This is a novel that defies simple description. In part, the jacket blurb says:

“The Einstein Enigma offers up a mystic fusion of science and religion, a meeting of Einstein and God in an unforgettable spiritual search, and a mind-bending trip to the source of time, the essence of the universe, and the meaning of life.”

Indeed, it does. This is a philosophical novel that explores some of the most recent and controversial discoveries in physics. Perhaps it is just coincidence, but I’ve noticed related topics popping up everywhere lately: Hawking’s view of physics and God, how the fine-structure constant affects our universe, and the search for a grand plan through string theory.

Fear not, however, for José distills these concepts to be easily understood by the non-scientific among us. Did we arise out of the void? Or was there a Creator? If so, what precisely does that mean? Even if you have your own answers to these questions, Rodrigues dos Santos presents much for us to think about.

Please also check out my interview with José. He has been busy promoting the book elsewhere, as well, in articles on Publishing Perspectives and The Huffington Post, and a book trailer on YouTube.

***

Finally, if you haven’t already, please sign up for the RSS feed or e-mail subscription to this blog. I hope you’ll join the community I’m trying to build here at Intralingo on a culture of language and thought… Post a comment or send me an e-mail to let me know who you are, when and why you’re reading, and how we can grow together.

Three lucky participants will be chosen at random and sent a copy of The Einstein Enigma as a gesture of appreciation – just as soon as mine arrive from the publisher!

The first is from the site Publishing Perspectives, which is wonderfully international in scope. The post from Friday is called "M. Frédéric Grellier, The Blind Book Translator of Paris". Fascinating to learn of Grellier’s process, his background, and why author David Fulmer thinks he is the perfect translator for his books.

The second is from the University of Rochester’s Three Percent, and is the first in what I hope will be more than a "semi-regular series" highlighting translators. This one is entitled "Chip Rossetti on Translating "Saint Theresa and Sleeping with Strangers" by Bahaa Abdelmegid". Very interesting consideration of a conundrum translators often face: wanting to correct or perhaps even improve the text.

Let me know, in a comment here, what you thought of these…

Another novel translation offer came my way recently. It’s the work I love most, take the most pride in, and also the work that requires all of the skill, hours and creativity I can give it. The publisher needs the translation in a rush (don’t they always?!), this time because the book has been optioned for a movie and the screenwriter wants to get to work.

When the initial query arrived in my Inbox, I replied with an enthusiastic "Yes!" and asked about their timeframe and budget. It’s hard to know whether it’s best for the client to throw out the initial terms or not, but because of the rush factor there was no point in me asking for the time I would obviously *like* to do the work.

No specifics came back, just a vague reference to an ideal date a few months away and that the contract price would be less than the previous project because this book is shorter.

I took a look at the manuscript, studying length and style, researched the original for reviews, examined my schedule and took out my calculator.

This being my seventh book translation (potentially…), I’m no novice. I’ve worked with this publisher and editor before, but every project is a completely new situation. What’s on my plate currently? Do I want to be able to enjoy some of the summer? How much time per week can I devote to this project alone? (I delivered one manuscript in September, began another in October that was delivered in March, all the while keeping up with a few other select clients I couldn’t say no to, thus working seven days a week. I *cannot* do that again… at least not right away.) Most importantly, what specific challenges will face me in this translation? How much extra research time needs to be tacked on?

The variables are many, but I do have a method when quoting literary translations. I keep track of each one, as well as the final contract terms in an Excel sheet. Average number of words per line x average number of words per page x total number of pages = total source word count. Word count x desired per word rate = contract price. Word count / words per day / number of days per week I can dedicate on average = minimum contract time. Now the calendar comes out as I calculate start and end date, taking holidays and previous commitments into account.

Most importantly, I need to know my fallback position because this is, after all, a negotiation. I am not demanding. I am proposing. It’s unlikely I’ll get exactly what I want, but what am I willing to accept?

This quote has been sent out and received only silence in reply. I rationalize: editors are notoriously busy and BookExpo America takes place next week; having asked for royalties, this must be negotiated with the client. All of this takes time. It’s not unusual for the negotiation process to be long and protracted. Patience.

But it’s not easy. I worry. I am distressed, panicked, filled with self-doubt. Finally, I come around to a place of acceptance. If this project passes me by, I will be truly sorry. But on the bright side, I may actually have a summer this year, time in which to rest and relax, enjoy the outdoors. Confidence in my decision always bubbles to the top through a murky soup of negative emotions: I cannot in all good conscience deliver a translation that is not up to my standard of quality, something I can be proud of, and I cannot underestimate what I am worth.

How do you view the pros and cons of negotiation?

Andrea G. Labinger

As mentioned in the post of the interview I did with Daína Chaviano last week, here is the interview with Andrea about translating The Island of Eternal Love:

Lisa: Can you tell us how you became involved in the project to translate Daína Chaviano’s novel The Island of Eternal Love?

Andrea: An editor from Riverhead/Penguin contacted me to ask if I’d be interested in translating the book. It seems I was recommended to her by another translator who was over-committed at that time and generously suggested me instead.  I hadn’t read any of Chaviano’s work before, but once I learned more about her, I became very excited about the opportunity to be the first to translate one of her novels into English.

Lisa: How would you characterize Chaviano’s style, and what pleasures and challenges did it present?

Andrea: Daína’s style is very accessible.  I found it quite lyrical, even poetic, especially the scenes with fantasy elements.  There is, of course, some poetry included in the form of traditional song lyrics – as well as a few popular little street ditties and in the exorcism scene, but those presented different sorts of challenges. I loved doing that santería scene – trying to capture the rhythm of the incantation while preserving some of the humor.  The scene in question comes from the chapter titled “Burning for You” (in Spanish, “Fiebre de ti”). One of the Spanish characters, a teenager named Ángela, has just begun showing symptoms of a curse that afflicts only the women of this family, a condition that appears at the onset of puberty.  Ángela, as it turns out, sees visions, the most vexing of which is the imp Martinico, a devilish sprite that causes all sorts of inexplicable mischief. Obviously, the only solution is to take the girl to La Obispa, the local exorcist. In the original, La Obispa’s incantation goes like this:

Si lo tienes en la cabeza, santa Elena,

si lo tienes en la frente, san Vicente,

si lo tienes en los ojos, san Ambrosio,

si lo tienes en la boca, santa Polonia,

si lo tienes en las manos, san Urbano,

si lo tienes en el cuerpo, dulcísimo Sacramento,

si lo tienes en los pies, san Andrés,

con sus ángeles treinta y tres.

In the English translation, it becomes:

If your head should ache you,

Saint Helen won’t forsake you.

If your brow is sweaty,

Saint Vincent’s at the ready.

If your eyes should ail you,

Saint Ambrose will not fail you.

Saint Apollonia can, forsooth,

heal a sore or abscessed tooth.

Blessed Saint Urbain is the man

to cure your rough and callused hands.

If your trunk with toil is bent,

Pray to the Blessed Sacrament.

And if your suffer of your feet,

Invoke Saint Andrew, then repeat.

I had lots of fun with this.  Clearly it’s more of an adaptation than a “faithful” translation, but I think I preserved the spirit (no pun intended) of the original poetry and even managed to create a form of versification that captures the playfulness of the Spanish while preserving the ceremonial aspects of a rite that’s taken very seriously indeed by the participants.  The Spanish rhyme scheme fluctuates between assonance (cabeza/Elena) and consonance (frente/Vicente), whereas I chose to go with consonantal rhyme – much more normative, in any case – in English.

Another aspect I especially enjoyed was the dialogue.  I started out as a theater specialist, so books with a good dialogue-to-narrative ratio are fun for me.

As for difficulties, most of them had to do with phenomena that exist exclusively in Cuba (or at least in the tropics) and are/were totally alien to my own experience.  An example would be the palm-frond toboggans (chivichanas) that kids use for sliding down the sand dunes.  When I asked Daína to explain this phenomenon to me, she sent me the following:

How can this word be translated?  It’s a Cuban term. No dictionary has an exact translation. All I can do is to give you a brief history of the chivichana with images. Translators in each country can decide how best to translate the term, searching for some equivalent.

In the Cuban countryside, especially in those regions where there were mountains and elevated terrain, it became common practice – from time immemorial – for children to propel themselves downhill, using the fronds of the royal palm, the national tree of Cuba. These fronds are actually the leaves of the royal palm, which dry up on the tree and then fall off.

These leaves or fronds are extremely strong. Once they fall off the tree, dried, children use them to launch themselves from the hilltops. In this  way, they slide down from the summit, rolling along the gently sloped sides as if they were sledding … but not on snow. One child might push another, but this isn’t always necessary.   One or two children can slide perfectly on a frond without being pushed or propelled by anyone else. (Translation mine).

All this labor for just one word!  You can easily see why working with Daína was such a joy, not to mention a learning experience.

Lisa: The novel is known for its references to Cuban music, with the title of each chapter being the title of a bolero and there are lyrics interspersed throughout. How did you choose to deal with this in translation?

Andrea: Whenever the boleros had already been translated into English and had a familiar English title and/or lyrics, we used those. Some songs apparently haven’t been translated, and for those I needed to invent titles (and sometimes fragments of lyrics).  Whenever possible, I tried to listen to the melodies because they helped establish the ambience for me and thus I could adhere more closely to the sentiments expressed in the songs.

Lisa: The characters in the novel are immigrants to Cuba from China, Africa and Spain, and the cast of characters is quite large. There are thus many voices, both literally and figuratively. What techniques did you use to make them all distinct?

Andrea: It’s true that the three different ethnicities speak in different voices.  The characters from Spain were the easiest to represent, as they speak “standard” Spanish.  With the other two groups, I soon became aware of possible pitfalls.  In Latin America, dialect and other non-standard varieties of Spanish are apparently represented without as much regard to readers’ sensitivities as in the US. Some of the Chinese speakers, for instance, confuse their “l’s” and “r’s” with impunity in the original as they struggle to learn Spanish once they’ve arrived in Cuba. I didn’t really want to fall into that trap and risk creating stereotypes, or worse yet, racist caricatures. And yet I needed to let English-language readers know that these characters speak haltingly. I’m afraid that I didn’t manage to avoid the l/r dilemma entirely. Omitting articles and verbs, as well as hyphenating syllables to suggest a lack of fluidity, were other strategies I employed.  In the following example, the character speaking broken Spanish (broken English, of course, in the translation) is a recently arrived immigrant to Cuba from China. She’s the mother of Pag Li – now Pablo – young Amalia’s love interest.  Pablo’s mother is astonished that the girl is unaccompanied at a Chinese festival. Despite her limited second-language skills, she expresses her disapproval of Cuban mores in no uncertain terms:

“Papa, Mama, akún, this is Amalia, the record-maker’s daughter.”

“Ah!” the man said.

The woman uttered something that sounded like “aha!” and the oldest man simply scrutinized her with a displeased expression.

“Who’d you come with?” Pablo asked.

“With Mama and Papa. They’re over there, with some friends.”

“And they leave girl alone?” the woman asked.

“Well, they don’t know I’m here.”

“That not good,” said the Chinese woman with her terrible accent.  “Parents must watch daw-tah.”

“Ma!” the boy hissed.

“We came to watch the Dragon Parade,” she said, in the hope of making them forget their obvious displeasure.

“What’s that?” the boy asked.

“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously, and as they all continued to stare at her with a vacant expression, she continued, “A few people move an orange dragon … like that …” And she tried to imitate the swaying of the paper creature.

“It not dla-gon, it lion,” the woman replied.

“And it not pa-lade, it dance,” the old man grumbled, even more annoyed now.

The original goes like this:

-Papi, mami, akún, ésta es Amalia, la hija del grabador de discos.

-¡Ah! – dijo el hombre.

-La mujer exclamó algo que sonó como “¡ujú!” y el más viejo se limitó a estudiarla con aire de disgusto.

-¿Con quién viniste? – preguntó Pablo.

-Con papi y mami. Están por allí con unos amigos.

-¿Y dejan niña sola? – preguntó la mujer.

-Bueno, ellos no saben que estoy aquí.

-Malo peol – dijo la china en su terrible castellano — . Pale y male tiene que etá atento su niña.

-¡Ma! – susurró el joven.

-Vinimos a ver la Comparsa del Dragón – dijo ella, con la esperanza de hacerles olvidar su evidente desagrado.

-¿Qué es eso? – preguntó el muchacho.

- ¿No lo sabes? – se extrañó ella, y como todos la observaban con expresión vacía, insistió – Varias personas mueven un dragón anaranjado … así – y trató de imitar el vaivén de la criatura de papel.

- No sel dlagón, sel león – replicó la mujer.

- Y no sel compalsa, sel danza – refunfuñó el viejo, más molesto aún.

Similar dialectical issues arose with the African characters as well, although not to the same extent.

Lisa: What was your working relationship with Daína like?

Andrea: It was a joy.  Daína’s English is near-perfect, so she was able to field my questions quite adeptly. And she was generous with her time and her patience. As I mentioned earlier, some of our exchanges involved her directing me to this or that website to see an illustration, read a description, and so on.  It truly was fun!

Lisa: Your name is on the cover, right below the author’s. Congratulations! How did that come about?

Andrea: I insisted on it up front.  Without that guarantee, I wouldn’t have accepted the project. It’s very important to me personally, and to our profession in general, to acknowledge the work as a translation and to recognize the person responsible for that fact.

Lisa: Did your contract with Penguin require much negotiation? What was that process like?

Andrea: Penguin considered me work-for-hire.  What that means is that the translator is paid a flat fee for the job and no has further claim on the book. There are no royalties. While work-for-hire isn’t necessarily a bad thing (for example, it can be very satisfactory if the up-front payment is adequate and one doesn’t anticipate voluminous sales that might yield the corresponding royalties), it does effectively shut the translator out of any additional revenues, such as film rights, books-on-tape, and so on.  This was the first time I had ever translated a book under such conditions. There was very little room for negotiation, really, but I had no quarrel with the compensation.

Lisa: What did Penguin do to promote the book in English, and what efforts did you undertake on your own?

Andrea: I can’t tell you what sorts of publicity Penguin generated for the book. Once it went into production, I was pretty much out of the loop.  I wish there had been more visibility for a novel of this scope and importance, a work that’s been translated into more than twenty languages.  Daína has a web page to promote her work. I’ve translated some of the material for that page, as well. Other than that, I didn’t have any responsibility for publicizing the book.

Lisa: Thank you so much, Andrea, for sharing your experience!

Daína Chaviano is the award-winning author of several novels published in Spanish. She won the acclaimed Azorín Award for Best Novel for El hombre, la hembra y el hambre (Man, Woman and Hunger). The Island of Eternal Love, which is her most recent work, was the recipient of the 2006 Florida Book Awards’ Gold Medal for Best Spanish-Language Book and has been translated into twenty-five languages. A Havana native, Chaviano has lived in Miami since 1991. Her official Website is www.dainachaviano.com

In 2006, I reviewed the recently released book La isla de los amores infinítos by Daína Chaviano for Críticas magazine. I was spellbound. Then, at the ALTA conference in2009, I happened to see that Andrea Labinger, one of the conference organizers, had translated the novel, published in English as The Island of Eternal Love. I was so happy this book had finally reached an English-speaking audience.

Then, not long ago, Daína found my website while surfing and got in touch about the review I had written all those years ago. A short e-mail conversation ensued and I had to see if she would be willing to do an interview about the novel; I also immediately wrote Andrea to see if she would be interested as well. To my delight, both agreed.

Here, then, the interview with Daína (and do sign up for the RSS or E-mail feed so you don’t miss the interview with Andrea to be posted soon):

Lisa: Your first book to be translated into English, The Island of Eternal Love (Andrea G. Labinger, translator), came out in hardcover in 2008, and in paperback in 2009. Congratulations! Are there differences in the way it has been received by the original Spanish and now English audience?

Daína: Ever since it was published in Spanish (2006), the novel has been at the top of sales charts in Europe, the United States and Latin America, including online retailers like Amazon.com. While sales haven’t been as good in English, the book has been well-received by critics and readers. Numerous letters have reached me through my Web site and Facebook fan page. To be honest, I haven’t noticed much difference in the way readers in both languages react to the story. The comments make me think the characters touch everyone equally. I even have a few bilingual readers who, after reading the novel in one language, bought it in the other because they wanted to “feel it” in both languages.

Lisa: The book is the most translated Cuban novel ever, in 25 languages – an incredible achievement given the wealth of literature that has come out of the island. What is it about this particular novel that has attracted such a global audience?

Daína: I think there’s more than one reason to explain this global response. The novel covers over 150 years of history and travels across three continents. The main storylines include a ghost house that appears and disappears in a modern city, a curse that is handed down through generations of women in a particular family (they are the only ones who can see a mythical creature), a slave woman’s journey in search of her freedom, the trials and tribulations of a Chinese family that escapes their homeland and has to find their way in a strange new world… The book appeals to a wide variety of interests. I think there’s something for everyone: ghosts, love stories, adventure, mystery…

Lisa: Do you work directly with your translators? If yes, is this initiated by you? The translator? The publisher? How would you characterize the relationship?

Daína: I like to work directly with the translators of my books. I have asked my agent to include a clause in every one of my contracts that requires the publisher to send my e-mail to the translator, so he or she can get in touch and send me any queries. I have an excellent relationship with all of them. What’s more, some beautiful friendships have resulted and I’ve been lucky enough to meet some of them in person.

Usually, I  prepare a document ahead of time that includes phrases or concepts that are impossible to find in dictionaries, and I try to explain them. I often include Internet links to videos, photos and sites. As the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. Almost all of the translators have told me they’ve never had a working relationship like this with an author. Obviously they love it because it makes their work much easier and they also enjoy watching the videos, learning about new things.

Lisa: If you had to name the three most important qualities in a literary translator, what would they be?

Daína: Apart from the fact that they must have a deep understanding of the language they are translating from – an indispensable requirement –, a literary translator should be knowledgeable about the author’s culture. This is vital in order to grasp the context around the phrases and the events the writer is describing. Finally, I think a literary translator should love literature in and of itself, be an indefatigable reader. And if he or she had a tendency to write, whether poems, stories, or other texts of a literary nature, all the better. This would allow the translator to experiment with the creative act – and we all know that literary translation involves a great deal of creativity.

Lisa: Would you agree there has to be a strong relationship of trust between an author and a translator? Is this even more essential when you, as an author, don’t know the language your work is being translated into?

Daína: Absolutely. If a writer doesn’t trust his or her translator, the working relationship that needs to exist between the two could become strained. However, if the author establishes a relationship of open cooperation with that translator, either through ongoing contact by e-mail, phone or some other method, this collaboration will go beyond that. In my case, this has always resulted in a friendship or at least a very close working relationship with the translator, which automatically leads to a feeling of confidence in his or her work.

Many of the translators who have worked on this novel (all of them women, by the way) wound up telling me anecdotes about their own lives with respect to certain topics in the novel, from paranormal experiences to how they became interested in Cuba – experiences that marked their lives in one way or another. I felt much calmer after these exchanges, knowing my book was in the hands of someone who had enough sensitivity and intelligence to understand the essence of the story and the characters.

Lisa: How easy – or hard – is it for you to let your work go, let it live another life in a new language and culture?

Daína: It’s hard, but you have to get used to the idea and to the reality. I imagine something similar happens to parents when it comes to their children. In the end, you know you have to let them spread their wings, trust they have the strength and ability to fly, but you never stop worrying, wondering how they’re doing.

Lisa: You have said that you learned English in order to read works like Shakespeare in the original. What’s your view of the adage “lost in translation”?

Daína: It’s true that often not even the best translation can do justice to the original text. Now that you mention it, Shakespeare is one of those cases. I read the best Spanish translation of his Complete Works when I was 16 years old. I was captivated. Years later, when I read it in English, I realized there were many things missing from that wonderful translation, despite the intelligence and sensitivity of the translator. Every language has its own subtleties of poetry and the meaning of certain terms can be impossible to translate.

And yet, there are cases in which the translation can be as good as the original (at least from my view of English to Spanish translations). For example, I remember the Cuban editions of Ray Bradbury’s work, particularly The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451 and Dandelion Wine, and the one of J.D. Salinger’s novel Catcher in the Rye. They are some of the best translations of classic novels I have ever read, to the extent that I can read them in one language or the other and not notice any difference in the tone, intention, or poetry of the texts.

Lisa: You have a long list of published works in Spanish. Are there plans for any of these to see the light of day in English or any other languages?

Daína: Not right now. Laura Dail, my agent in the US, is working with a translator who is preparing a sample of various chapters of a science fiction novel to present it to a publisher, but the preliminary translation isn’t finished yet. It’s quite difficult to get a translation done in the United States because very few translators will offer to translate a few pages of a book for free so the agent can send them to an editor. They would be guaranteed the work if the book were acquired, but it’s a risk not many translators are willing to take. And so, because all of my work is published in Spanish, it’s unlikely an editor will ever even see it.

Lisa: It was a pleasure talking to you, Daína. Thanks for your insights into translation from an author’s point of view!

Redundancies

Particularly when it comes to the body, a verb is often enough to intimate what appendage is performing the action:

* she shrugged her shoulders (what else would she shrug? her nose?)

* he nodded his head (good thing! it would have been truly odd if he’d nodded his toes!)

* she tapped her finger on the table (arm tapping is much harder to do)

* he reached his hand into X (reaching your chest takes skill most of us don’t have)

Compound Verbs

An elegant and (often) more descriptive one-word verb can often be found for these two-word excesses that simply bloat your prose:

* look for – search, hunt, seek

* clear up – clear, tidy, clean

* keep on – continue, persist, persevere

* look over - review, check, examine

Adverbs

Gabriel García Marquez abhors them and I’m starting to understand why: choose a powerful verb and they’re completely extraneous:

* ask imploringly – implore, beg, plead

* say angrily – bark, bellow, scream

* whisper quietly – whisper, murmur, mumble

* work hard – toil, sweat, grind

Adjectives

There’s no doubt this part of speech has its place, but a string of them often has the opposite effect, muddying the image instead of bringing it into sharp focus:

* an ambitious, complex project (if it’s ambitious, chances are it’s complex)

* a passionate, committed, dedicated employee (the three are synonyms and overkill)

Any other ways you can suggest to shrink your word count and improve your writing style?!

That being said, I do think it’s important to have a Web presence and have had a site since 2002. I’ve always kept it relatively current, posting each new book translation as it’s published, and updating other information as needed. Recently, my partner, Jon, redesigned the site, giving it a new look that I *adore*. (And judging from client and colleague feedback, so does everyone else!)

Most of my site traffic comes from new clients and referrals who have heard about me through traditional means. The other day, however, I received the most unexpected and welcome e-mail. The Sender was “Daína Chaviano”; the Subject was also “Daína Chaviano.” I did a double take: Could it be? Was it the Daína Chaviano who wrote Las islas de los amores infinítos, which I reviewed in Críticas back in 2006?

It was! She had been surfing the Web and came upon my site. Recognizing my name from the positive review, she dropped a note in thanks and to compliment me on my site and my list of published translations. We began a short e-mail conversation, and in a flash of inspiration, I knew I had to interview her for this blog. I am thrilled to say she has agreed and the questions are now in her hands. Daína is embroiled in writing another novel and busy campaigning for human rights in Cuba, so there is no fixed date for publication, but it will come…

I have also been in touch with the translator of The Island of Eternal Love, Andrea Labinger, who also graciously agreed to be interviewed. I expect there will be much of interest for you regarding this wonderful book and its translation, so do stay tuned.

The project is so compelling that I have already made a list of other authors and translators to approach, and will bring those interviews here as a regular feature.

Thus, the lesson to be learned from all of this? Having a Web presence may not pay off day-to-day, but without my site, none of this would have happened. Imagine what can be done if I promote it a little farther and wider.

Have you had any particularly fortuitous Web encounters?

Ms. Crispin is irreverent, but she may very well have a point:

I know Grossman just wants her hard work to be acknowledged and appreciated, and her industry as a whole to be heralded. That’s not where things stand, though. And Grossman has a little bit of power: Being at the top of her game, able to pick any assignment she wants, I bet, and being compared to Walter Benjamin, she could have changed the way we think about translation. Instead, she chose to complain about bad reviews she’s received while almost completely ignoring her own thesis: why translation matters. It matters for the same reasons art matters. Or literature, or Chopin, or public gardens, or pastry: It opens doors to new worlds and takes us out of our dreary routines and challenges us to challenge ourselves to add more beauty to our lives and rethink what normal is. It’s easy to deal with what-should-be’s, but it’s more important to take a good hard look at what actually is. Only then can we start the hard work of improving our lot.

I haven’t read Ms. Grossman’s book yet, it’s only available for pre-order. But if the allegations above are true, then I’m going to be sorely disappointed. I believe we have a duty as human beings to try and make a difference, in whatever area, in whatever way we can, large or small. Nowhere is this more true than when the eyes of the profession and the world are upon you.

Translators, as we know, are often invisible, but Edith Grossman has a name that crosses literary circles and reader divides. This was her opportunity to let the world know that oh, yes, translation matters.

One other paragraph in Jessica’s review made me laugh out loud:

Reading her list of complaints about the publishing industry — which is, yes, fucked — I wanted to ask her: How long are you going to stand outside in your best party dress and hat, banging on the door, howling because you weren’t invited to the party? Why would you even want to be invited? Have you seen who’s in there?

Given the hierarchies that exist in the elite literary translation world and considering that Ms. Grossman is clearly at the pinnacle, I’ve asked myself those very same questions. The image was particularly poignant because I once crossed paths with Edith Grossman, where I was the rain-soaked girl in the party dress hoping to be let in to the soirée.

Ms. Grossman was attending the same mini-conference I was. The group was small, all writers and translators. Here was my chance to meet and speak with a woman whose work I admired, a professional whose success I aspire to. I was so excited!

I volunteered to help out at the registration desk. Things were about to get underway and attendees were still picking up their name tags. I’d never seen a picture of Ms. Grossman – as translators we’re lucky to get our names on the title page, let alone the cover, much less a bio with a picture. I never thought to search Google Images beforehand. The next person in line approached the desk, and I asked for her name. “Edith Grossman,” came the surly reply in a deep voice. I saw little more than flared nostrils when I looked up with a smile. I think I mumbled something about it being lovely to have her there before she silently took her tag, turned peremptorily, and took a seat. Any dream I had of an engaging and inspiring conversation dropped like a dirty bath towel into a heap of laundry.

I will certainly order a copy of Why Translation Matters. I anxiously look forward to reading it (though at a safe distance, without the risk of being summarily dismissed by her rude indifference!). I like to think there are lessons to be learned from Ms. Grossman’s experience and I like to think the world will listen, finally giving literary translation its due.

Let me know your thoughts – on the book, Edith Grossman, the reviews, why translation matters, crossing paths with an idol… whatever you’d care to share.

As I’ve said here before, translating a novel feels a bit like joyfully finding out you’re about to have a child, carrying that child until your belly is so heavy and you’re so tired it’s all you can do to take the next step, then suddenly having that child be college age and you’re watching it head out the door into a world that can be alternately wonderful and cruel. It’s scary. Novels are my babies and they occupy my mind, heart and soul for as long as the project lasts, so hitting that “Send” button and suddenly being left without it requires a bit of a grieving process. I’m thrilled to have my life back and yet rather lonely without my constant companion.

I’m the sixth child and this is my sixth novel. Like my parents must have felt with me, this time was a bit easier. Monday afternoon my nerves were tingling on the surface of my skin and a word, a look, a thought brought tears to my eyes. But by the next day, fully ensconced in an urgent deadline, I felt, well, back to normal. The editor had replied to say he’d received the manuscript, to thank me for being on time and so attentive to detail (I’d sent him a list of aspects I thought he should consider when editing!), and that he would pass my notes on to the copyeditor.

It seems this book is going straight from translation to copyediting, bypassing the editing stage. The two are quite different: one looks at the novel as a whole (plot, story, character development), while the other looks at it in infinite detail (grammar, punctuation, style). My notes were definitely for the editing phase, not something a copyeditor is responsible for. Hmm… In years past this would have infuriated me: That’s not right! It’s not fair! The book deserves/needs an editor’s eyes! They’re not going to check X or Y with the author? Etc. Etc.

This time it just led to me wonder yet again why I fret and worry and labor over every single aspect of a translation when others involved in bringing a book to the world are so seemingly cavalier. The question hadn’t even fully formed and the answer was already ringing in my head: Because that’s what I do. I care. I am vested in my translations. It’s a translator’s job to dissect and look at a book from every angle in order to capture every one of its nuances, and our responsibility to point out inconsistencies, errors, comments and suggestions because we have the book’s best interest at heart. Because novel translations are my babies and deserve the very best that I can give them. But at a certain point, when it’s out of my hands and making it’s way in the world, I have to let go.

In the meantime, Jon redesigned my site (if you hadn’t noticed, take a look around!), and in every e-mail I found the time to write, I asked friends and family for their opinion. My dearest friend, Naomi, replied, ”I did go to your new website and it is fabulous.  You sound so much like you love what you do!  If only it could be that way all of the time.”

Oops. It became clear to me I had ranted about my work woes a little too much, for a little too long. It got me to thinking: I love what I do, don’t I? So why do I get so cranky and give the impression I don’t?

It’s all a matter of balance. The stress of working long hours can take the fun out of any job. Novels are the highlight of my career, the work I most love to do, but they are long, involved projects. Because I can’t say no to my regular clients for months at a time, I find myself continually stretched to the limit. No one is going to get anything but the very best I can give them, so I take the time needed to read each job carefully, translate it well, and revise it closely.

Is this cycle of love and exhaustion just part and parcel of what it means to run my own business? Will I find that elusive middle ground I’ve been striving to find for the past 7 years (at least)? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I know I have to keep it front and center as I plan my business strategy, let it be a major factor I consider every time a new job and deadline are there to be negotiated.

Do you ride the same roller coaster? Any personal experiences or strategies to share? They’d surely be welcome…