Shakespeare in Modern English?

THE Oregon Shakespeare Festival has decided that Shakespeare’s language is too difficult for today’s audiences to understand. It recently announced that over the next three years, it will commission 36 playwrights to translate all of Shakespeare’s plays into modern English.

Many in the theater community have known that this day was coming, though it doesn’t lessen the shock. The Oregon Shakespeare Festival has been one of the stars in the Shakespeare firmament since it was founded in 1935. While the festival’s organizers insist that they also remain committed to staging Shakespeare’s works in his own words, they have set a disturbing precedent. Other venues, including the Alabama Shakespeare Festival, the University of Utah and Orlando Shakespeare Theater, have already signed on to produce some of these translations.

However well intended, this experiment is likely to be a waste of money and talent, for it misdiagnoses the reason that Shakespeare’s plays can be hard for playgoers to follow. The problem is not the often knotty language; it’s that even the best directors and actors — British as well as American — too frequently offer up Shakespeare’s plays without themselves having a firm enough grasp of what his words mean.

Claims that Shakespeare’s language is unintelligible go back to his own day. His great rival, Ben Jonson, reportedly complained about “some bombast speeches of ‘Macbeth,’ which are not to be understood.” Jonson failed to see that Macbeth’s dense soliloquies were intentionally difficult; Shakespeare was capturing a feverish mind at work, tracing the turbulent arc of a character’s moral crisis. Even if audiences strain to understand exactly what Macbeth says, they grasp what Macbeth feels — but only if an actor knows what that character’s words mean.

Two years ago I witnessed a different kind of theatrical experiment, in which Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing,” in the original language, trimmed to 90 minutes, was performed before an audience largely unfamiliar with Shakespeare: inmates at Rikers Island. The performance was part of the Public Theater’s Mobile Shakespeare Unit initiative.

No inmates walked out on the performance, though they were free to do so. They were deeply engrossed, many at the edge of their seats, some crying out at various moments (much as Elizabethan audiences once did) and visibly moved by what they saw.

Did they understand every word? I doubt it. I’m not sure anybody other than Shakespeare, who invented quite a few words, ever has. But the inmates, like any other audience witnessing a good production, didn’t have to follow the play line for line, because the actors, and their director, knew what the words meant; they found in Shakespeare’s language the clues to the personalities of the characters.

I’ve had a chance to look over a prototype translation of “Timon of Athens” that the Oregon Shakespeare Festival has been sharing at workshops and readings for the past five years. While the work of an accomplished playwright, it is a hodgepodge, neither Elizabethan nor contemporary, and makes for dismal reading.

To understand Shakespeare’s characters, actors have long depended on the hints of meaning and shadings of emphasis that he embedded in his verse. They will search for them in vain in the translation: The music and rhythm of iambic pentameter are gone. Gone, too, are the shifts — which allow actors to register subtle changes in intimacy — between “you” and “thee.” Even classical allusions are scrapped.

Shakespeare’s use of resonance and ambiguity, defining features of his language, is also lost in translation. For example, in Shakespeare’s original, when the misanthropic Timon addresses a pair of prostitutes and rails about how money corrupts every aspect of social relations, he urges them to “plague all, / That your activity may defeat and quell / The source of all erection.” A primary meaning of “erection” for Elizabethans was social advancement or promotion; Timon hates social climbers. The wry sexual meaning of “erection,” also present here, was secondary. But the new translation ignores the social resonance, turning the line into a sordid joke: Timon now speaks of “the source of all erections.”

Shakespeare borrowed almost all his plots and wrote for a theater that required only a handful of props, no scenery and no artificial lighting. The only thing Shakespearean about his plays is the language. I’ll never understand why, when you attend a Shakespeare production these days, you find listed in the program a fight director, a dramaturge, a choreographer and lighting, set and scenery designers — but rarely an expert steeped in Shakespeare’s language and culture.

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http://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/07/opinion/shakespeare-in-modern-english.html?_r=1

James Shapiro, a professor of English at Columbia, is the author, most recently, of “The Year of Lear: Shakespeare in 1606.”

What makes a good literary translator?

Daniel Hahn, should a good translation faithfully capture the original text, or make something with a distinctive life of its own?

Unfortunately, both. Assuming the faithfulness you’re aiming for is fidelity to something more than just literal meaning, then any attempt at being faithful to the original piece of writing should entail making something that lives. It should have just the same pulse as the original did. Taking something living and fresh and transforming it into something dull and dead in another language doesn’t seem like genuine faithfulness to me.

Can a translation add something to the original?

Sure, in translation, everything changes. Every word or phrase; every syllable, for that matter, will be different from the original text. This means there will be additions, of course, but it will also draw attention to certain things in the original.

Every translation is an interpretative act, as well as a creative one. Translators read the original piece and try to work out what it’s doing, what’s important that’s going on. They are constantly making choices about which elements of a text to preserve and foreground, and which to sacrifice.

People talk about ‘loss’ in translation, which seems to me to be missing the point mostly, though one thing that does seem to me to be a particular, frequent loss is ambiguity. We have to take an original word with two or three possible simultaneous meanings and plump for an English word which only covers one or two of those — but there’s a gain that comes with that sharp focus, too.

García Márquez has been misquoted often as saying the translation of ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ was better than the original — I think he actually said it was more accurate than the original. That distinction, I believe, is very telling.

What linguistic qualities are the hardest to translate?

Oh, all of it. Translation is impossible! And I don’t just mean it’s really, really difficult, but really, it’s not actually possible. There’s not a single word in any of the languages I translate that can map perfectly onto a word in English. So it’s always interpretative, approximate, creative. Anything that is, itself, a ‘linguistic’ quality will by definition be anchored in a particular language — whether it’s idiom, ambiguity, or assonance. All languages are different. There are congruences between languages that are more closely related, of course, but those relationships are very much in the minority.

What are the particular virtues of teaching translation in a workshop with the author present?

I guess there are two things — the first is, simply, the insight the author can bring to the translators’ reading of the text, to their understanding of it and consequently to the translation decisions this understanding will inform. Then of course the very fact of having that conversation forces the translators themselves to articulate their own thinking, to formulate questions and suggestions. This is itself useful — just having to articulate an interpretative and creative process that normally happens (a) not necessarily consciously, and (b) between languages, not set clearly within an articulated language, is a valuable prompt to learning, even if the learning itself happens kind of without anyone noticing.

You’re renowned for moving slowly through a text and weighing up each individual word choice. What’s your record for focusing on a single word? And what are the advantages of working this way?

Yes, I’m quite proud of my ability to fail to make any progress at all. I’m not sure what the slowest has ever been, but I feel I’ve been set a challenge now so I’ll keep an eye on the clock from now on!

The advantages? Well, translation is two things: it’s very close and careful and thoughtful reading. Then, it’s precise and careful and thoughtful writing. Focusing on the detail makes you aware of this better than anything. If the writer has used word x, we need to know why that was the word he chose of all the options (what exactly does it mean, but also what’s it doing in the sentence, in the rhythm of the sentence and to the sound and register), and then we need to find a way of replicating that in English, again with the greatest precision possible.

The next sentence is an example of how a translator thinks when they work. Talking the questions through (or talking through the questions), and expressing/articulating the thought processes that go into them / make them up / determine them can be a significant asset (or just a big help? – note this register shift) in getting people to be sensitive and alert (do we need both of these? – shades of meaning overlapping?) to what the process entails, and thereby sharpen the way they then work on their own. (Maybe without that last comma? Or with? Or without?)

Is it a good time to be a literary translator?

I think it’s a really good time to be a literary translator into English, specially working in the UK or at least with UK publishers, but it varies. Some markets are more responsive to translation, some publishing worlds treat translators better than others, there are some places where there’s an excitement and a dynamism to the profession and to the whole sector that makes a huge difference (that’s the UK today, I think) — but yes, overall, it’s really good. More and more literature is travelling, which is great news for us, and of course for readers, too.

Fahmida Riaz, what are the particular joys and challenges of translating Urdu?

I have translated works of poetry and fiction from Persian, Sindhi, and English. Every piece you translate comes from the pen of an individual, so you have to give it an individual treatment. I try to retain the ambience of the original culture, rather than the language, as it is reflected in the text.

While translating the Nobel Prize-winning Egyptian author Nagib Mahfouz‘s ‘Afrah Ul Qubba’ into Urdu from an English translation of the text, I also kept the original Arabic novel before me. In Pakistan, we have an interesting and paradoxical relationship with Arabic. As children, we are all taught the Quran and can therefore more or less read Arabic. But we do not understand the language. Despite this, referring to the original Arabic text of Mahfouz’s book helped me learn how the characters addressed one another, and sometimes there was a word that could be used in Urdu and had the same meaning. I did not want these Egyptians to sound as if they are Karachites.

How is Urdu different from other languages spoken in Pakistan?

Urdu is certainly different from other Pakistani languages. It developed in the cities and towns and is an urban language that lends itself well to formal expressions, as it was born and bred in and around Delhi, which was the seat of power and culture in the subcontinent for hundreds of years. I guess that the difference could be compared to the ‘Queen’s English’ and other languages in the UK, such as Irish, Welsh and Scottish Gaelic.

How do you translate Urdu words which don’t have a direct translation into English, or perhaps concepts which are particularly deeply rooted in Pakistani culture?

Sometimes, one comes across almost untranslatable words, because of cultural differences. One such word in Urdu is ‘sharmana’. A example of this word in a sentence would be a situation in which a boy approaches a girl and the girl is ‘sharma gaiee’. This cannot be simply translated into English as ‘blushed’ or ‘felt shy’ or ‘was embarrassed’. Although some girls in the West may not react in this way, in our culture, a girl’s sharmana gives a positive signal to the boy. What could be considered coquettish in the West is practised as a very subtle and dignified female expression of interest in South Asia. It is important that this is a natural response, and not contrived. In such cases, the best bet for the translator would be to tell the reader what the female character is feeling and what is actually happening at that point.

Does the Urdu alphabet present any translation challenges?

Our vowels in Urdu are different from English vowels, and this can present problems when translating names or other original Urdu words, such as royal or military titles. The ‘a’ in English, for instance, is not the same as our ‘a’, which sometimes sounds like ‘aa’. Urdu has some phonemes, like the soft ‘d’, or ‘gh’, which is pronounced a bit like the ‘r’ that one hears in French, as in ‘Paris’, and others that are common only in Arabic and Turkish, such as the guttural ‘q’ sound which we try to render with an added ‘u’, as in the name ‘Quraishi’. Perhaps a somewhat modified French keyboard could be useful for situations where proper nouns or other original Urdu words have to be retained in the English translation.

Is translating poetry different from prose?

Translating poetry is a much bigger challenge. You are faced with the task of communicating the meaning as well as the beauty of expressions that Urdu readers understand effortlessly, because of the age-old connotations of the words. For instance, Urdu similes and metaphors may have Eastern philosophical or cultural concepts behind them. The literal translation of a verse of the poet Ghalibcould be: ‘Yes, O new moon, let us hear the name of that person. That you are greeting so humbly.’ But the reader in English has to be familiar with the difference between a salaam offered with a deep bow and an ordinary everyday greeting. He or she might also not know that our festivals revolve round the sighting of moon, according to the Islamic lunar calendar. And the reader might also be unfamiliar with the idea that a salaam is a salutation to something excellent, or a peerless person.

But it is still worth trying to convey these associations. What I would do in such a case is to study older poets of the English language and familiarise myself with their style and diction. This often helps. I have translated a lot of Sufi poetry lately and found that carefully studying the diction of John Donne and William Blake was inspiring for me. It allows you to get an idea of how a similar concept or feeling was expressed in the other language, even if it was a hundred years ago.

It’s not easy, but one has to keep trying. You need to bring yourself in complete agreement with the poet, to keep muttering their words in the other language. At the end of the day, translation is creative work and no one can be sure if it could not have been improved or done differently.

Could you give an example of literature in translation?

Here is my translation of the Nai Nama, ‘The Song Of the Reed’, the famous opening lines of Rumi’s Masnavi, his epic masterpiece. Most translators begin it with ‘Listen to the wailing …’. This, to me, sounds like a command, and wailing seems an absurd act. I think, maybe that this translation gets at what Mawlana Rumi meant:

The Song Of The Reed

Longingly sings the reed

Aching and pining

Listening to its call

Warm tears roll down your cheeks.

This is the song of helplessly desiring

What has been torn away from you

In every recital where the reed sings

We listen to it, holding our breath

Its notes exploring the depths of the heart

A long forgotten wound comes alive, disclosing

Your mystery, your secret that no friend ever fathomed

It was always within your easy access

Alas, your senses are not trained to find it.

Unveil your essence to your life-form, O man!

Alas this is not conventional in our world.

The song of the reed is not wind, it is fire

Giving you the warmth of existence

The reed holds your forlorn hand

When it gropes for the hand torn away from its grasp

Its notes tear apart your conceit,

Revealing you naked to your eyes.

Music wounds and heals, miraculously

Sharing every secret, it is the secret itself

It tells you the story of a blood-stained path

Disclosing the passion of Majnun to you

You are the reed, O man, having two mouths

One end is between the lips of God

So the second mouth sings to the world

And the planet resonates with His song

Yet only the knower knows the truth

It is briefly told here, goodbye!

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http://www.britishcouncil.org/blog/what-makes-good-literary-translator

Why don't French books sell abroad?

French authors routinely appear in the English-speaking world's lists of the best novels ever - Voltaire, Flaubert, and Proust… sometimes Dumas and Hugo too. But when it comes to post-war literature, it's a different story. Even voracious readers often struggle to name a single French author they have enjoyed.

France once had a great literary culture, and most French people would say it still does. But if so, how come their books don't sell in the English-speaking world?

Is that our fault or theirs?

And how come the French themselves read so many books that are translated from English and other languages?

These are provocative questions.

The French take huge pride in their literary tradition - it's been calculated that the country has a staggering 2,000 book prizes. And to accuse their modern-day writers of being elitist, insular or overly intellectual is to invite a torrent of outrage. But the fact remains. With the possible exception of Michel Houellebecq, what French novelist has made it into the Anglophone market?

Even the 2008 Nobel literature prize-winner Jean-Marie Le Clezio is virtually unknown in the English-speaking world.

And as for French habits, just look at the popular reads on the Paris metro. My admittedly unscientific survey on Line 1 from La Defense showed a clear four-to-one majority in favour of US and British novels.

For French novelists, the frustration is palpable.

"I am suffering, really suffering, because Anglo-Saxon agents are just ignoring the French book market," Christophe Ono-dit-Biot tells me.

Ono-dit-Biot has just won one of the country's top literary prizes - the Grand Prix du Roman de l'Académie Française ­­- for his novel Plonger (Diving). He now has five books to his name, but without a sniff from the UK or the US.

"Our problem is image. In the US we are famous for French deconstructionism and so on. They think we are too intellectual. They think we are fixated with theory, and that we can't tell stories - but we can!"

It is the same refrain from every author I speak to. All are well-known names in France - Marie Darrieussecq, Nelly Alard, Philippe Labro - but none has been published with any success in the UK or the US. Even Marc Levy, whose romantic adventures have sold more than 40 million copies around the world and whose first book If Only It Were True inspired the 2005 Hollywood movie Just Like Heaven, finds the attitude of UK and US publishers deeply irksome.

"The caricature of a British publisher is someone totally convinced that if a book is French then it cannot possibly work in the UK market," he says.

"I often joke that the only way to get published in Britain if you're French is to pretend you're Spanish. If you've been a best-seller in France, it's a sure-fire recipe for not getting a deal in the UK.

"As for US publishers, they're so convinced that with 350 million potential readers and a big stable of American writers, they've got everything covered - every genre, every style. So why bother?"

The costs and difficulty of literary translation are clearly part of the problem. So too is the fact that the Anglophone book market is thriving - so the demand for foreign works is limited.

Some French authors are critical of Anglo-Saxon "complacency".

"Here in France around 45 out of every 100 novels sold is a translation from a foreign language. With you it's something like three out of every hundred," says Darrieussecq, winner of this year's Medicis prize with Il Faut Beaucoup Aimer Les Hommes (You Need to Love Men a Lot)

"But what that shows is that we French are very curious about other people and cultures. You too - you should be curious. You should be more open," she says.

But might there not be another problem - that French books themselves are just not that appealing?

David Rey, who manages the Atout Livre bookshop in eastern Paris, provides an interesting insight.Unlike most of his peers he knows both the British and French book markets, having lived some years in London. His comparisons are not favourable to the French.

"The books on offer here are very different from in the UK. French books are precious, intellectual - elitist. And too often bookshops are intimidating. Ordinary people are scared of the whole book culture," he says.

The French have preserved a nationwide network of small bookshops, mainly as a result of a system of protection. Books cannot be sold at a discount, which means that "libraires" have kept a near monopoly.

A law passed earlier in the year that prevented online retailers from discounting books led to complaints from Amazon that it was being discriminated against. Meanwhile, the sale of e-books is a fraction of what it is in the US and UK.

But what Rey says about French bookshops is true - many are cramped and colourless. Many (like my local one in the 14th arrondissement) are also very obviously political - which is off-putting.

The books themselves are not made to look appealing. New novels have the same cream cover, with a standardised photo of the author. Design does not seem to be at a premium.

"Non-fiction books in France are very academic. They are just like university theses. We do not have your knack of popularisation," says Rey.

For the US author of romantic sagas Douglas Kennedy, who lives on-and-off in Paris and is enormously popular in France, French novel-writing has never recovered from the experimentation of the post-war era.

"The reason my books are popular in France is that I combine an accessible style with serious observations about what you might call 'the way we live now'. And there is clearly a huge demand here for what I do," he says.

"It's ironic because it was the French who invented the social novel in the 19th Century. But after World War Two, that tradition disappeared. Instead they developed the nouveau roman - the novel of ideas - which was quite deliberately difficult.

"And now while in the UK or the US it's quite normal to write about the 'state of America' or the 'state of Britain' - no-one is doing that here."

But French writers insist that the sins they are accused of - abstraction, lack of plot and character, a preference for text over story, contempt for the non-literary reader - are a cliche perpetuated by Anglo-Saxons with little knowledge of how things have changed in recent years.

"Personally I am fed up with all the stereotypes," says Darrieussecq. "We're not intellectual. We're not obsessed with words. We write detective stories. We write suspense. We write romance.

"And it's about time you started noticing."

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http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-25198154