‘Mother,’
a Russian novel written in 1906 about revolutionary factory workers,
has been translated into many languages. It has been made into several
films as well. Bertold Brecht and his friends based their 1932 play ‘The
Mother,’ on this novel.
Who wrote ‘Mother’? Maxim Gorky. Alright. That’s answered. The article though isn’t done.
Gorky
himself didn’t consider ‘Mother’ his best piece of writing. That
notwithstanding, ‘Mother’ is clearly the most important level he wrote
before the Russian Revolution. Important as in influential. Not just in
Russia but all over the world. It has for more than a century been a
must-read for most left-leading young people. Even in Sri Lanka.
As
mentioned, the book has been translated into many languages and in some
cases more than once by different translators into the same language.
In the case ‘Amma,’ the title of the Sinhala translation, it was
Dedigama V Rodrigo who did the honours. He was THE translator of Russian
and later Soviet literature. Thanks to him, Sinhala readers were able
to enjoy a wide range of novels, short stories and poetry by Russian and
other Soviet authors.
Of course those who
did not know Russian or those other languages cannot really talk about
the quality of translation. However, those students who in the Soviet
Era studied in the USSR, were required to learn Russian and
Marxist-Leninism and also had to read the classics, had the knowledge to
compare.
Dr Udaya Rajapaksha, botanist
and a keen student of literature, as well as Dr Piyasiri Pelenda,
geographer and a translator himself, both colleagues at what was then
called the Agrarian Research and Training Institute, had high praise for
Rodrigo. Udaya offered the following caveat:
‘His
translations were really good, but Chekov in Russian felt so much
better that I could only wonder how exquisitely beautiful it must be to a
Russian reader.’
This holds true for most
translations. Even really good ones. Something gets lost, something gets
added. It’s never perfect but that again one disregards the
imperfections because you do get a flavour, you are offered slices of
the human condition in light that persuades one to reflect.
This
however is not about the worth or otherwise of transition and
translations. It’s about authors. Authorship. And indeed ownership or
appropriation.
I don’t know Spanish, so I have
had to read Pablo Neruda and Garcia Marquez in their English
translations. I don’t know Russian, so I had to read Dostoyevsky,
Tolstoi, Turgenev, Chekov, Pasternak, Pushkin, Gorky and Aitmatov either
in English or in Sinhala. I know that Rodrigo did Sinhala translators
and that’s probably because he’s the only one who did so. His name
wasn’t on the covers of the books he translated. It was mentioned on one
of the inside pages. It was the same with the novels and short stories
of Garcia Marquez and the poetry of Pablo Neruda.
It’s
the same with the poetry of Rumi and other Sufi mystics as well as the
poetry of Ghalib, Iqbal and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. I remember the names of the
poets, but not all the translators.
This is not
to downplay the importance of translators. I feel that Rodrigo, for
example, hasn’t been appreciated as much as he should have been.
Translators play an invaluable role, they open windows to worlds we are
unaware of. They enable sunlight from multiple angles to dispel the
various darknesses that envelop our minds and hearts.
Now
some might say that a translation is in fact a new book altogether. It
is, strictly speaking. And therefore, some may argue, equal credit is
deserved.
Perhaps.
On
the other hand, credit acquired at the cost of making the original
author invisible, almost, is problematic. I am thinking of translations
with book covers that have the translator’s name in such prominence that
the name of the original author, even if mentioned on the cover, looks
like a footnote, an afterthought.
I
checked out some book covers of ‘Amma.’ The more recently published ones
have Rodrigo’s name on the front cover and even these clearly indicate
who wrote the original. Earlier version just had the title of the novel
and the name of the author, Maxim Gorky.
Just
check out the book covers of Sinhala translations of great writers who
wrote in other languages. Check the font size of the author and
translator. Assess prominence given to each.
I’ve
done that and that’s why I asked: who wrote ‘Mother’? I am not asking
who wrote the novels that are now in translation, in Sinhala and other
languages, but pointing out that there’s something odd about giving the
impression that the translator is in fact the novelist or poet or short
story writer.
Ego? Misplaced sense of
self-worth? Piggybacking on greatness? All of the above? I think some
combination of these, to a great or lesser degree.
Dedigama V
Rodrigo was an excellent translator. He probably obtained joy in the
exercise of translation and delighted in the delight of the reader. He
didn’t piggyback on Gorky or any of the authors he translated.
So
here’s to Dedigama V Rodrigo. A great translator and man of literary
integrity. He didn't claim ownership. He didn't appropriate or
misappropriate. He didn’t write ‘Mother’ and would never have claimed
even parity of status with Gorky, leave alone supplanting that
exceptional Russian writer by way of tinkering with the book covers of
the works he translated.
['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a
column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day,
Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]
Other articles in this series:
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
On loving, always
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
When you turn 80...
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Gunadasa Kapuge is calling
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Pathways missed
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
The Mangala Sabhava
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The most beautiful father
Palmam qui meruit ferat
The sweetest three-letter poem
Buddhangala Kamatahan
An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Pure-Rathna, a class act
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Matters of honor and dignity
Yet another Mother's Day
A cockroach named 'Don't'
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Sweeping the clutter away
Some play music, others listen
Completing unfinished texts
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
Moments without tenses
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The world is made of waves
'Sentinelity'
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
The books of disquiet
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
World's End
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Street corner stories
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
The book of layering
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
The gift and yoke of bastardy
The 'English Smile'
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
A tea-maker story seldom told
On academic activism
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Back to TRADITIONAL rice
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Sirith, like pirith, persist
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
A degree in creative excuses
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
The ways of the lotus
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Of love and other intangibles
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
The universe of smallness
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
Continents of the heart
1 comments:
ඉතා වැදගත් ලිපියක් ...සංස්කෘතික දේශපාලනය විනිවිදින අදහසකින් ..
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