THE SORCERER'S APPRENTICE
AN ACADEMIC GUIDE to GOETHE'S "PROMETHEUS"
and NERUDA'S "PUEDO ESCRIBIR"
in TRANSLATION
TRANSLATION + THE READER'S INTERPRETATION
How does one read a work in translation?: A Brief Introduction
Online translations v. print translation, and the technique of choosing a translation fit for your research
When examining a translation of a poem, one might consider it ideal to, first, find the edition from which the editor made his translation, and, second, to look at other translations.
It is helpful at least to try to translate parts of the original-language edition in order to find a translation that agrees with one's own opinion of how the work should translate. With the translation companions one has at his fingertips today, it is not very hard to look up the meanings of words or to get a rough translation of entire paragraphs. Especially for researchers conducting their studies online, finding an original-language edition can prove difficult--translators often do not indicate from which edition they translated the work. Therefore it is arguably most reliable to find translated work in a more tangible format at your library or bookstore, or to search for (or pay for) an online edition that has already been professionally published, best yet one found in a critical edition.
If one is unable read the language in which the poem was originally published, it is hard to find the translation that communicates best to one as a reader. From here, it is easy to find yourself blindly paddling through the muck that is choosing from multiple literary translations of a single work. So, how can one find the translation of the work that is most conducive to his research if he does not speak the language in which the author wrote?
The fundamental problem is this: in translation one often must choose a single signified from the original signifier; or a signifier with multiple signifieds, only one of which might match only one of the original signifier’s multiple signifieds. Beyond that, translators rearrange or switch words to make the work seem more artistic or readable--all of this is arguably based on the translator’s own aesthetic opinions. So, forever left on the translation is the mark of the middleman; it is the editor’s graffiti and who can tell but one fluent in the original language.
When you do not read the language in which a work was originally published, it is near impossible to connect the original meaning (or what your impression might have been from the first-language edition of the work) to the translated meaning. When reading a translation, what you are often receiving is a slightly warped reflection of the original—it is like choosing a copy of a famous sculpture that had been replicated by a Sculpture professor and putting it on display in a museum to be evaluated by the public. Why edit a literal translation when that could be considered the unadulterated meaning of the original? Why invert word order? In a few words, this is because a literally translated French poem just does not sound right in English—the adjective-noun order is swapped in French, and some sentences had slang or just might have translated awkwardly in the opinion of the translator.
So, how does one find a translation that is most like the original work? I have found that a second burning question is “How can I find a translation that works best for me--the researching scholar, the professor, the student, the casual reader--if I cannot read the original?”
Even if you does read the language in which an original edition of a work was written, you choose a translation based on the impression the original work left on you. You choose the signifiers based on the signifieds that registered in your mind when you read the poem.
On this topic, another question: How does an American professor educated in the Arabic language choose an English translation of a Darwish poem that would encourage that same original impression that she felt reading the poem in all of her Literature students? It really is impossible, as impressions are subjective. This is because, when we look at signifiers, the signifieds that come to mind are not the same as the person sitting next to you, reading the same work.
When producing a translation--or when choosing the right translation to teach or to read--it is essential to always keep your future audience in mind. Whether you audience is a conference of literary scholars specializing in Modernism whose palates are refined to a certain literary style or a high school classroom, academics should both translate and choose translations based on the preferences, the level of learning, and the culture of the people reading, listening, analyzing.
To help provide insight into how a poem is translated, there are three versions of Neruda's "Puedo escribir/Poema 20" below. The first is the Spanish-language version, an edition of which I found on the website for la Universidad de Chile. The second and third are amateur translations I tried, one of which is a rough translation with alternate signifiers in parentheses, the other the "final version," where I sort of tweaked things without having the grounds to do so so that they would just sound better (in my own opinion) in English. I have not changed any of the punctuation from the Spanish-language edition in my translations, but I have changed some of the word order.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos
árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis
brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.
I can write the saddest (unhappiest, most miserable, gloomiest, most sorrowful, most melancholy, most distressing) verses tonight.
Write, for example: "The night is starry (shattered),
and the stars shiver (tremble), blue, far away (in the distance)."
The wind of the night twirls about (spins around, turns) in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Nights like tonight I had her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her large, fixed (firm) eyes.
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
Think that I do not have her. Feel that I have lost her.
Hear the immense (vast, great, enormous) night, more immense without her.
And the verse meets my soul like dew meets the pasture (grass).
What does it matter that my love could not keep (put away, watch over, guard) her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
That is all. Far away (in the distance) someone is singing. Far away.
My soul is not content for having lost her.
As if to come closer to her, my glance (look) searches for her.
My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.
The same night that causes the same trees to pale (whitewashes the trees, polishes the trees, causes the trees to whiten).
We, as we were then, are no longer the same.
Now I do not love her, it is true (surely, that is certain), but I once loved her so.
My voice searches the wind to touch her hearing (inner ear).
Another's. She will be another's. Like before my kisses.
Her voice, her pale (transparent, white) body. Her infinite (endless) eyes.
Now I do not love her, it is true (surely, that is certain), but perhaps I love her.
It's so short, love, and it's so slow forgetting.
Because nights like these I had her in my arms,
my soul cannot be content for having lost her.
Even if this were the last pain that she caused me,
and these the last verses that I wrote her.
I can write the most sorrowful verses tonight.
Write, for example: "The night is strewn with stars,
and the blue stars shiver in the distance."
The night wind eddies in the sky and sings.
I can write the most sorrowful verses tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me back.
Nights like tonight I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her back.
How could one not have loved her large, steady
eyes.
I can write the most sorrowful verses tonight.
Think that I do not have her. Feel that I have lost
her.
Hear the vast night, vaster without her.
And the verse meets my soul like dew meets the
pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep
her.
The night is strewn with stars and she is not with
me.
That is all. In the distance someone is singing. In
the distance.
My soul is not content for having lost her.
My glance searches for her as if it would bring me
nearer to her.
My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.
The same night that causes the same trees to pale.
We, as we were then, are no longer the same.
Now I do not love her, that is certain, but I once
loved her so.
My voice looks through the wind to touch her
ears.
Another's. She will be another's. The woman she
was before my kisses.
Her voice, her pale body. Her infinite eyes.
Now I do not love her, that is certain, but perhaps
I love her.
It's so short, love, and it's so slow forgetting.
Because nights like these I held her in my arms,
my soul cannot be content for having lost her.
Even if this were the last pain that she caused me,
and these the last verses I wrote her.
Translation 1
Translation 2
Puedo escribir



"Busto de un hombre escribiendo" ("Bust of a Man Writing"). Pablo Picasso. 1971.
"Prometheus and the Child of Tomorrow." Matt Hughes. 2012.
"Claude escribiendo" ("Claude Writing"). Pablo Picasso. 1951.
"Prometheus Bound." Peter Paul Rubens. 1611-1618.
