‘Lost in Translation’: A Conversation with Philip Gabriel
“You think you understand a line, only to find that, when you attempt to translate it, there are depths of meaning you didn't notice at first reading”
First, could you tell us a little bit more about your journey to becoming a translator?
Back in the early 1980s, I was living in Japan, teaching English at a college, and was a member of a small reading circle made up of both Japanese and American professors. We were all interested in translation and met every week to read and compare, line by line, stories in Japanese and their published translations. I recall reading mostly Tanizaki and Mishima. The more I read, the more fascinated I became with the idea of trying my own hand at translation, and fortunately I was soon given several opportunities to do so. One was a national translation contest, which I entered and did well in, which gave me the confidence to pursue it further. I had also started reading Haruki Murakami's short stories and I had translated some of them in my doctoral program, several of which found their way into print. Since then, I have been regularly translating both Murakami's works, and those of a number of other Japanese writers.
Do you have a certain process that you always follow when translating fiction? Or does it depend entirely on the book you are working on?
The process is similar, really, for most works. I'll read the whole original, taking notes, and then sit down to work each day on it, trying to come up with a rough draft of 3-4 pages of the original text each day. Once I finish the first draft, I'll go back and compare the translation with the original, line by line, often consulting with native speakers, and in some cases the author, to make sure I'm catching the nuances of the original. Finally, I'll read the whole translation again as a work in English, extensively editing and re-writing so it flows better, hoping to catch any awkward phrasing and any errors or omissions. From start to finish, it usually takes me twelve months before I'm ready to submit the completed translation. Next, the editor will see the translation, which then goes through many passes and edits over months. I love seeing what editors do with the translation – I learn so much about writing from them, about being more precise and concise, although I do remember initially being astonished at all the red marks on the pages!
Is the process of translating two very different styles of fiction comparable? Or is each translation a totally unique experience?
Each work and each author present unique challenges, but I do find it particularly challenging to tackle an author I'm translating for the first time. With an author I've worked with before, I feel like I hit the ground running (sort of), but with a new author it takes much longer to feel comfortable with their writing style and way of constructing a story. One of the joys for me over the years has been asking authors directly about their works and trying to pinpoint the best way to translate certain terms and ideas. Authors have been, across the board, generous with their time and are very understanding of the difficulties a translator faces; Murakami, for instance, is also a translator of note in Japan. An obvious point, but with any text you can read the original and think, ‘Okay, I understand that’, but then when you try to translate it you suddenly discover how different reading and translating are. You think you understand a line, only to find that, when you attempt to translate it, there are depths of meaning you didn't notice at first reading. People sometimes ask me what's difficult about translation and I say, only half facetiously, "Every line."
Do you think good translators have to be good writers in order to capture and recreate different styles and voices?
I do. I remember that Donald Keene once listed the skills required of a good translator and he put the ability to write well in your own language at the top. I try to read as much good fiction in English as time will allow, in order to open myself to new ways of expression, to keep things fresh, and to expose myself to new styles, vocabulary and voices. I'll often run across a word or turn of phrase in a novel in English that I'll tuck away in my mind, thinking it might give me a clue to improving my translations. Another quite obvious point: the process of learning more about the original language, about English, and about being a good writer, never ends.
How far do you agree with the idea that translations of a work of literature is not a word for word recreation, but another iteration of the story entirely. And do you accept that there are certain aspects that will only ever be understood by those reading Honeybees and Distant Thunder in Japanese?
I generally agree with the first idea. Though respecting the original, you want to avoid an overly literal rendering, but you don't want to go too far in the other direction and make the translation a kind of paraphrased re-telling. I think early in their careers, translators may stick too closely to the text, afraid to stray too far beyond a more literal reading. I remember one of my professors in graduate school who, when assigning us passages from classical Japanese to translate, told us to come up with two versions – one more literal and the other more open and freer. She may have said, ‘Go wild’, but I can't recall for sure. The idea was, I think, that the end product will incorporate a bit of both: a deep respect for, and appreciation of the original, and the freedom to not let that bind us. A middle ground, in a word.
As far as Honeybees is concerned, there may be aspects that might better be understood by those reading it in the original. I dislike the term ‘lost in translation’, but I can think of small details in this novel that Japanese readers would be able to picture more easily than an English reader. One example that pops to mind is the description of the countryside and storehouse at [Akashi’s] grandmother's home, where he used to practice – all the smells and sounds involved in silkworm raising, for instance, that are briefly mentioned. These are just passing details, though, and what's more important is how the novel speaks to us with more universal themes, the role and meaning of music in our lives, and the importance of empathy and friendship.
What specific literary qualities of Honeybees and Distant Thunder did you identify as being the most important to convey?
A great part of the novel concerns the world of classical music and stage performance, and the most important aspect, and greatest challenge, was trying to convey, in translation, Onda's beautiful, detailed, and moving depictions of the music and the performances. How do you use words to describe sound and music, and the emotional impact of music on people, both performers and audience? As a reader you feel so drawn into this world of sound, as if you were yourself immersed in a powerful and moving performance, and I hope this has been adequately conveyed in the translation.
What do you think are the benefits of readers being able to access books originally written in different languages?
Simply put, they allow us to enter worlds we never could before. I can't imagine a world where we are confined to only reading books originally written in our native language. One of the benefits of reading translated works is the glimpse they provide into different cultures, different ways of thinking and interacting, even when the world depicted seems so contemporary, international, and modern. I sometimes highlight and discuss these aspects with my students, as that's part of what I find fascinating about books in translation. Though these are the areas that are often most difficult to convey completely in translation.
‘Composers, performers, everyone. From the beginning, music is everywhere, and we capture it and write it down as notes. And they perform it. We don’t create it – we merely translate it.’
This quote from Honeybees and Distant Thunder expresses the idea that music itself is a form of translation. Do you think that our ability to create sound from musical notes could be seen as being a similar process to creating meaning from language? And how did you find the process of working on a book that is so detailed in its description of music - something that is very much subjective and abstract, as opposed to something that is tangible or physical.
I like this quote. I would answer yes to your question, it is a similar process, and I’d also add that, with both music and words, a part of ourselves is expressed in, and through, the music and language as we work with them. Translation is a creative act, and I might object to the idea of ‘merely’ translating something. Ultimately, the music and story pass through us, affect us, and change us, as we change them, but they can have a life apart from us, and beyond us. One of the interesting points in this novel, reflected in the mentioning of honeybees and thunder in the title, is how music is all around us, in the natural world, and how it must be brought out into a wider world again. Many composers draw their inspiration from nature, of course, and one of the running ideas of this novel is how music must be returned to a broader world beyond the confines of the concert hall; to take what has been restricted, judged, and controlled, and release it to make it free again. You're right, it can be subjective and abstract, yet the emotions it produces, and the effects is has on our hearts, are very real.
In your opinion, how would you define the role of a translator?
I have a quote from Beethoven on my laptop that I keep coming back to: ‘To play a wrong note is insignificant; to play without passion is inexcusable.’ Flawed though he may be sometimes, the translator must be passionate about the work, and passionate about conveying to the reader a world that otherwise might not be available. Before I was able to read Japanese, I read some translated Japanese novels as an undergraduate, and to say I am grateful to the translators is an understatement. These translators opened a new door for me, and I have been exploring what's on the other side ever since.
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