to his four children, he began writing works for children. In A Menina do Narizinho Arrebitado [The Girl with the Turned-up Nose] (1921), Lobato introduced his cast of children and dolls at the Sítio do Picapau Amarelo [Yellow Woodpecker Farm]. The first edition of Narizinho sold over fifty thousand copies, thirty thousand of which were distributed to schools in the state of São Paulo. By 1920, more than half of all the literary works published in Brazil were done so by Monteiro Lobato & Cia. And as late as 1941, a quarter of all books published in Brazil were produced by Companhia Editora Nacional. 

READ MORE…

Beautiful Passages: An Interview with Booker-Longlisted Translator Michele Hutchison

March 11, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Sarah Timmer Harvey

The thing I get complimented on the most is the rhythm and flow of my translations, never their accuracy!

Michele Hutchison recently quipped on Twitter that she posts annual reminders on social media about the correct spelling of her name because “no one ever gets it right.” Yet, for the talented Dutch to English translator, 2020 is already shaping up to be the year that this all changes. In recent weeks, Hutchison was awarded the prestigious Vondel Prize for her “sure-footed, propulsive” translation of Sander Kollaard’s Stage Four, and her translation of Marieke Lucas Rijneveld’s explosive debut novel, The Discomfort of Evening, was longlisted for the 2020 International Booker Prize. Amsterdam-based Hutchison has translated over thirty-five books, co-written a book on the benefits of Dutch-style parenting, and is an active and generous member of the European literary translation community. Several years ago, Michele also read and thoughtfully critiqued my own translations of Marieke Lucas Rijneveld’s poetry. Following the announcement of the International Booker longlist, I was eager to reignite our conversation on Rijneveld’s work, and learn more about her prize-winning translation of Kollaard’s extraordinary novel.

—Sarah Timmer Harvey, March 2020

Sarah Timmer Harvey (STH): Congratulations on winning the Vondel Prize for your translation of Stage Four. What does winning the prize mean to you?

Michele Hutchison (MH): Thanks! If you look at the translators who have won in the past, it sets me in very good company and it’s a great honour. I found it very hard to believe I’d actually won the prize because I’ve always felt insecure about my translations, and I fixate on the flaws; it’s impossible to get everything right. But I suppose every translator struggles with producing an imperfect product. Mind you, I’ve noticed that the leading male translators in my field have less trouble with that, and feel they deserve prizes for all their hard work, so perhaps it’s a female thing?

I co-wrote a non-fiction book (The Happiest Kids in the World) and I actually found that less stressful. I was able to let go of some of my perfectionism because I wasn’t about to mess up someone else’s book like with a translation. What I also think about prizes is that the choice of the winner depends on the mood of the jury on the day. It’s not like the best book always wins, or that there is even objectively a “best” book or translation. To be honest, my money was on the runner-up, David Doherty. I guess my writerly touch was probably what clinched it in the end, if anything! READ MORE…

Staging Translation: An Interview with Larissa Kyzer

March 5, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Sarah Timmer Harvey

When you translate someone whose work and style really meshes with your own sensibilities, it’s this all-enveloping blanket . . .

Larissa Kyzer is a translator’s translator, which is to say that in addition to her award-winning work as an Icelandic to English literary translator, Kyzer has firmly immersed herself in the international translation community, and is dedicated to creating space within the industry to “actively invite more people, more voices in.” As co-chair of the PEN Translation Committee, in 2019, Kyzer launched the Jill! reading series, a bi-monthly event highlighting the work of women and non-binary translators and authors. Following Larissa’s recent stint as Translator-in-Residence at Princeton University, we corresponded about the origins of Jill!, translator visibility, sneaking Icelandic words into English texts, and why translating Kristín Eiríksdóttir’s outstanding novel, A Fist or a Heart, felt like a “gift.”

—Sarah Timmer Harvey, January 2020

Sarah Timmer Harvey (STH): Your translation of Kristín Eiríksdóttir’s novel, A Fist or a Heart, was awarded the American-Scandinavian Foundation’s Nadia Christensen Translation Prize in 2019, and was included in Library Journal’s Best Books of 2019. What drew you to Kristín’s writing?

Larissa Kyzer (LK): Although I’d long been a fan of Kristín’s work, getting the opportunity to translate it feels more like kismet. I’d read her first novel, Hvítfeld (White Fur) as a student at the University of Iceland—it’s still one of my favorite Icelandic books—and I also loved her collection Doris deyr (Doris Dies) so much that early on in my translation studies, I attempted to translate her short story “Evelyn Hates Her Name” just for the fun of it. At the time, however, that was still beyond my capabilities. For one, my language skills weren’t up to snuff yet, but more than that, I also just really had no idea how to even get started translating something in earnest.

Fast forward a few years to when I was finally starting to get my professional feet under me and was asked by the Icelandic publisher Forlagið to translate a sample of A Fist or a Heart for the upcoming Frankfurter Buchmesse. The sample really caught people’s attention, and I was lucky that Gabriella Page-Fort at AmazonCrossing was willing to take the leap and allow me, still an emerging translator, to translate the whole book. Since then, I’ve translated a couple of Kristín’s poems, as well as two short stories—including, I’m proud to say, that same short story that not so long ago felt like a nearly impossible challenge! READ MORE…

“Ch’ayonel almost means boxer, in Kaqchikel”: Translating Eduardo Halfon Into a Mayan Language

February 24, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by José García Escobar

Eduardo’s people and my people, Jews and Mayas, have been historically persecuted. . . So, it wasn’t that hard to get all the nuances of his story.

The work of Eduardo Halfon has been translated into English, French, Italian, Dutch, German, and many other languages. However, this year, thanks to the work of educator and translator Raxche’ Rodríguez, his most celebrated short story, and the one from which his entire bibliography sprouts out, El boxeador polaco (The Polish Boxer) has found its way to Maya readers. Entitled Ri Aj Polo’n Ch’ayonel, Halfon’s semi-autobiographical story about a grandfather telling his grandson about the origin of the fading tattoo on his arm was published in August by Editorial Maya’ Wuj.

The result is a tiny yet gorgeous pocket version, which includes Eduardo’s original story in Spanish and Raxche’’s translation into Kaqchikel—one of the twenty-two Mayan languages recognized as official languages. With a limited run of five hundred copies, Ri Aj Polo’n Ch’ayonel is a little gem that’s now part of the impressive body of work of Eduardo Halfon, recently shortlisted for the prestigious Neustadt Prize.

I got together with Raxche’ in late November. He said he was in a hurry—his bookstore and printing and publishing house Maya’ Wuj was working double-time to finish the books commissioned for 2020’s first trimester. But after realizing the grinding of all the machines inside would keep us from hearing each other, he suggested doing the interview somewhere else.

We went out, walked past a mortuary, a park, a couple of bakeries, the national conservatoire, and found our way inside a gloomy restaurant playing jazz.

“Just so you know, I thought it’d be easy,” Raxche’ said, holding his head. “The translation; I thought it’d be easy. It was everything but,” he said, and he chuckled.

“How did this book come to be?” I said, as a waitress, as swift as a bird, laid two glasses of rosa de Jamaica on our table.

“FILGUA,” Raxche’ said. “FILGUA and Humberto Ak’abal.” READ MORE…

Life in Print: Michael Hofmann on Translating Peter Stamm

February 20, 2020  |  in Book Club, Interviews  |  by Lindsay Semel

Translation in my experience effaces itself as you do it. There’s no such thing as translation-memory or any abiding feeling of translation-pain.

In a tumultuous January, Asymptote Book Club sent to subscribers a remarkable novel that is as compelling as it is disorienting: The Sweet Indifference of the World, written by esteemed Swiss author Peter Stamm and translated by Michael Hofmann, an accomplished poet with the penchant for “avoiding the obvious.” Instilled, as the best fictions are, with the tantalizingly elusive and the startlingly clear, the prose takes unorthodox turns to investigate a love lost and a life lived. Though we now have tools to navigate nearly every physical terrain, literature is still our main method for traversing the topography of psychological human experience. To grant us an insight on this unique work, Michael Hofmann talks with assistant editor Lindsay Semel about failures, freedoms, and the the survival of simplicity through translation.

The Asymptote Book Club is our gift to readers in the US, the UK, and the EU. Bringing the most notable titles in translated literature for as little as USD15 per book, you can sign up to receive next month’s selection on our website; once you’re a member, you can join the online discussion on our Facebook page.

Lindsay Semel (LS): So far, you are Peter Stamm’s only voice in English, and you’ve ironically referred to him as your “living author.” How does his writing converse with some of the other work you’ve translated? Do you find any interesting points of contact, clash, or cohesion?

Michael Hofmann (MH): Peter’s writing is so pure and clean. There’s nowhere to hide in it. Most of the things I’m associated with (or that I write myself) are much murkier and endlessly more elaborate. In some ways, we’re not a natural pairing at all. For someone like me who spends much of his time shuffling subordinate clauses or thinking of the ideal way to modify adverbs (with another adverb), it’s a purge and a cure. The contact, I suppose, is that to some extent he comes out of the Anglo-Saxon tradition (Hemingway, Carver, etc. etc.—though he has many more writers behind him), and I’m trying to return him to it in the most graceful and fitting way I can. In a way, it doesn’t feel like translating at all—it’s more like making a forgery. Trying to pass off something English-inspired as English!

READ MORE…

The Necessity of Translating Women: Monica Manolachi Interviewing Helen Vassallo and Olga Castro

February 12, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Monica Manolachi

If women are left out of culture, then the very notion of culture is itself impoverished.

When participants registered for the inaugural Translating Women Conference (October 31–November 1, 2019) at the Institute for Modern Languages Research in London, UK, they probably did not yet know that October 31 would become “Brexit Day.” Fortunately, Brexit was postponed, and when some of the delegates arrived in London, they saw a sign in front of a restaurant: “The year is 2192. The British Prime Minister visits Brussels to ask for an extension on Brexit. No one remembers where this tradition came from, but it attracts many tourists every year.” Over two days, a potentially isolationist “historical day” gave way to a fruitful international dialogue focused on translation and women writers from many parts of the world, forging connections and understanding in a time of division and uncertainty.

In the following conversation, Monica Manolachi, Helen Vassallo, and Olga Castro—co-organisers of the Translating Women Conference—speak about the meaning of the hashtag #BeMoreOlga, the many conference highlights, reading books in translation, and explain why feminism and translation are connected movements that have the potential to fully open up the Anglosphere to world literature.

Monica Manolachi (MM): Helen Vassallo and Olga Castro, you co-hosted the first Translating Women Conference at London’s Institute of Modern Languages Research on October 31 and November 1, 2019. On this occasion, participants received pins with the hashtag #BeMoreOlga. What issues does this hashtag address?

Helen Vassallo (HV): This stemmed from an opinion piece I wrote after the Nobel Prize in Literature awarded the delayed 2018 prize to Olga Tokarczuk and the 2019 prize to Peter Handke. Apart from the controversy in awarding the prize to Handke (a decision I found ill-judged, to say the least), I was incensed by the way in which the chair of the prize committee casually and erroneously justified the paucity of women laureates in the prize’s history by saying that “now” there are many great women writers. This only compounds the problem of women’s invisibility: suggesting that women hadn’t featured significantly because they weren’t there or weren’t “great” assumes that awards are based only on merit and not on visibility. I took issue with both the androcentric and the Eurocentric approach to choosing winners: I agree that Tokarczuk was a great choice, but the committee had previously stated that they were looking further afield than Europe, and then both prizes went to Europeans. It’s almost like saying: “well we looked, but there wasn’t anything good enough,” which is exactly what I mean about the myth of meritocracy. There wasn’t any real, demonstrable evidence that the prize committee had scrutinised its own policies, just empty rhetoric. And it was ironic that they commended Tokarczuk’s work for “crossing boundaries as a form of life”; I thought that they could take heed of that for calling into question their own criteria and approach—hence my suggestion that they “Be More Olga.” That was the specific context, but generally, “Be More Olga” stands as a call to action for all of us to be more open, to challenge borders and boundaries—whether literal or figurative—and to claim our place in a connected world. And to cap it all, Olga Tokarczuk herself was wearing one of our #BeMoreOlga badges at the Nobel Prize ceremony in December; I never dreamed that would happen! Tokarczuk’s Nobel lecture offers profound reflections on crossing borders, remaking our broken world, and challenging isolationism; it’s translated into English by Antonia Lloyd-Jones and Jennifer Croft, and expresses far more articulately than I could exactly what “Be More Olga” means. READ MORE…

Other Worlds: Engaging Rajko Grlić (Part I)

February 5, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Ellen Elias-Bursac

I was on a blacklist of cultural enemies said to be destabilizing the state through their work . . . but this was something survivable.

This week, the Asymptote blog is excited to share a special two-part engagement with Croatian filmmaker Rajko Grlić. Today in Part I, we bring you an interview between Grlić and Ellen Elias-Bursać, who, in addition to being an Asymptote contributing editor, is also the editor of the first English translation of Grlić’s memoirs.

Don’t forget to check back for Part II tomorrow, when Asymptote will have an exclusive excerpt from Rajko Grlić’s memoir!

Croatian filmmaker Rajko Grlić organizes the material of his memoir, Long Story Short, like a lexicon of filmmaking terminology. Under each heading and definition, he includes a story from his life: his filmmaking; his struggles against nationalism in Croatia during the war of the 1990s; and his years of teaching at NYU, UCLA, and Ohio University. Grlić was known as one of the leading Yugoslav filmmakers in 1980s Croatia, celebrated for such box-office successes as You Love Only Once (1981); In the Jaws of Life (1984), which was based on a Dubravka Ugrešić novel; and That Summer of White Roses (1989). He left Croatia in the 1990s during its war for independence and has since gone on to make several more notable films, including The Border Post (2006) and The Constitution (2016). He collected stories during his many years of making movies and moving through the world, aware that he’d never have the opportunity to make every story he had to tell into a film, but refusing to lose them to oblivion.

Grlić’s memoir was translated by Vesna Radovanović and edited by Ellen Elias-Bursać, who spoke recently to Grlić about the life that led to Long Story Short. In the excerpt, “Festival Selector,” which will be published tomorrow as Part II of this series, Grlić tells of his decades-long friendship with Honorio Rancaño, the selector for movies shown at Mostra, a film festival that was held for many years in Valencia, Spain.

Ellen Elias-Bursać (EEB): In this entry from your memoir, you describe your involvement as a filmmaker in film festivals in Cannes (where the story begins), Spain (Mostra), Japan (Tokyo), Croatia (Pula), and your friendship with Honorio Rancaño, who was born in Spain but went on to live in Russia, Czechoslovakia, Cuba, France, and, ultimately, Spain. What does “place” as such mean to you now? Where have you situated your movies, both in terms of storyline and the locations where they were filmed?

Rajko Grlić (RG): The story about Honorio is a tale of a different world, a world now long gone. About a man who was born in a utopian age, who, after those hopes were shattered, spent his life seeking for something new to hope for. Like any search, his tangled path through space and time touched many places and continents. This is one of the reasons why I believed that his life story, so scattered in bits and pieces all over the world, needed to be told. READ MORE…

Fiction as Seduction: An Interview with Anne Serre

January 29, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Tristan Foster

A writer’s only responsibility is to seduce without cheating.

Anne Serre has been published steadily in her native France since the release of her debut novel, Les Gouvernantes, in 1992, but it wasn’t until October 2018, when New Directions published it as The Governesses, translated by Mark Hutchinson, that her writing was made available to an English-speaking audience. The Governesses was followed by The Fool in October 2019, a collection of three unlinked but thematically cohesive novellas. Serre’s two books tell enchanting and surprising stories, both delightful in style and shocking in their disregard for moral norms. At their heart is the subject of the fulfillment of desire—desires which range from living absolutely for the story to the taboo of incest; this jarring mix of charm and discomfort makes for a unique and surprising reading experience. Here, in a rare English-language interview, Serre speaks about her work in translation, her “infinite conversation” with longtime friend and translator, Mark Hutchison, and unravels some of the mystery surrounding her untranslated work.

—Tristan Foster

Tristan Foster (TF): In your essay published in Granta, entitled “How I Write My Books,” you state that you begin with a sentence, that this is the gate through which the rest of the story enters—this sentence and those which follow are the product of your reading and your thinking and living life. You write: “It requires on my part months of silence and solitude, a form of inner tranquillity, and close attention to what is taking shape inside me.” You frame this as something less serendipitous than it is magical, using the language of the occult—mystery, trickery, secret ceremonies—to describe it. How important is the magical for you, both in your writing and how you think of it? 

Anne Serre (AS): I don’t believe in magic, neither in life nor in writing! When I try to describe how I write, I’m describing a mental process in which memory and imagination meet like two rivers that suddenly flow together. It’s a bit of a mystery because, for me, this only ever happens in writing. You might compare it to a child at play. When a child pretends to be a character and invents a situation, he is both himself and the invented character.  

TF: It was also a delight for me to read, in that same piece, your view that the writing is a patchwork—of memories, your previous work, and the imagination, but one which “appears to be cut from the same cloth, and a cloth that is new and without a snag.” I say that because the story told in The Governesses seems to me to contain a perfect world of its own, one that is recognisable from fairy tales encountered as a child as well as, perhaps, Emma and Jane Eyre and Vanity Fair, an ecosystem in total balance, so much so it might pop if poked with a stick. The Governesses was your first book, originally published in 1992; why has building this kind of world been so important to you from the outset? 

AS: I used to say that I came to literature through “the door of enchantment” because it was the only door open to me. I tried to find other doors but I couldn’t. Sometimes I think that 99% of my early material was made up of my reading and my daydreams about my reading. I was full of fiction. Maybe a little too much to make do with just living. READ MORE…

Brusque Lyricism: Liesl Schillinger on Translating Inès Cagnati

January 23, 2020  |  in Book Club, Interviews  |  by Andreea Scridon

Cagnati’s images . . . her intentionally repetitive reflections and refrains, have a force and strength that are magnified by their rough grain.

Inès Cagnati’s award-winning Free Day is a potent and imagistic work that speaks powerfully on isolation, self-actualization, and freedom through the interior monologue of a young girl—we at Asymptote were incredibly proud to present it as our December 2019 Book Club selection. During a time in which much about our ideas of self is under scrutiny, Free Day is a fearless psychological exploration. In the following interview, Assistant Editor Andreea Scridon speaks to translator Liesl Schillinger on bringing Cagnati’s distinct roughness and rhythm into English, neologisms, and her “reservoir of lived memory”.

The Asymptote Book Club aspires to bring the best in translated fiction every month to readers in the US, the UK, and the EU. You can sign up to receive next month’s selection on our website for as little as USD15 per book; once you’re a member, you can join the online discussion on our Facebook page!

Andreea Scridon (AS): Inès Cagnati is not a name that has been frequently circulated in the Anglophone sphere up until now. Could you tell us what drew you to her as a writer, and why you thought her work would appeal to English-speaking readers?

Liesl Schillinger (LS): It was my editor at NYRB who brought Inès Cagnati to my attention; like you, I hadn’t known of her before. But as soon as I started reading Free Day, I became aware of her strong, glowing (sometimes searing) individual voice. Her writing struck me as brusque, incantatory, and strangely lyrical in places. Entirely original. Originality always compels me; and not only was her voice original, so was her subject. The experience of Italian immigrants in southern France during the postwar period was entirely new to me. In the past, I’d thought about immigration mostly in terms of how the country that received the newcomers treated them; I’d given less thought to how they treated each other. This book opened my eyes. Cagnati continually expressed emotionally gripping truths that disturbed and moved my heart and conscience. I read another of her books, Génie la Folle (Genius the Fool⁠—“Genius” was the nickname of the narrator’s unfortunate mother) and found it more haunting still. Wanting to know more about Cagnati, I went online, and was surprised to discover next to no biographical information, but I learned that every one of the books she wrote won a French literary prize. I felt it was time to shine a light on this forgotten writer and her experience—particularly at a moment when we, as Americans, ought to be reflecting on the refugee crisis at our southern border, and thinking about the men, women, and children who are suffering there. READ MORE…

Visual Noise: Alejandro Adams on Screen Languages

January 8, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Rachel Allen

My films and fiction writing come out of notes and ideas that are rooted in this raucous inner life, this biological story urge.

Alejandro Adams is a writer and filmmaker whose pictures include Canary (2009) and Babnik (2010), both about the buying and selling of body parts. (The latter involves sex-trafficking, the former organ-harvesting.) He is also the director of Around the Bay (2008) and Amity (2012).

Though Adams is an Anglophone filmmaker—most readily understood by his audiences in terms of a broadly New World sensibility—it does not follow that his films are Anglophone or monolingual: they comprise substantial Russian, German, and Vietnamese in addition to their English. Of interest to the Asymptote reader in Adams’ work are the complex translation dynamics involved in their trans-linguistic performance and production; Adams writes in English for multilingual casts and asks them to reproduce iterations or facsimiles of certain script segments in their respective languages. Then, returning the recorded dialogue to English in post-production, Adams subtitles with at least as much attention to his cinematic vision as to denotative content. (He discusses this process in more detail in an interview with Vadim Rizov, explaining, “We agreed from the beginning that I’d subtitle it however I wanted—the whole thing is fiction, why should I have any fidelity to translating dialogue?”) I originally recruited Adams for a conversation about the forms and functions of this multilingualism in his pictures, but when we actually spoke, the conversation expanded to include a broader range of visual and sonic signification in narrative cinema.

Rachel Allen (RA): I thought we could start by talking about your second feature, Canary, which features long passages of untranslated (unsubtitled) Russian, Vietnamese, and German. There are also these long, garrulous scenes—I’m thinking of the workplaces especially—of undifferentiated dialogue. The parallel I see between those two kinds of scenes is in their seeming disregard, at least from a narrative or expositional perspective, for the semantic content of language, suggesting that the narratively relevant stuff isn’t in individual propositions. But the dialogue in those scenes is also so specific to its context, and to the individual characters within them, which suggests to me that someone is attending very carefully to the language, even at the level of individual words. I wondered if you see or feel that tension in Canary, between attention to and disregard for language. Or words, maybe: is this a film that sees distinctions between “words” and “language” and “communication”? Does Canary distrust words? (Do you?)

Alejandro Adams (AA): You’re asking if I believe in language, or words, and I’m reminded of another interview I did where the first question was “Do you believe in morality?” It was about one of my other films, but the idea that I don’t put stock in some fundamentally human aspect of existence is troubling. These questions stop you in your tracks, but they also demonstrate that these films are made by someone who obviously can’t handle water cooler talk so let’s go for the throat, no appetizer.

About words themselves and the way words are used to create a texture in the film, the hyper-specific dialogue is extremely scripted—even the overlaps, like the litany of things one can do with a partial organ. Other material is entirely improvised but orchestrated down to how many times an actor touches a child’s toy or picks up a phone. So it would seem that I have all this vision around the sonic impact of human speech, trying to make an office lobby feel as chaotic as the beachhead in Saving Private Ryan, but what I really wanted was silence.

READ MORE…

Mother-Daughter Collaboration: An Interview with Jean Paira-Pemberton and Catherine Piron-Paira

January 3, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Lou Sarabadzic

This was what we could share together at this time in her life; I think it added much tenderness between us.

I met Catherine Piron-Paira last June in Paris at the annual poetry market, and at the time was already aware of Éditions des Lisières, a remarkable independent press committed to translation and multilingualism. I had recently read their latest bilingual English-French release, Seeds in My Ground/Ma terre ensemencée by Jean Paira-Pemberton, and discovered that the translator (or co-translator), Catherine Piron-Paira, was the author’s daughter. Many poems were substantially re-written in their French translation, suggesting a very creative working relationship. The press’ website says the text is “adapted” rather than merely translated, and the book itself indicates that the French version was developed “in collaboration” between Jean and Catherine. A few months later, all three of us scheduled a video chat. Jean and Catherine were then sent the condensed and edited transcript of this interview for approval and final edits, and it is now our great pleasure to bring it to Asymptote’s readers.

Lou Sarabadzic (LS): In the foreword, Catherine, you explain that your mother, Jean Paira-Pemberton, “is a nomad between two languages, two cultures, two countries.” Could you tell us a bit more?

Catherine Piron-Paira (CPP): Mum settled in France in 1952, but she continued going to England for reasons of both business and pleasure. She also went from Strasbourg to Saverne every day for work. There was a place where we went for holidays: Chapeau Cornu, near Lyon. We used to go from Strasbourg to Lyon, from Lyon to Strasbourg. As for “nomad,” how do you feel about that?

Jean Paira-Pemberton (JPP): Well, I have a relationship now with French, which is almost like the relationship with a mother tongue. I think I am completely bilingual. I can use both languages for practically everything, except poetry. Poetry is only in English.

LS: Why do you think that is?

JPP: Because English is my mother tongue, and I have wanted to be a poet ever since I learnt how to write, so it goes back to way before I learnt French. I started to learn French in secondary school, when I was eleven. It is very much a second language. I have never written poetry in French. I have written lots of other texts in French, of course, as part of my job; I was a university teacher, and I published articles and all sorts of things on linguistics in French–my thesis about John Clare’s life was in French. But not poetry. READ MORE…

Translating a Fundamental Spiritual Text: An Interview with Dr. Karl Brunnhölzl

January 2, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Chime Lama

I see no contradiction between the rigorous academic approach and the more intuitive and experiential approach of the Tibetan tradition.

The 2019 Khyentse Foundation Prize for Outstanding Translation was awarded to Dr. Karl Brunnhölzl for A Compendium of the Mahāyāna: Asaṅga’s Mahāyānasaṃgraha and Its Indian and Tibetan Commentaries (Shambhala Publications, 2018), a monumental three-volume work and the first complete English translation of the fourth century C.E. text. Originally written by a philosopher and spiritual teacher, it presents an extensive overview of the Yogācāra School of Mahāyāna Buddhism, which explores the nature of consciousness, existence, and spiritual practice.

Upon accepting the Khyentse Foundation Translation Prize, Dr. Brunnhölzl said, “I feel very honored and privileged to receive this award—more importantly though, the prize highlights the major significance of the entire Yogācāra tradition in general, as well as Asanga’s Mahāyānasaṃgraha, and specifically its commentarial tradition as being a major Indian Buddhist system of thought and practice that has been vastly influential over many hundreds of years in numerous countries. It is my wish that these volumes may be a small contribution toward Yogācāra receiving the attention and appreciation in the English-speaking world that it deserves.” 

In light of the new wealth of knowledge that Dr. Brunnhölzl has made accessible to English readers, and with the wish that it reaches knowledge-seekers new and old, I gladly share this most timely and opportune correspondence.  

Chime Lama (CL): Dr. Brunnhölzl, given that you were trained as a medical doctor, what made you shift your career path in favor of religious studies?

Karl Brunnhölzl (KB): Many people ask me that question, mostly because they find it strange to give up the well-respected, well-paid, and (mostly) beneficial profession of a physician in order to pursue something more “ethereal.” I became a Buddhist during my medical studies in 1983, and was even considering quitting to become a Buddhist translator, feeling that this was my true calling. However, my teacher gave me the good advice to finish medical school and study Buddhism afterwards, while having a solid financial footing. And so I did that for twenty years: working half the year as a doctor (in others’ clinics) and going to Nepal and India in pursuit of Buddhism for the other half. That proved to be a viable way of pursuing my religious studies, rather than having to quit due to lack of funding, like many others I know have had to do. READ MORE…

Translating Grief and Silence: Denise Newman on the Work of Naja Marie Aidt

December 18, 2019  |  in Interviews  |  by Nataliya Deleva

Translation is for me both stripping down and holding open to possibility.

Denise Newman is a poet and translator based in San Francisco. She has published four collections of poetry, and translated two novels by Inger Christensen from the Danish—The Painted Room and Azorno—as well as the short story collection, Baboon, by Naja Marie Aidt, which won the 2015 PEN Translation Prize, and most recently, Aidt’s memoir, When Death Takes Something From You Give It Back: Carl’s Book. The memoir, a semi-finalist for the National Book Awards and a finalist for the 2019 Kirkus Prize, is saturated with the trauma experienced by a mother grieving her son. Nataliya Deleva recently spoke with Newman about her approach to translating this deeply personal narrative across various cultural contexts, her proximity to the text and its author, and the role of rhythm in conveying silence on the page. 

Nataliya Deleva (ND): Translating is often co-creating, as it is not only the words and sentences of a text being translated, but also their meaning in a different cultural context. How did you find this process, considering this book is so painfully personal? Is grief universal?

Denise Newman (DN): Yes, the translation process touches on the mystery of language. I’ve often marveled at how translations of Bashō’s haikus seem to connect me directly to the moment of his observation. It doesn’t matter that the poem has traveled centuries, oceans, and languages. Maybe this is mostly possible when something is experienced and communicated directly, without any interference—then the original energy, which is outside the conditions of ordinary time and space, stays vital. I think this is what makes translating compelling; you have to go so deeply into a text that you depart from linear time and space. Working on Aidt’s book was hard, though, because of my own interference. She’s my friend, and my sorrow and concern for her sometimes got in the way, particularly while working on the passages that describe the last hours of Carl’s life. Her writing in this part is so direct, I felt as though I were actually present in the nightmare, and often needed to take breaks to clear my head. To get back to your question, I think all emotions are universal; we sense this when they are expressed directly, without any interference, as Aidt is able to do. Translating requires the ability to access those original emotions; they are what electrifies the language.

READ MORE…