Aha, said Professor Mietter. Ahem, that depends, asserted Herr Levin. Possibly, acknowledged Álvaro. I’m not sure, wavered Sophie. How confusing, sighed Frau Pietzine. Snuff, anyone? proposed Rudi. Goodness, it’s hot, commented Gottlieb.
Look, the professor said, clearing his throat, given your penchant for getting lost in metaphor, I shall try to be as clear as possible. Poetry is obviously a universal form of artistic expression. However, in each of its particular manifestations, poetry is a cultural, national art, and as such, by definition, impossible to translate. And shall I tell you why? Perhaps you are familiar with Hamann, who rightly emphasises the inseparability of language and thought. I do not think something abstract and then translate it into my own language. I think directly in that language, because of it, through it. This is why no thought is translatable, at most it is adaptable. Are you with me? Good. If this applies to all disciplines, imagine how extreme the problem becomes in poetry, which is the language of emotions. Bear in mind, since you brought up the emotions earlier, that it is far easier to think in a foreign language than to feel in it (that, said Álvaro raising his head, is very true), and from this one can deduce that any feeling expressed in another language cannot be the same feeling, not even a variant of it. At best it can be inspired by another feeling. Call this an exchange, an influence or what you will. But, I beg you, do not call it translation.
Very well, said Hans, finding himself in the awkward position of having to contest a solid argument, very well, Professor, let us go step by step. You maintain that to translate feeling is more difficult than to translate thought. I am not sure in what measure it is possible to conceive of an idea as being divorced from emotion, or emotion devoid of any ideas. This would be my first objection, that you seem to take for granted the existence of pure emotion as if it came from nowhere and were self-contained. In my humble understanding, emotions are not only generated by a specific language, they also arise from cultural exchanges, from prior exposure to other languages, from national and foreign connotations. This is the heterogeneous basis of our thoughts, feelings and writings. In order to avoid getting lost in metaphor and upsetting you, I shall try to give you a concrete example, Professor. Does Goethe feel in German on the one hand and on the other speak six languages? Or rather, as an individual who speaks and reads several different languages, does Goethe feel in a specific way that is peculiar to him and which in this case expresses itself in the German language? Isn’t his broad cultural knowledge a current that is channelled, translated into his mother tongue? And by the same token, are the translations of Goethe’s own poems into other languages not simply one more link in an infinite chain of interpretations? Who are we to decide which is the original, the first link? Furthermore, Professor, allow me to say that even if translation were an impossible dialogue, culturally speaking it would be the most necessary one. Renouncing this dialogue would lead to the worst form of nationalism, not to say to esotericism. After separating the poetry of each country, the next step would be to decide which came first and which was superior to the rest. And so this is not simply a question of grammar and philology but of principles.
Sophie clicked her tongue — her smooth, expressive, darting tongue. Herr Levin? she said, noticing him drumming his fingers on the table.
Indeed, ahem, said Herr Levin I would like, I mean, I think we have ignored an important point in this discussion, or something I consider has a certain bearing. For translation is not simply an individual process, is it? It is also a process that depends on the community in which it is being done. That is, a translator translates for others, or rather with others, and communities change with history. Doesn’t every author, book and text have a history of the ways in which it has been read? And this history forms part of the work itself. What I’m saying is, ahem, how are we to separate the collective readings of the Classics from the Classics themselves? In my opinion translations belong to this kind of rereading, every translator is also a product of his time, of the period when he wrote his translation. No book remains exactly the same throughout time, the readers of each period change it, don’t they? And the same goes for translations, each period needs to retranslate its literature. Ahem, I don’t mean to go on.
You are quite right, said Hans. (Do you really think so? stammered Herr Levin.) A work doesn’t begin and end with its author, it forms part of a much broader group, a kind of writing collective that includes translators. Translation is neither a betrayal nor a substitute, it is another contribution, a further push to something that is already in motion, like when someone jumps into a moving carriage. And as you say, dear Herr Levin, every text continues to be translated over time by readers of its mother tongue. Each German reader of Goethe understands, misunderstands, interprets and over-interprets each word, there is no transparency between a book and its reader, there will always be some peculiarity that gives rise to a second text, a new reading. That is why, if you’ll forgive my insistence, no good translation can ever distort the translated work — it simply exaggerates the mechanisms of reading itself.
Sophistry, demagoguery! protested Professor Mietter, with all your insistence on communities, are you trying to deny the influence of national culture? The nation is important even when translating a text, gentlemen. The French, for instance, have always appropriated texts rather than try to translate them, which is why they built an empire. A French translator will seldom attempt to stay close to the foreign mentality of the author he is translating, but will instead try to adapt the work to fit his own mentality. Aristotle in the French, for example, appears French. This approach undoubtedly has its merits, and yet it also shows that the real Aristotle is and can only be written in Greek. (Yes, argued Hans, but however hard a French translator tries to approximate Aristotle to his own way of thinking, don’t you think the outcome will resemble neither the original Greek nor a French philosopher? And won’t this French translation of Aristotle for ever change French philosophy and what you refer to as its national mentality?) Ah, young people, young people, how they love to answer back! This elderly gentleman deserves a rest, now, my dear, is there any more raspberry jelly?