Reading is integral to the life of a college student. Regardless of your major or discipline, I’m willing to bet that by virtue of studying at a liberal arts college, you’ve spent hours skimming, underlining, circling and taking notes.
More often than you’d think, the texts we read weren’t written for English-speaking audiences. In a philosophy class, you might be reading Socrates or Lao Tzu; in literature, maybe Tolstoy or Flaubert. Flipping through page after page, we rarely stop to consider what it really means to read a text that has been lifted from the page and made to fit the contours of a different language.
When I enrolled in “The Craft of Translation” last semester, I simply saw it as a chance to brush up on my Chinese reading skills. Although the course was housed within Pomona College’s Asian Languages and Literatures Department, my classmates worked on everything from Hindi epics to Japanese children’s books to Spanish poetry.
The only caveat? We had to choose texts that had never been translated into English.
For my semester-long translation project, I was drawn to a lesser-known novel by contemporary Chinese author Chen Xiwos. As one of China’s most prominent advocates for writers’ freedom of expression, Chen is a controversial figure and I was curious to see how this would figure in his writing.
Reading through the first chapter, I naively assumed translation would come easily. Before I even made it to the first sentence, I got stuck on what to do about the title: “移民” (Yímín). In Chinese, these characters encompass both the verb “to migrate,” and the noun “migrant.” There was no distinction between verb and noun, immigration and emigration; no space allotted for the complex sociopolitical connotations that these concepts hold in the English-speaking world.
What does it matter? A single phrase couldn’t possibly alter the meaning of the text. As I continued, however, I found that at every couple of words, I was presented with one choice after another.
Translation is a series of choices: One choice might not alter the course of a text but all together, they define it.
Last week, I was assigned one of the most famous texts in translation: the Bible. Skimming through Genesis, I came across the story of the Tower of Babel. Originally written in Biblical Hebrew, the tale describes how humans harness their common language to build a powerful tower; God, however, has other plans.
“Come, let us go down,” He says, “Confuse their language, scatter them across the face of the earth, so that they will not understand one another’s speech.”
There are two main ways to read the fragmentation of language in this fable: as a curse or as a gift. When you’re struggling to communicate in a new language or agonizing over the correct translation of a phrase, our lack of a common tongue feels like a curse.
Like many curses, however, it serves as a catalyst. Communicating ideas in a new language requires that as the words change, the text undergoes a metamorphosis. Despite what Google Translate might have you believe, it’s impossible to take anything – a phrase, a sentence, an idea – from one language and perfectly replicate it in another.
Giving up on the ruse of perfection, “Yi Min” becomes “immigrant,” or perhaps “migration,” and those subtle choices, stacked upon one another, constitute a meaningful departure from the original text. In other words, the creation of something new.
When you first begin learning a language, you are in a constant state of translation. I hear a phrase in Italian, unconsciously translate it into English, compose a response and then search for the right words to express my thoughts. As much as I’d love to follow my professors’ advice and “think” in Italian, I’m caught up in the idea of correctness which I’m convinced can only be achieved through a perfect translation.
“Because a perfect translation is impossible, it always betrays the original text and meaning. “
The phrase “Translation is an act of betrayal” stems from the Italian “traduttore, traditore,” a saying that rose to popularity at a time when Italians were angry that French translations of Dante’s work failed to capture the original’s beauty and accuracy.
Because a perfect translation is impossible, it always betrays the original text and meaning. However, many exophonic writers are excited by the tension of betrayal.
Not many people win a Pulitzer Prize then decide to abandon English and begin learning and writing exclusively in a new language. Reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s book about her journey, I was struck by the pride with which she stated that “my Italian will never be that of native speakers.”
Rather than let the gap between her Italian and a native speaker intimidate her, Lahiri decides that this space serves as an impetus for change. Sacrificing the ideal of perfect translation, she dives headfirst into Italian without English holding her back, harnessing this new form to re-discover herself as a writer.
My Chinese will never be identical to that of a native speaker, just as Chen Xiwo’s “移民” (Yímín) will never be identical to its English translation. Rather than be intimidated by the impossibility of perfection and “correctness” in translating between languages, I choose to see this in-between space as a gift — instead of betraying or losing meaning, we’re creating it.
Claire SC ’27 wants you to know that she has a pug, is addicted to Malott cold brew, and has a deep attachment to the Italian Department at Scripps College.
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