Review by Choice Review
Translation itself has been investigated by numerous authors from numerous different perspectives. This book follows many paths explored by others, but Bellos (Princeton) covers his subject in a very pragmatic way. He poses questions about translation that may seem, on the surface, quite mundane. But he explores answers to questions--e.g., What does "meaning" really mean? What is the essence of a literal translation?--in a detailed way, weaving in language history, linguistics, and the act of translation as a cultural artifact. Ultimately translation is all about communication, and not necessarily from just one language to another. Although this is the traditional understanding of the term "translation"--and Bellos explores this traditional understanding--he is ultimately interested in whether humans are able to truly communicate to others within the confines of their own native tongue or outside of it: how ideas are understood in one's own language and translated into other languages. This book covers turf similar to that Edith Grossman did in Why Translation Matters (CH, Sep'10, 48-0099), but Bellos's perspectives are different and his style is less ivory tower and more practical. Summing Up: Recommended. All readers. C. M. DiFranco New York University
Copyright American Library Association, used with permission.
Review by New York Times Review
THE theory of translation is very rarely - how to put this? - comical. Its mode is elegy, and severe admonishment. In the 20th century, its great figures were Vladimir Nabokov, in exile from Soviet Russia, attacking libertines like Robert Lowell for their infidelities to the literal sense; or Walter Benjamin, Jewish in a proto-Nazi Berlin, describing the Task of the Translator as an impossible ideal of exegesis. You can never, so runs the elegiac argument, precisely reproduce a line of poetry in another language. Poetry! You can hardly even translate "maman." . . . And this elegiac argument has its elegiac myth: the Tower of Babel, where the world's multiplicity of languages is seen as mankind's punishment - condemned to the howlers, the faux amis, the foreign menu apps. Whereas the ideal linguistic state would be the lost universal language of Eden. It's rarely flippant, or joyful - the theory of translation. David Bellos's new book on translation at first sidesteps this philosophy. He describes the dragomans of Ottoman Turkey, the invention of simultaneous translation at the Nuremberg trials, news wires, the speech bubbles of Astérix, Bergman subtitles. . . . He offers an anthropology of translation acts. But through this anthropology a much grander project emerges. The old theories were elegiac, stately; they were very much severe. Bellos is practical, and sprightly. He is unseduced by elegy. And this is because he is on to something new. Bellos is a professor of French and comparative literature at Princeton University, and also the director of the Program in Translation and Intercultural Communication there (at which, I should add, I once spoke). But to me he's more interesting as the translator of two peculiarly great and problematic novelists: the Frenchman Georges Perec, whose work is characterized by a manic concern for form; and the Albanian Ismail Kadare, whose work Bellos translates not from the original Albanian, but from French translations supervised by Kadare. Bellos's twin experience with these novelists is, I think, at the root of his new book, for these experiences with translation prove two things: It's still possible to find adequate equivalents for even manically formal prose; and it's also possible to find such equivalents via a language that is not a work's original. Whereas according to the sad and orthodox theories of translation, neither of these truths should be true. At one point, Bellos quotes with rightful pride a small instance of his own inventiveness. In Perec's novel "Life: A User's Manual," a character walks through a Parisian arcade, stopping to look at the "humorous visiting cards in a joke-shop window." In Perec's original French, one of these cards is: "Adolf Hitler/Fourreur." A fourreur is a furrier, but Perec's joke-shop joke is that it also resembles the French pronunciation of Führer. So Bellos, in his English version, rightly translates "fourreur" not as "furrier," but like this: "Adolf Hitler/German Lieder." Bellos's new multiphonic pun is a travesty, no doubt about it - and it's also the most precise translation possible. The conclusions that this paradox demands are, let's say, bewildering for the old-fashioned reader. We're used to thinking that each person speaks an individual language - his mother tongue - and that this mother tongue is a discrete entity, with a vocabulary manipulated by a fixed grammar. But this picture, Bellos argues, doesn't match the everyday shifts of our multiple languages, nor the mess of our language use. Bellos's deep philosophical enemy is what he calls "nomenclaturism," "the notion that words are essentially names" - a notion that has been magnified in our modern era of writing: a conspiracy of lexicographers. It annoys him because this misconception is often used to support the idea that translation is impossible, since all languages largely consist of words with no single comprehensive equivalent in other languages. But, Bellos writes: "A simple term such as 'head,' for example, can't be counted as the 'name' of any particular thing. It figures in all kinds of expressions." And while no single word in French, say, will cover all the connotations of the word "head," its meaning "in any particular usage can easily be represented in another language." The misconception, however, has a very long history. Ever since St. Jerome translated the Bible into Latin, discussion of translation has dissolved into the ineffable - the famous idea that each language creates an essentially different mental world, and so all translations are doomed to philosophical inadequacy. In Bellos's new proposal, translation instead "presupposes ... the irrelevance of the ineffable to acts of communication." Zigzagging through ease studies of missionary Bibles or cold war language machines, Bellos calmly removes this old idea of the ineffable, and its unfortunate effects. It's often said, for instance, that a translation can't ever be an adequate substitute for the original. But a translation, Bellos writes, isn't trying to be the same as the original, but to be like it. Which is why the usual conceptual duo of translation - fidelity, and the literal - is too clumsy. These ideas just derive from the misplaced anxiety that a translation is trying to be a substitute. Adolf Hitler/Fourreur! A translation into English as "furrier" would be literally accurate; it would, however, be an inadequate likeness. In literature, there's a related subset of this anxiety: the idea that style - since it establishes such an intricate relationship between form and content - makes a work of art untranslatable. But again, this melancholy is melodramatic. It will always be possible in a translation to find new relationships between sound and sense that are equivalently interesting, if not phonetically identical. Style, like a joke, just needs the talented discovery of equivalents. "Finding a match for a joke and a match for a style," Bellos writes, "are both instances of a more general ability that may best be called a pattern-matching skill." Translation, Bellos proposes in a dryly explosive statement, rather than providing a substitute instead "provides for some community an acceptable match for an utterance made in a foreign tongue." What makes a match acceptable will vary according to that community's idea of what aspects of an utterance need to be matched by its translation. After all, "no translation can be expected to be like its source in more than a few selected ways." So a translation can't be right or wrong "in the manner of a school quiz or a bank statement. A translation is more like a portrait in oils." In a translation, as any art form, the search is for an equivalent sign. And for the inhabitants of London or Los Angeles, this dismantling of the myths around translation has peculiar implications. As Bellos points out, those born as English speakers are now a minority of English speakers: most speak it as a second language. English is the world's biggest interlanguage. So two futures, I think, can be drawn from this dazzlingly inventive book, and they are gratifyingly large. The first is for every English speaker. Google Translate, no doubt about it, is a device with an exuberant future. It's already so successful because, unlike previous machine translators, but like other Google inventions, it's a pattern recognition machine. It analyzes the corpus of existing translations, and finds statistical matches. The implications of this still haven't, I think, been adequately explored: from world newspapers, to world novels. . . . And it made me imagine a second prospect - confined to a smaller, hypersubset of English speakers, the novelists. I am an English-speaking novelist, after all. There was no reason, I argued to myself, that translations of fiction couldn't be made far more extensively in and out of languages that are not a work's original. Yes, I started to cherish a future history of the novel that would be recklessly international. In other words: there'd be nothing wrong, I kept thinking, with making translation more joyful. A translation can't be right or wrong 'in the manner of a school quiz.' It's more like 'a portrait in oils.' Adorn Thirlwell's most recent novel is "The Escape."
Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 30, 2011]
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Written by an award-winning translator and professor of comparative literature, this book is informed by considerable culture and an original, probing intelligence with a mostly light touch-the title riffs off of Douglas Adams's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, whose babel fish, when inserted in one's ear, could translate any imaginable language. If only it were that easy. Bellos gets readers to think in new ways about the implications of moving a series of words from one language and society to another. Of the 7,000 tongues currently used by humankind, works are translated between roughly 50. The preponderance of translation is into English, which explains why translating is a well-paying profession in Japan, Germany, and France but not here. Whether translating Asterix comics or caustic Chinese doggerel, puns and wordplay or even legalities at the groundbreaking Nuremberg Tribunal, translators are far more than a kind of literary middleman. It is a breeze to get lost in translation, and for this reason Bellos cannily exclaims, "We should do more of it." (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review
What would happen if someone in each community used a Babel fish, a device imagined by Douglas Adams in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy that translates from any received language when placed in the ear? Starting with this allusion, as per his title, Bellos (director, program in translation & intercultural communication, Princeton Univ.) employs familiar topics to explore the function and nature of translation. Thirty-three brief chapters focus on historic and current translation, including translation of classic literature, subtitles in movies, and language parity in the European Union. While occasionally presenting examples of differing translations of the same text, Bellos does not instruct how to translate. Instead, he highlights translation's role outside of family relationships, such as in religion, education, economics, and politics. Both anecdotes and scholarly references support the narrative. The author's casual tone and emphasis on translation's function distinguish the work from such new books as Susan Bassnett's essay collection Reflections on Translation. VERDICT An entertaining yet still scholarly introduction for interested readers, undergraduates, and language professionals.-Marianne Orme, Des Plaines P.L., IL (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review
An award-winning translator describes and defends his profession.Bellos (French and Comparative Literature/Princeton Univ.; Romain Gary: A Tall Story, 2010, etc.) has a broad definition of translation: in general, the ability of the human mind to convert stimuli into meaning. He begins by imagining a world without translationrecognizing the unpleasant possibility of such a situationand then identifies and analyzes key issues of his discipline. He dispenses with some common misconceptions about translation ("Translationsaresubstitutes for original texts. You use them in the place of a work written in a language you cannot read with ease") and examines some of the difficulties and oddities of the enterprise. For example, how to translate into French those portions ofWar and Peacethat are already in French? Bellos also discusses dictionaries (observing that, in one sense, a language becomes a language when it has a dictionary) and dismisses what he calls the myth of literal translation (word-for-word substitution). He reminds us of the canard about Eskimos having scores of words for"snow" and deals with issues like the translation of sacred texts, the difficulty of simultaneous oral translation and translation problems in the fields of law and journalism. There are some stunning moments along the way, as when he offers a dozen variations of a translation of a Chineseshunkouliu ("oral grapevines"). There are moments of humor, too (oh, the problems translating naughty jokes!). Bellos realizes that in literary translation, the only way to experience the author's original effect is to read the text in the original language. His passion sometimes propels him into hyperbole, but never for long.Erudite and occasionally dense, but ultimately illuminating, even transformative.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
