2011 roundup

I had big plans for this blog in December, but ah well. This month has somehow completely passed me by.

Favourite books you’ve read this year, anyone? It’s always hard; the most recent are often stronger in the mind, but I think these would have to be mine.

Eliot Weinberger was my favourite ‘discovery’ this year. I’m slowly reading, now, his Works on Paper and Outside Stories, after having devoured Oranges and Peanuts for Sale, An Elemental Thing and Karmic Traces. I could afford to be greedy and read those quickly because there were many more to come, but now I’m painfully aware that I need to make these ones last.

Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad. It seems to have become fashionable to find this novel lacking, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s masterly. I mean, really, look at how good she is at telling a story, and telling not just one story but many, and in all different ways. Her imagination is breathtaking, and there is such sparky energy running throughout. I think all that pooh-poohing is sour grapes.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s A Pale View of Hills utterly captivated me. I kept asking myself, What is so intriguing? Why am I so madly turning the pages? I was amazed at how he could write of such quotidian things and make them so imbued with meaning and tension. And at how he could create dialogue and characters in English that sounded so Japanese. The constant diffusing of socially unstable situations through laughter, the ‘high-context’ communication…all of this was somehow represented in a way that made you feel the characters’ discomfort and relief. And there is a scene there that uses simple repetition to explode everything you believed about the narrator and her professed lack of feeling any sense of culpability with regard to her daughter’s suicide. There, two scenes become confused in the narrator’s mind, and the signal that this is happening is through the repetition of one image. Powerful, powerful stuff.

Sybille Bedford’s Jigsaw. Another energetic book, an artful autobiography that made me wish I could meet the writer behind it. And the lovely thing about these last two? I was put onto both by blogs, the first by Who killed the pork chops? and the second by Joe Case for The killings blog.

Special mentions go to Rachael Carson’s The Sea around Us, Edmund de Waal’s The Hare with Amber Eyes, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc’s Random Family and Kirstel Thornell’s Night Street. All up, I’ve read 59 books this year, and have started many more. I think I might have to make a promise not to start anything new in January, because some of the unfinished ones are in the back of my mind, whispering words of my unfaithfulness…

Happy Christmas! Thanks for reading, and especially thanks to those who’ve taken the time to participate: your comments have always been enlightening and such a joy to read, and it’s been so kind of you to take the time to show me that my thoughts haven’t been completely lost in the ether — thank you.

Happy holiday reading; this blog will swing back into things in Feb, with a few new ideas for how to rearrange the furniture here.

Yawning through Game of thrones

That's right, there IS one piece of eye candy, at least

I don’t get it. What is it about Game of Thrones that has people I know — and not just men — waxing lyrical? And what is HBO doing screening it?

I hate being a spoil sport but I find it so boring. Nudity seems to be thrown in there mechanically and for no other reason than because the makers can (nothing like — sigh — the nudity in True Blood). It’s incredibly sexist, but not in any way that highlights women’s difficulties under such a system or that brings home the effects of this (unlike Mad Men …  and not to forget that this is fantasy, so women could have played any role the writers dreamed up). Its dialogue is wooden — sometimes laughably so — and serves to explain and explain again what we can already see. And the characters are ridiculous types (oh! here is the fat guy who gets picked on who our hero will stand up for, proving his gallantry! And oh! fat guy now repays favour with loyalty!). Even the feisty little girl is a snotty classist shit.

Worst of all, the above is all there is to it. There is nothing else, no other layer, no depth to submerge yourself in. This is no Battlestar Gallactica or True Blood, with their social commentary and concern to reflect a reality of today, achieved despite — or rather, through — their speculative setting. There was one grace (not a saving one, because the series is beyond that): the hot horse dude (above left, for your viewing pleasure) dies and so the blond chick must now take back power herself, not use her brother or husband to do so.

Can anyone tell me what is so riveting? (Seriously, I’m really interested to understand this fascination! Don’t let my rant above put you off, it’s the frustration of not feeling it :-) ).

ABC Radio National broadcast

A while ago, ABC Radio National First Person producer Justine Sloan-Lees very kindly invited me to read out the essay I had published in Kill Your Darlings 6, ‘Untying the tongue’. In the studio she was extremely patient with my slip-ups and stumbles, with my nervous fidgeting of feet under the desk (the mic was picking the sound of me crossing and uncrossing them, apparently). Anyway, the result was broadcast last Friday and is now available online: you can listen to it via the First Person website.

Rutherford and Grossman translations of Don Quixote

Given that the latest Killings Culture Club podcast is on Don Quixote, I thought it would be timely to comment on its latest translations into English: John Rutherford’s 2001 Penguin Classics edition, and Edith Grossman’s 2003 HarperCollins/Vintage edition. The best way to do this is by looking at the details, at the choices the translators made in their use of language, so, here goes.

Rutherford’s use of contractions gives a more conversational tone; Grossman’s avoidance of them gives her version a higher register, but at times means the rhythm of her sentences labour under a certain stiffness (compare Rutherford’s ‘But this doesn’t matter much, as far as our story’s concerned’ to Grossman’s ‘But this does not matter very much to our story’). The different registers are also visible in the translators’ word choices: Rutherford often opts for Anglo-Saxon phrasal verbs, Grossman for the Latinate equivalents: compare ‘ate up three-quarters of his income’ to ‘consumed three-fourths of his income’.

Rutherford tends to privilege the effect on the reader; Grossman, the source text: ‘mozo de campo y plaza‘ is translated by Grossman as ‘man-of-all-work’ and by Rutherford as ‘jack of all trades’. Literally, Grossman is closer to the meaning (someone who does all the work, as opposed to someone capable of doing all the work), but Rutherford presents a cleaner-sounding English.

And now, what is for me the clincher: Rutherford privileges the work’s humour, which isn’t just an instance of him looking towards the translation’s readers; at the same time he is conveying Cervantes’ ironic intentions. For example, ‘Tenía en su casa una ama que pasaba de los cuarenta, y una sobrina que no llegaba a los veinte’ is rendered ‘He maintained a housekeeper the wrong side of forty, a niece the right side of twenty’. ‘The wrong/right side of’ isn’t present in the original but Rutherford uses it to emphasise the comic tone of the text, which is partly achieved through the rhythm of ‘pasaba‘ (passed) and ‘llegaba’ (arrived at), direct translations of which lose the rhyme and thus the drawing of the attention towards the comparison, i.e. Grossman’s ‘He had a housekeeper past forty, a niece not yet twenty’. Repeating ‘side’ remedies this.

Rutherford often seizes upon chances to introduce strong rhythms to his sentences, which also aid in conveying the source text’s sense of irony. Cervantes writes, ‘Una olla de algo más vaca que carnero’, which Grossman translates as ‘An occasional stew, beef more often than lamb’. Interestingly, the introduction of the phrase ‘more often’ suggests that the meats are not stewed together, which is perhaps an act of cultural adaptation, given that in the Anglo context, combining meats in a stew isn’t a common practice. Yet the overall meaning is the same and no details are added. Rutherford, on the other hand, adds the words ‘shin’ and ‘leg’ in order to create a strong, almost sing-song rhythm of alternating hard and soft stresses in the final part of his sentence: ‘A midday stew with rather more shin of beef than leg of lamb’. Sing-songy, isn’t it? See how he adds a jolly, tongue-in-check element through the rhythm he creates? And so much of meaning is in form, so it’s important to carry this across.

So, you know my personal choice. Both are excellent, though, and the appearance of Grossman’s was responsible for a renewed interest in the tome among readers in, at least, the USA. But I also wanted to mention a lovely detail. Grossman’s translation is followed by Rutherford’s; they’re both of the opening sentence:

Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and an ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.

In a village in La Mancha, the name of which I cannot quite recall, there lived not long ago one of those country gentleman or hidalgos who keeps a lance in a rack, an ancient leather shield, a scrawny hack and a greyhound for coursing.

As pointed out by writer Gregorio Martínez in ‘Don Quijote y el galgo fantasma’, published in Perú.21 on 23 April 2006, that greyhound is an invention of translations into English. According to him, in the Spanish of Cervantes (and this may be controversial), the phrase ‘galgo corredor‘ is adjectival: Cervantes is describing the horse as greyhound-like, i.e. skinny. So in being carried into English, Quixote has acquired another companion.

Caroline Caddy’s Burning Bright

Caroline Caddy’s ninth collection of poetry, Burning Bright, brings together acutely observant poems that often centre on an experience; each experience holds the speaker’s intense attention and is turned this way and that until all its angles are illuminated. The poems focus on image and, in something of an homage to this focus, a number are set in China, perhaps a thematic echo of the fact that the development of such poetry in the English language owes much to early-twentieth-century translations of Classical Chinese poems. Yet the tone is conversational, making even more potent the poems’ sometimes arresting imagery.

A central theme of the collection is the intersection of culture and environment, as well as the way human beings are shaped by the places we inhabit.

Read the rest of this review over at HEAT Poetry Online.

Why there will always be too many books

This is the reading trail that Oranges and Peanuts for Sale has led me on, and they’re all books I hadn’t heard of before. Imagine the bullet points as stepping stones, and as far less orderly than they appear:
  • Weinberger’s An Elemental Thing (2007)
  • Weinberger’s Karmic Traces (2001)
  • Nirad C. Chaudhuri’s The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian (1951)
  • Kenneth Cox’s Collected Studies in the Uses of English (2001)

I recently started Karmic Traces, and the wonder just keeps on multiplying — you would think by now I would be used to Weinberger’s style, but it still bowls me over. His use of images is what’s so compelling, I think; In ‘Jon, Olaf’s Son’ in Karmic Traces, an early-seventeenth-century Icelander becomes a sailor. It’s an epic story constructed through images — sometimes lists of them, and usually unadorned because the fact of them, and the effect that listing them has, is wondrous enough — as he goes from naiveté to worldliness.

Also compelling is the way he compresses these images (and compresses them more and more as the essay goes on), as well as the way he chooses disparate facts to sit beside each other; the tension between them makes them seem even stranger, even more astonishing. One example, also in Karmic Traces, is ‘James Laughlin’, a biography of the founder of New Directions. It starts off normal enough, with paragraphs that seamlessly lead from one to the other. But by the time we get to the final paragraph, it’s a sentence followed by one other, very long one, with ideas separated by semi-colons. Ideas that could have been paragraphs (or essays) in themselves are listed; the following is just the final four:

he sent Clinton — whom he called “Smiley” — a copy of Pound’s ABC of Economics as an inaugural gift; he was self-absorbed and generous, hedonistic and depressive, obstinate and remarkably receptive; those he published and those he didn’t never stopped complaining about him; sheep grazed on his lawn in Connecticut.

In ‘The Post-National Writer’, Weinberger mentions a ‘Bengali Proust’, which led to me hunt down Chauhduri’s work, the second autobiography set in the first half of the twentieth century that has had me hooked this year (the other was Sybille Bedford’s Jigsaw).

And in ‘Kenneth Cox’, this is what Weinberger had to say: ‘There are certain writers who live long and write little, whose every line reflects long rumination and endless revision, and who achieve an almost mineral hard perfection’ (59). After maybe a month of my thoughts returning to this Cox, I decided to try to track down his collection, too — it was $150 second-hand online, so I emailed the small publisher, Agenda Editions. Yes, someone responded; there were still a few copies for 10 pounds, he could pop one in the post straight away. And, in a nice, slightly archaic, certainly lovely move, he wouldn’t hear of me paying until I’d confirmed its arrival in my letterbox, in case it got lost in the mail.

Funny, he said, in a later email, another Australian has ordered it just now. I wonder if that person, spurred by Weinberger’s visit to Australia, followed the same trail as me?

Which authors have led you to discover other treasures?

Eliot Weinberger on translation

All from Oranges and Peanuts for Sale, all food for thought:

Poetry operates under its own version of chaos theory: the unpredictable effects of remote, sometimes forgotten causes. A 4th century poet from Gupta India, Kalidasa, becomes a founding father of German Romanticism; Buddhist Jataka tales turn up in Chaucer; a Finnish pseudo-folk epic sets the beat for the pseudo-folk epic called “Hiawatha”; an 11th century Persian, Omar the Tentmaker (Khayyam) transfixes the Victorians … and, in the 20th century, American poetry is inextricable from classical Chinese poetry and the Chinese language itself. (16)

Many of the golden ages of a national liberature have been, not at all coincidentally, periods of active and prolific translation. Conversely, cultures that do not translate stagnate, and end up repeating the same things to themselves. … But translation is much more than an offering of new trinkets in the literary bazaar. Translation liberates the translation-language. Because a translation will always be read as a translation, as something foreign, it is freed from many of the constraints of the currently accepted norms and conventions in the national literature. (170)

One of the great spurs to translation is a cultural inferiority complex or a national self-loathing. (171)

Paradoxically, the rise of multiculturalism may have been the worst thing to happen to translation. The original multiculturalist critique of the Eurocentrism of the canon and so forth did not lead — as I, for one, hoped it would — to a new internationalism, where Worsworth would be read alongside Wang Wei, the Greek andthology next to Vidyakara’s Treasury, Ono no Komachi with H. D. Instead it led to a new form of nationalism, one that was salutary in its inclusion of the previously excluded, but one that limited itself strictly to Americans, albeit hypehnated ones. (173)

There is no text that cannot be translated; there are only texts that have not yet found their translators. (183)

An excellent article by Lisa Waller has just gone up over at Inside Story if you don’t mind a bit of steam coming out your ears re this country’s politicians.

On representing people in writing

I’ve been thinking about the ethics of representation lately.

Making people into characters constrained by a narrative thrust is always going to be an exercise in simplifying them: it’s an unavoidable side-effect of choosing events to highlight and others to overlook, of drawing out cause-and-effect relationships, and of making them less complex in order to make them understandable. And the character is always, of course, nothing more than a version of the person, and a perception of the version at that.

But I stop myself mid-reflex whenever I feel inclined to justify to myself my portrayals of people by citing the above. I think it’s something to keep in mind when reading, but when writing, it’s a little too convenient. And it pays to remember that many readers don’t read non-fiction — even the more personal kinds such as memoir or biography — as just one version of the truth, and neither do the people portrayed usually shrug it off as such, given that it is a version that is perceived as enduring. Read the full post »

Weinberger’s Oranges and Peanuts for Sale

I’ve just found out that my greatest discovery at the Melbourne Writer’s Festival was an author I didn’t see. A week or so ago, after watching Ramona Koval’s interview with him via Slow TV, I thought he might be worth checking out. I thought about ordering his latest book; didn’t; forgot about it; then remembered one day and decided, What the hell.

It arrived yesterday and it’s made me all jumpy and tingly in the way I get when something excites me and has me utterly under its spell. Where to begin? I guess with the statement that I don’t know how I have somehow missed Eliot Weinberger all my life, but that I am now, officially, hooked: I want to read all his books and have even found myself wondering what a typical day and his writing process might look like (you’ll know why if you read him: how does he come to know so much?). That doesn’t usually happen to me; I can’t think of any other author I’ve wondered about in this way. Read the full post »

Story of a desk

This is what my corner used to look like:

Now, it looks like this:

The desk just came in a truck from the country, heaved inside by two bulls of men, one of whom rose up in indignation at the young woman who tooted her horn when forced to wait twenty seconds behind his truck, which was blocking the narrow street (‘I just need to…’ she started, but he made a flat palm in her direction; ‘That’s alright, just don’t toot’).

He was nimble despite his size, and I wanted to explain — to tell him not to be so put out, that it’s different here in the city, that the pace is faster and tooting isn’t as rude, that it’s more an expected demonstration of impatience. But he had swung himself up into the cab and was soon advancing down the dead-end street. Once she had zipped past him he was on his way, reversing towards home. Read the full post »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.