Computer based language translation is always good for a few laughs, but I've never been the subject of the original text before, so I thought I'd share what happens when Germans and Italians write about me.
What have I learned from this? I have learned that I am The Macher who writes yellow and pumps benzine. I'm sure this makes a lot more sense in the original languages, but I'm still planning on taking my new-found powers on board. Except maybe the bit about writing yellow. Unless I can find some snow.
This frippery leads me nicely onto the subject of translation of fiction. I'm working my way through the first issue of Murdaland and the stories translated from Spanish to English both exhibit a similar quirkiness that I've seen before.
Months ago now, I read Haruki Murakami's HARD-BOILED WONDERLAND AND THE END OF THE WORLD. Even though it was originally in Japanese, the Spanish short stories from Murdaland have the same wonderful inconsistencies. I don't think this has anything to do with the quality of the translation, but there are definite artefacts when thoughts are shifted into a different culture and system of thinking.
I say system of thinking because I'm of the opinion that each language has a base set of assumptions that affect every thought made through that language. Some languages attach gender to inanimate objects, some don't have an equivalent word for 'self-esteem', some have many words to describe different types of snow, some only have one word for love.
While meaning can be lost in translation, something else can happen too. A well-turned phrase, a combination of words that would not normally exist in English can bring a smile to your face or create a poetic rhythm that has its own charm. The foreignness of the culture or the thinking behind the writing is what makes it so fresh.
But it doesn't always work and I've found that there are passages that I zoom through with glee then get pulled up short when a joke or idea doesn't translate well to English. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if the writer wrote in English from the beginning. But like Douglas Adam's poet who wrote on leaves and whose work was ruined when time travellers gave him liquid paper, I doubt the final work would have the same originality.
Something lost, but something gained. I might go read some Arnaldur Indridason right now.
