The first book I translated, The Major Refutation by Pierre Senges (La réfutation majeure, 2004) is at long last available for purchase from the publisher and many fine booksellers.
The full title is The Major Refutation: English version of Refutatio major, attributed to Antonio de Guevara (1480–1545). The publisher is Contra Mundum Press (on other occasions the publisher of Miklós Szentkuthy and lots of other interesting authors). Here is the publicity page at Contra Mundum’s website, where you will find a link to a free 25-page sample.
The better part of this book is essentially a Renaissance treatise addressed to Charles V. According to its author, the New World would be an illusory, non-existent land, the object of a collective fraud perpetrated by a coalition of cartographers, merchants and government actors, all greedy for gain. Sound familiar? Plus ça change…
It took a long time – many months, much worry over etymologies and syntax, a touch of my sanity; a willing editor/publisher; countless queries to the author, who encouraged me in my efforts. All that and much more. It took a special perversity, too, to refute the continent of my birth, and a special pleasure.
Is that journey over, now that the book is published? I think it stays with me. So many of its passages are seared into my mind. They are already starting to fade from memory. Then perhaps some years from now I will pick up the book, and remember the sentences anew.
The retail price of the book is $16 or $18 USD, depending on who you buy from. Give a copy to that special truther in your life. Ask your local librarian to acquire a copy. Tell your colleagues at work about it to make them suspicious. Read it for fun.
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.
Pierce Penniless His Supplication to the Devil (1590s) – Thomas Nashe (stuck)
“The Avenger” (1838) – Thomas De Quincey
Erik Satie (1930) – Pierre-Daniel Templier (trans. E.L. French & D.S French, 1969)
The Man in the High Castle (1962) – Philip K. Dick
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Erdritch (1964) – Philip K. Dick
Nothing Like the Sun (1964) – Anthony Burgess
Peace (1975) – Gene Wolfe
The Mechanic Muse (1987) – Hugh Kenner
by the same author (2014) – jack robinson
“France tolerates extremes of heterodoxy and outrageous behavior because it knows that ultimately no one will be harmed: the life of the nation will scarcely be touched. The avant-garde formed first in France because there was an artistic tradition of defiance, and it has lasted longer there because the country as a whole has only reluctantly taken to heart the lessons of its own most venturesome talents. France is innoculated against itself. In the United States, any active avant-garde is so rapidly absorbed by the cultural market that it scarcely has time to form and find a name. Like the profound stability of the ocean beneath its waves and storms, there is a great reservoir of indifference and conservatism in the French which has sustained a dynamic culture.”
– Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant-Garde in France, 1885 to World War I: Alfred Jarry, Henri Rousseau, Erik Satie, Guillaume Apollinaire (Vintage, 1968), pp. 42
(Whether this is true anymore today, who knows; I doubt it. Roger Shattuck’s excellent book appeared in 1955. I have resumed work on a reflection on Satie which I began long ago and found this in my notes, and I thought of you.)
Statistics reveal that Caucasians in the United States are dying earlier, I recall reading some months back in a national newspaper. Alcoholism, addiction, and suicide play no small part there, it said. Southern Ohio, where I grew up, is no exception. Stories reach me now of the early deaths of my former associates: a cousin of mine, a chronic alcoholic who survived numerous car crashes, once severed his carotid artery, and was saved by doctors. Years later he dove into shallow water and was paralyzed; he died two years later from meningitis. The neighbor-boy down the street from where I grew up died last year of an overdose (opiates, I presume). My one-time tennis teacher drank himself to death, my parents factually inform me. (He was 41; he might have had a new liver, but refused to abjure alcohol.) The Daubenmire boy is dead too (opiates or heroin). The younger brother of one of my classmates, a Navy cryptographer, took his own life. There is no end to these stories.
NEPEAN, ONTARIO. It is snowing now, and I feel more caught-off guard than ever before. Why would that be, when I have lived in Québec, then Ontario, for over eight years already? Why does the arrival of the first snowfall leave me feeling unprepared, threatened even? I cannot say. Better to live in this clime than in a nation to the south that is teetering now on the brink of fascism. And yet I do not feel entirely at home.
I was in the dumps before the shit hit the fan. After the catastrophic events of Tuesday, I go on, mired in the same uncertainty as everyone, reading The Life of Tymon of Athens, Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great, consulting my preferred source of ultra-contemporary information and opinings (Twitter), wracked with doubts as to the goodwill of the American electorate.
I am luckier than some, nay, than so many, if not all. Though I’m American, I live in Canada, generally considered a more peaceful, tolerant nation (with many exceptions). I migrated here during the final years of the last Republican president, and I’ve remained here since that time, excepting the occasional visit. And yet my exile does nothing to allay the despair and inquietude I feel at the victory of such a malignant cad as this Donald Dump. Our feelings verge at times on despair.
Peace, to those who love it; and knowledge, knowledge, that the struggle goes on. Take heart, friends. Once more, unto the breach! – Hell and its minions are at the door.
“The Fight,” “The Indian Jugglers” (c. 1820) – William Hazlitt
“The Last Days of Immanuel Kant” (1827) – Thomas De Quincey
“Modern Manufacture and Design” – John Ruskin
Because I Was Flesh (1961) – Edward Dahlberg
Orality and Literacy (1982) – Walter J. Ong
Nineteen Seventy Four (1998) – David Peace (abandoned)
I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead: The Dirty Life & Times of Warren Zevon (2007) – Crystal Zevon et al. (skimmed)
The Novel: An Alternative History, vol. 1 (2010) – Steven Moore (in good progress)
Dreamland: The True Tale of America’s Opiate Epidemic (2015) – Sam Quinones (stalled)
Medieval Monsters (2015) – Damien Kempf & Maria L. Gilbert
“In Luria’s field work, requests for definitions of even the most concrete objects met with resistance. ‘Try to explain to me what a tree is.’ ‘Why should I? Everyone knows what a tree is, they don’t need me telling them’, replied one illiterate peasant, aged 22. Why define, when a real-life setting is infinitely more satisfactory than a definition? Basically, the peasant was right. There is no way to refute the world of primary orality. All you can do is walk away from it into literacy.”
– Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy, p. 53
“Early charters conveying land in England were originally not even dated, probably for a variety of reasons. Clanchy suggests that the most profound reason was probably that ‘dating required the scribe to express an opinion about his place in time,’ which demanded that he choose a point of reference. What point? Was he to locate this document by reference to the creation of the world? To the Crucifixion? To the birth of Christ? Popes dated documents this way, from Christ’s birth, but was it presumptuous to date a secular document as popes dated theirs? In high technology cultures today, everyone lives each day in a frame of abstract computed time enforced by millions of printed calendars, clocks, and watches. In twelfth-century England there were no clocks or watches or wall or desk calendars.”
– Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy, p. 96
“Texts can be felt to have intrinsic religious value: illiterates profit from rubbing the book on their foreheads, or from whirling prayer-wheels bearing texts they cannot read. Tibetan monks used to sit on the banks of streams ‘printing pages of charms and formulas on the surface of the water with woodcut blocks.'”
– Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy, p. 92
“It is demoralizing to remind oneself that there is no dictionary in the mind, that lexicographical apparatus is a very late accretion to language as language, that all languages have no help from writing at all, and that outside of relatively high-technology cultures most users of languages have always got along pretty well without any visual transformations whatsoever of vocal sound.”
– Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy, p. 14
A third sign of his decaying faculties was, that he now lost all accurate measure of time. One minute, nay, without exaggeration, a much less space of time, stretched out in his apprehension of things to a wearisome duration. Of this I can give one rather amusing instance, which was of constant recurrence. At the beginning of the last year of his life, he fell into a custom of taking immediately after dinner a cup of coffee, especially on those days when it happened that I was of his party. And such was the importance he attached to this little pleasure, that he would even make a memorandum beforehand, in the blank-paper book I had given him, that on the next day I was to dine with him, and consequently that there was to be coffee. Sometimes it would happen, that the interest of conversation carried him past the time at which he felt the craving for it; and this I was not sorry to observe, as I feared that coffee, which he had never been accustomed to, might disturb his rest at night. But, if this did not happen, then commenced a scene of some interest. Coffee must be brought ‘upon the spot,’ (a word he had constantly in his mouth during his latter days,) ‘in a moment.’ And the expressions of his impatience, though from old habit still gentle, were so lively, and had so much of infantine naïveté about them, that none of us could forbear smiling. Knowing what would happen, I had taken care that all the preparations should be made beforehand; the coffee was ground; the water was boiling; and the very moment the word was given, his servant shot in like an arrow, and plunged the coffee into the water. All that remained, therefore, was to give it time to boil up. But this trifling delay seemed unendurable to Kant. All consolations were thrown away upon him: vary the formula as we might, he was never at a loss for a reply. If it was said—‘Dear Professor, the coffee will be brought up in a moment.’—’Will be!’ he would say, ‘but there’s the rub, that it only will be:
Man never is, but always to be blest.’
If another cried out—‘The coffee is coming immediately.’—‘Yes,’ he would retort, ‘and so is the next hour: and, by the way, it’s about that length of time that I have waited for it.’ Then he would collect himself with a stoical air, and say—‘Well, one can die after all: it is but dying; and in the next world, thank God! there is no drinking of coffee, and consequently no—waiting for it.’ Sometimes he would rise from his chair, open the door, and cry out with a feeble querulousness—‘Coffee! coffee!’ And when at length he heard the servant’s step upon the stairs, he would turn round to us, and, as joyfully as ever sailor from the mast-head, he would call out—‘Land, land! my dear friends, I see land.’
– Thomas De Quincey, “The Last Days of Immanuel Kant”, 1827
(Bravo to Adelaide University for their wonderful collection of public domain eBooks, including a rich De Quincey treasure-store. This reader finds it appalling that so much of Thomas De Quincey’s writing, among the finest in the English language, has remained long out of print. Certain of his more well-known texts like Confessions of an English Opium Eater and The English Mail Coach and The Vision of Sudden Death remain ever in print, but what’s lurking beneath? Alas, we dig on still, spurning this vulgar age.)
Finding it hard to sustain any kind of regular reading routine these days. Same old story: family responsibilities, work, too many books I want to read, distracting me, many books commenced, dipped into, many threads scrambled and lost. But what thee lovest well remains.
Tamburlaine (part 1) (1590) – Christopher Marlowe (struggling to read)
The Secret of the Old Clock (1930) – Carolyn Keene (a Nancy Drew book, reading with my daughter)
The Novel: An Alternative History, Vol. 1 (2010) – Steven Moore (started)
White-Out: The Secret Life of Heroin, A Memoir (2013) – Michael Clune
Here Are the Young Men (2014), This Is the Ritual (2016) – Rob Doyle
groovy even though no one not even us understands it
Fly on over to Quebec Reads for a short translation from Julie Mazzieri’s Le discours sur la tombe de l’idiot that I did. It’s a bizarre and unsettling book, that’s for sure. Thanks to Peter McCambridge at Quebec Reads for publishing it and to Editions José Corti and the author, Julie Mazzieri, for granting permission to do so.
A text fragment, composed as a caption to the above, can be read now at TXTOBJX. Composed first in French before being adapted to English, the text is one of a series of texts corresponding to fifteen postcards depicting scenes in and around the French village of Quimper.
I visited Quimper ever so briefly in the fall of 2004. Fine, fond memories. It was only years later, while living in Ottawa, that I came upon the postcard booklet at a used book sale. (Trigger flashback…)
P.S. TXTOBJX is seeking submissions, so why not write something short and wild and send it to them?
Billy Budd, Sailor (1888/1924) – Hermann Melville
Classic American Graffiti (1934) – Allan Read
Because I Was Flesh (1961) – Edward Dahlberg (in very slow progress)
The Night Battles: Witchcraft and Agrarian Cults in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (1966) – Carlo Ginzburg (trans. John & Anne Tedeschi, 1983)
Chanting at the Crystal Sea (in Frame Structures) – Susan Howe (reread)
On the Ceiling (1997) – Eric Chevillard (trans. Jordan Stump, 2000)
Les théories de Suzie (2015) – Eric Chevillard (a children’s book, with illustrations by Jean-François Martin)
Vestiges_02: Ennui (2016)
Cendres des hommes et des bulletins (2016) – Sergio Aquindo and Pierre Senges
There are a great many gradations between words of everyday use and such as are not at all understood by the common people, and to the latter class may sometimes belong words which literary people would think familiar to everybody. Hyde Clark relates an anecdote of a clergyman who blamed a brother preacher for using the word felicity, “I do not think all your hearers understood it; I should say happiness.” “I can hardly think,” said the other, “that any one does not know what felicity means, and we will ask this ploughman near us. Come hither, my man! you have been at church and heard the sermon; you heard me speak of felicity; do you know what it means?” “Ees, sir!” “Well, what does felicity mean?” “Summut in the inside of a pig, but I can’t say altogether what.”
– In Growth and Structure of the English Language, by Otto Jespersen. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1905. P. 98.