I enjoyed reading Lawrence Venuti’s article in the most recent issue of Translation Review, though I found myself at odds with its academic jargon at times, its incessant referring to “the global circulation of texts,” “the global hegemony of English,” and what I take to be other abstractions.
Recounting his experience of translating J.V. Foix’s Daybook 1918 and seeking a publisher for it, Venuti makes the claim — in no way contentious, I do not think — that the work in translation of authors writing in a minority language (as Foix in Catalan) faces an additional hurdle to earning the attention of readers, especially that special class of readers: editors and publishers.
I took bittersweet consolation in reading of Venuti’s bootless attempts to publish his translations of Foix’s prose poems, which met with a “succession of rejections” from publishers “unable to appreciate Foix in English (or perhaps my English).” A bittersweet consolation, because as a translator I too have received a “succession of rejections” from publishers, and because I learned that the difficulties I face there are faced equally by the likes of someone as accomplished as Venuti. Of course that latter point could just as soon be reason for discouragement as for consolation: if Venuti in his laurels can’t get a contract for his Foix book, I’m not likely to fare much better, lowly upstart I am.
But what struck me most is that Venuti names names and quotes a number of prominent publishers in their rejection letters to him. (Whether he obtained their permission to do so was something I asked myself about; his commentary on their remarks I found subtly barbed, but perhaps I was projecting.) This is a lovely thing but far too specialized for our list, wrote Jonathan Galassi, president and publisher of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. I cannot get close to this work, said Jack Shoemaker, editorial director of Counterpoint Press. Nor did the project seem a good fit to Jill Schoolman, editor-in-chief of Archipelago Books, despite her appreciation of certain qualities of the work.
So the struggle that is literary translation goes on. This is just how it is.
Venuti, Lawrence. “Translation, Publishing, and World Literature: J.V. Foix’s Daybook 1918 and the Strangeness of Minority.” Translation Review 95: 8-24. 2016.
Newly out and available for purchase: Sonofabook Magazine #2, published in Britain by CB editions! Four chapters from my translation of Pierre Senges’ Geometry in the Dust were selected for publication by Sophie Lewis, who guest edited the issue. Together we selected a good sequence of chapters that captures what the book is about. Alongside the translation a handful of Killoffer’s drawings are printed too; that’s good, because those drawings form an integral part of the book.
The issue also features work by Salim Barakat, Luke Carman, Julián Herbert, Adriana Lisboa, Emmanuelle Pagano, Taras Prokhasko, Pierre Reverdy, and Gabrielle Wittkop.
My latest published translation, Suite by Pierre Senges, is published today at The White Review. I am very grateful to Daniel Medin for including it in this third annual online translation issue. I am very happy with this publication, because I think The White Review has a wide readership, and I think that ‘Suite’ is a very powerful piece of prose.
And if you like that kind of thing, be sure to read these other translations of Senges I had published in 2014: Anything Goes by Cole Porter, Many Ways to Stuff a Watermelon, and chapters one and three of Geometry in the Dust. (And more in the oven!)
Gorse is a Dublin-based literary journal that first came to my attention sometime last year.
I really love the visual appearance of Gorse. The distinctive geometric pastel motifs of its cover are super evocative, though I can’t say of what. There’s a strong grain or texture to the motifs, a certain way that the ink bleeds onto the paper of the original design that is utterly unique. Niall McCormack is the artist responsible behind that.
Noticing that Gorse had published literature in translation before (in issue 3, some poems by Thomas Bernhard, Hölderlin, and Georg Trakl, translated by Will Stone), this February I sent in a translation of a short piece of writing, ‘Façons, Contrefaçons,’ by Pierre Senges, who is one of my favorite authors. I am most grateful to editor Susan Tomaselli for selecting it, and for mailing me two contributor copies of Gorse #4.
I translated and had this text published for the same reason that I have translated other of Senges’s texts — because upon reading it (in les écrits #132, where it was published in 2011), I thought it was brilliant, and I wanted to be able to read the text in English. My French is good, but for any extended reading of a literary text, I must open a dictionary if I want to understand everything, or nearly everything.
Contrefaçons means counterfeiting or forgery, and the text is none other than a counterfeiter’s soliloquy addressed to a silent stranger – the reader – who shows up at his door at midnight, who is admitted entrance, and is – truly – given a counterfeit bill before being sent on his (or her) way.
I like to think that the playing card (bookmark) that was included with the first 150 individually numbered copies is the counterfeit bill our host plies us with. Also, I would note that this playing card seems to suggest an eventual reunion of either the contributors to issue #4 — voilà:
— or any number of possible combinations of players holding cards to make a full deck.
And just now, belatedly, I’ve noticed the overlapping, beguiling presence of hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs in McCormack’s motif, all at the same time, or in alternating focus. The loose idea of this adjoins with Tomaselli’s far-roving editorial essay, ‘Wonder is Really Nothing,’ discussing Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland, and various tangential matters.
I will never know exactly how many people eventually read “Making, Faking,” but it is probably some of the best exposure my writings/translations have yet enjoyed. Gorse is sold in fine bookstores. Unless you live in Ireland, you can get a copy of it shipped to you anywhere in the world, whether you’re in Uruguay or Singapore or Key West, for about €25.
Stéphane Mallarmé’s Un Coup de dés n’abolira jamais le hasard (c. 1898) is often referenced as if it were the mother of all neglected and obscure works. This may have been true in decades or centuries past, but in the 2010s it’s a claim that no longer holds water. Witness the following:
Mark Amerika’s CRAPSHOOT, which went live in 2015, a a generative, interactive hypertextual remix that mimics the form of Mallarmé’s poem.
Published in 2015 by Wave Books, Jeff Clark and Robert Bononno’s translation of the poem, supplemented by photographic images. They discuss their work on the translation and presentation here, at PoetrySociety.org. (At Amazon, a portion of the book is available for preview.)
My own 2015 translation of the poem and its preface, soon to be published in Vestiges, the print publication of Black Sun Lit.
At a Center for the Art of Translation event in 2012, Richard Howard read his translation of “Afternoon of a Fawn” and discussed why he declined — even for +$20,000 — to translate Un Coup de dés.
Lastly, though, if you really want to understand this work’s full significance, look to Quentin Meillasoux’s The Number and the Siren (originally published by Fayard, 2011; brilliantly — and I don’t mean that lightly — translated by Robin Mackay, 2012, available from Urbanomic). Text from the publisher’s website:
Un Coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard constitutes perhaps the most radical break in the history of modern poetry: the fractured lines spanning the double page, the typographical play borrowed from the poster form, the multiplication of interpolations disrupting reading. But the intrigue of this poem is still stranger, always resistant to full elucidation. We encounter a shipwreck, and a Master, himself almost submerged, who clasps in his hand the dice that, confronted by the furious waves, he hesitates to throw. The hero expects this throw, if it takes place, to be extraordinarily important: a Number said to be ‘unique’ and which ‘can be no other’.
The decisive point of the investigation proposed by Meillassoux comes with a discovery, unsettling and yet as simple as a child’s game. All the dimensions of the Number, understood progressively, articulate between them but one sole condition: that this Number should ultimately be delivered to us by a secret code, hidden in the Coup de dés like a key that finally unlocks every one of its poetic devices. Thus is also unveiled the meaning of that siren, emerging for a lightning-flash amongst the debris of the shipwreck: as the living heart of a drama that is still unfolding.
Lastly, and somewhat unrelatedly, but why the hell not, an ocean of links to drown in (– shipwreck that –)
Earlier this year (2015, magic year, magic number), soprano Marisol Montalvo sang Pierre Boulez’s “Pli selon pli” live with L’Ensemble Intercontemporain conducted by Matthias Pintscher. (“Pli selon Pli” is a set of five songs based on poems by Stéphane Mallarmé.)
This review first appeared in an issue of Galleon Literary Journal. Galleon is now accepting submissions for its fourth issue.
Reviewed: Radio (a novel), by Tõnu Õnnepalu, 2002. Trans. Adam Cullen. Dalkey Archive Press, 2014. 650 pgs.
There is no literature anymore, there are just single books that arrive in bookstores, just as letters, newspapers, advertising pamphlets arrive in mailboxes. (…) World literature! That sounds just as hollow as ‘peace-keeping force.’ Some kind of world literature may still exist in the brain of some well-intentioned professor in Eastern Europe.
– Tõnu Õnnepalu, Border State, trans. Madli Puhvel, Northwestern UP, 2000, p. 88
Through prose ruminations, a diary of sorts, a middle-aged gay man tries to solve the puzzle of his former wife’s disappearance. The result is an alluring psychological portrait of the narrator, who is, among other things, a documentary film-maker from Estonia. That’s a summary outline of Radio (Raadio, 2002; trans. Adam Cullen, 2014), which follows Õnnepalu’s first novel, Border State (Piiririik, 1993) as the second of Õnnepalu’s books to be translated into English. The two books share a number of characteristics in common, mainly relating to the invention of similar narratorial personae suffering from similar types of emotional pain, romantic and otherwise. Both works were published under the pseudonym Emil Tode, and both are narrated by Estonian expatriates with ties to Paris.
Radio starts, oddly enough, with a discussion of the cost of a bus ticket from Tallinn to Tartu, the city to which the narrator is returning in 2002 after a decade living in Paris. This period roughly coincided, we learn, with his “marriage” to Liz Franz. Of necessity, everything we learn about Franz is colored by the narrator’s conflicted emotional state. Who is Franz really, independent of our only semi-reliable narrator? It’s an issue the text implicitly raises, although we cannot access her, anymore than the narrator can. Objectively, she is an Estonian-Russian singer who had a handful of radio hits in the seventies. To the narrator, she has all the prestige and grand theatricality of Maria Callas; though the peak of her glory has passed, in his eyes she remains a goddess. As a young boy, he fell in love with her voice and image. It’s recognisably a case of gay male diva worship that persists into the present, although it’s become intensely complicated.
Their “marriage,” which is not a legal union, but rather the narrator’s term for their difficult-to-categorize relationship¬, comes about after a series of initial trysts in the 1990s in Paris. The ambiguous romance (they’re both gay) rapidly cools, though with sexual favors exchanged and prolonged cohabitation. But Franz travels often, sometimes living with an international real-estate mogul. Her regular gifts of money to the narrator become a crucial element in the narrator’s psychology; the notion that he is a “housewife,” a kept man or gigolo to Liz Franz, vexes him. He can’t let go of it, it is the very core of his anxiety, and the reason he is so obsessed with Franz, from whom he’s been estranged on and off for years. “I’ve been working on the subject of Liz Franz for eleven years. Am I starting to get the hang of it?” he asks, painfully.
He is starting to get the hang of it, though. Õnnepalu’s uncanny ability to inhabit his first-person narrator is astounding, and the book stands as an excellent fusion of psychological realism and formal artifice. As a fully imagined character, the narrator also has the vague familiarness of a recognizable “type.” More than anything else, perhaps, his namelessness serves to underline this fact (and also to echo the condition of Proust’s narrator). Other traits (political apathy, religious indifference, coldness towards his family) reinforce the sense that the speaker is a representative of the so-called modern condition. The voice is confident, off-the-cuff, unwavering and immediate. But, due to a reluctance to confront the painful central topic outright, the forty-five chapters unfold by and large through a process of avoidance and deferral. From the start, digressions revolving around minor characters and motifs threaten to overwhelm and bury the Liz Franz question; but it inevitably presses into the narrative in a slow and steady time-release. Observations and analogies concerning biology, anthropology, economics, psychoanalysis, immunology and other miscellaneous disciplines forestall development, arising unannounced and passing with an effervescent lightness that makes them very digestible and stimulating, never heavy-handed. For instance, the quest for a sexual and romantic partner is analogized to the logic of economic markets. Or: “In the psychic aspect, the capacity to forget evidently plays the part of the immune system.” There’s also some excellent factual encapsulations of life, land, culture, and history in Estonia which make Radio a great introduction to the north Baltic region—what was once, we learn, Old Livonia, a kingdom partly in Latvia, partly in Estonia.
In fact, these strong historical and geopolitical registers make Radio very contemporary, and also seem to indicate that it was written with an international audience in mind. Like the opening scene that discusses the relative purchasing power of francs, Euros, and kroons, a number of features suggest a desire to go beyond the idea of the nation. A fascination for borders is made explicit in the title of an art film the narrator made about border-crossing points across Europe—it’s called “Les Frontières”—just as Border State also foregrounds political divisions. Given that Border State was widely translated in Europe and elsewhere, Õnnepalu certainly had reason to expect that Radio too would travel abroad to reach non-Estonian readers with the directness of an airborne radio transmission. The narrator’s verbal tic of parenthetically weaving French idioms into his speech similarly calls attention to the in-betweenness of identity and the condition of bilingualism.
The plot development and pacing are slow, but that’s exactly the point; the style and form are capacious, issuing from a monkish patience and discipline. (At the book’s middle chapter, the narrator imagines leading an ideal life as a Cistercian monk in a medieval Estonian monastery, living quietly alongside other reserved gay men.) And by the conclusion, Radio effects a full dramatic reversal and catharsis which validate and redeem the process leading there. If Radio succeeds through its nearly six hundred pages, as I believe it does, it’s in large part due to the delicate balance of self-pity and stoicism, of complaint and resignation, that its singular voice strikes. In its almost architectural organisation of material, Radio is a lucid and beautiful monument to solitude.
There’s a new interview with acclaimed American novelist Joseph McElroy in the latest issue of Golden Handcuffs Review: “In the Port of Possibility: Interview with Joseph McElroy,” by Jacob Siefring. There’s other good stuff in there, including a translation from Harry Mathews of Marie Chaix, essays on Walter Abish, work by David Antin, Toby Olson, Rae Armantrout, Steve Katz, Bernard Hoepffner and more. So maybe worth buying that one, or better yet subscribing to Golden Handcuffs Review.
For context, I would also point out the numerous other interviews with McElroy have appeared over the years (see especially that which Tom Leclair did in the late 1970s and that which Trey Strecker did for Rain Taxi in 2003 (unlike the LeClair, it is freely available online)).
It’s also worth pointing out that a previous issue of Golden Handcuffs Review was devoted to McElroy’s work (#14, Winter/Spring 2011), and that pretty much all the articles are available online — or almost all. Well worth the time as an introduction to McElroy’s work, if you’re not familiar with it. Not to mention McElroy’s stories which appeared at Golden Handcuffs in years past and which are available online: “The Last Disarmament But One”; “Character”; and “The Campaign Trail,” collected in Night Soul and Other Stories (Dalkey Archive, 2011).
All posts on this site about Joseph McElroy are archived here.
I’m quite proud of a long essay I wrote on Aimé Césaire’s poetry (specifically, the collection Solar Throat Slashed (1948) and the long poem “Notebook of a Return to the Native Land” (1939, 1947, 1956)).
The essay is featured in Issue 36 of The Quarterly Conversation, alongside writing by Laura Sims, Steve Donoghue, Scott Esposito, Daniel Green and several others. Check it out. Free as the breeze.
“My father had, let us call it, a tendency toward schizophrenia. […] By the age of four, although I could not read, I knew what a headline was, what a lead story was, which columnists were respectable and which were not (I learned to loathe Westbrook Pegler before I was in kindergarten), and so on. I learned what the Times represented, and what the Daily News represented, and the difference between the News and the Mirror, and who Old Man Hearst was, and what was wrong with Roy Howard (Head of the Scripps-Howard chain), and on and on.”
– George W.S. Trow, My Pilgrim’s Progress: Media Studies, 1950-1998 (p. 11)