One must imagine Sisyphus a Pakistani.
Not in the philosophical sense, but for a Pakistani audience, the most they can resonate with is a Sisyphus who acts, eats, and speaks as closely as they do. This is not to say that the character is ripped off from its actuality but rather to blend in with elements which have a better substitute in the translated language’s domain. This, I believe, is the crux of literary translations that bring as much beauty to the original work as it does itself. Translated literary works often incorporate cultural flavours of the country in whose language the work is being translated. It becomes a bridge to invite characters and ideas from different parts of the world to the audience of a specific region. In so doing, literature transcends borders, creating material that is rich with multiple layers.
Interestingly, since the work of translation is carried out by an individual wholly separate from the author, undoubtedly the new work is born through the peculiarities and the lens of the translator and so beats two hearts simultaneously. A translator not only adds their own tics and traits to the work, but also brings their specific cultural nuances. Certain elements, present in the host language but absent from the one in which it is being translated, are fused with norms that are relevant to the audience. This domestication, or sometimes foreignisation, is relatively common across various mediums which require the transfer of ideas to different audiences. In fact, while researching this, I revisited some of the nursery rhymes I used to sing back in preschool. One such was the ever-famous ‘Are you sleeping, brother John?’ which used to follow in Urdu as:
Aap so rahe hain.
Aap so rahe hain.
Bhai jaan…
This, if translated word for word, would be:
You are sleeping, dear brother.
Now, the brother John is completely replaced with just ‘dear brother’ quite intuitively because ‘John’ as a name is not common in the language. The German version is still more different in the use of the name ‘John’, where it is replaced by ‘Jakob’. All these are not wrong, but they try to blend the rhyme with the culture of the translated language, thereby making it universal.
This leads me to highlight another important aspect of translated works. That is their accessibility. Had it not been for the renowned mediaeval Muslim scholar Al-Farabi translating Aristotle’s works from ancient Greek, modern political philosophy would have been quite different from how it otherwise developed alongside Christianity. Translation breaks borders in its own way, just like other forms of art do. It does not make for an inferior rendition. While literary translations sometimes ought to beautify the work and make it universal through cultural assimilation, academic translations are necessary for accessibility.
Though let it be clear, this does not give unchecked freedom to the translator to butcher the work of the original author. Indeed, not every word is available in another language, but the translator must also take a backseat and be a ghost, trying to mimic the author as closely as possible to do justice to the work. That is a given. But good translators have often produced works that speak for themselves.
A reading of Firdausi’s ‘Shahnameh,’ the Persian epic Book of Kings, in the English translation by Dick Davis provides a faithful yet academic account of the complex work.
I cannot help but provide a few verses of the iconic scene from when Sohrab lay wounded by Rostam.
Love for my father led me here to die.
My mother gave me signs to know him by.
And you could be a fish within the sea.
Or pitch black, lost in night’s obscurity,
Or be a star in heaven’s endless space,
There are certain verses that induce the particular senses the original author would have intended. Though with such technical work, it is still difficult to entirely feel the epic the way it would be originally in Persian.
Just as the meter of the poem is rigid and cleverly dealt with by Firdausi in his original language, so is it evident that there are differences between the syntax and phonetics of one language from another, consequently making it close to impossible to truly get the real value back. The opening sentence of Franz Kafka’s ‘The Trial’ reads in German as:
Jemand musste Joseph K. verleumdet haben…
It is worth noticing that in German, the verb lies at the end of the sentence, creating a sort of suspense for the reader, trying to unravel what the sentence ought to say. This feeling of suspense would be missing if read in English due to its syntax. In English, therefore, it would be:
Someone must have been spreading lies about Joseph K.
You cannot separate the literature from its origin. There are always the unique sonorous qualities of a language present only in it, but other languages, if faithfully applied to it, bring it down to its own expressions and particularities that vastly increase the scope of the work. It is true that a well-translated work is hardly forgettable. They not only spread the ideas of the author across the globe but also provide standalone renditions relevant to the particular culture.