Augusto Monterroso (1921-2003) published his Lo Demas Es Silencio (The Rest Is Silence) in 1978. Subtitled The Life and Works of Eduardo Torres, this satirization of literary authority purports to be a compilation of texts by and about the fictitious, supposedly reputable and self-valorizing Mexican writer, Eduardo Torres. The work is translated from the Spanish by Aaron Kerner.
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Translators and Traitors
“The flower sheds its petals at my touch …” — Bécquer
Anyone who has had many years of successful experience with translation will be well aware that this type of work is, perhaps — and, at the risk of exaggerating, not even perhaps — of all tasks essayed by the inquisitive human mind, if not the most difficult, then certainly the least easy. Traduttore traditore, as it is said, obscurely, in Italian. Indeed, nothing could be clearer — but to what end? We shall here sketch out our own theory, in the logical order most appropriate to it.
First of all — and this is inherent in the well-known human condition — for treason to be treason it must not merely occur but also (to employ a commonplace) occur consciously, in various senses; second, the very fact of his undertaking the preparation of a new version of the text at all is a clear indication that the translator wouldn’t dream of betraying his ward for anything in the world. It is something else altogether (and there are examples galore) when the translator is so careless that the betrayal is inadvertent or, as in certain cases, when he finds himself carried away by the enthusiasm generated by a genuine masterpiece. To summarize: Treason, as we have seen, must be deliberate in order to be considered such; and when it does occur, as frequently happens, it may be due to carelessness. And here we have the real problem, starkly divided into its two inseparable halves.
Only those who have never translated anything at all could possibly be unaware of the difficulties associated with translation. Let us see.
What should one opt for when one undertakes a translation: the letter or the spirit? This fresh dilemma (as though the previous one, outlined above, had already been resolved) weighs overwhelmingly on the conscience of every translator, in his private life. And with good reason. If, after agonizing over the matter in bed at night, he opts for a literal translation (which many advocate with a truly astonishing zeal), he will essentially limit himself to shifting words mechanically from one language to another (for example: the English piano = the Spanish piano; the German Intellgenzia = the Spanish inteligencia, etc.), thereby perhaps overlooking the cleverest idiomatic expressions and neglecting the excellencies of the former; or, alternatively, perverting the peculiar essence of the latter, in which piano possesses its own inimitable sound. If he chooses the second method, that is to say a more or less free translation, is he not essentially attributing the infelicities born of his own abject or mediocre soul to the sublime inspiration of his immortal author?
And so the most elementary logic might lead one to ask: Would it not be preferable to avoid translation entirely, at any cost? I certainly will not be the one to resolve this particular conundrum, which has been with us since Cervantes. For my part, I will merely remark that if, no matter which of these approaches it takes and from whatever angle one happens to regard it, a translation still seems bad, one should take caution and abstain. And indeed, abstention might be the only recourse available to us if the Stagirite had not unambiguously proposed that in such cases there exists an ingenious (as was everything he produced) solution, that of the middling path, or aurea mediocritas, as he rightly declared in due course, apropos of the no less unforgettable swine from Epicurus’s herd.
This (so to speak) third position, or (bringing the metaphor to its logical conclusion) peaceful coexistence with a problem that is clearly insoluble from any point of view, does not sin by swinging the pendulum too far in one direction or the other, for in the end it can be reduced to a formula of mathematical simplicity: that one should employ a literal translation whenever it is possible to do so and thereby serve the spirit, and employ the “spiritual” or “free” translation whenever the letter demands it and theme, euphony, or events require.
Of course, the foregoing divigations would be inane if I myself had not lately dedicated a bit of my spare time to just such a divertimento. But now, to be brief — since time, as is its wont, is passing — I wish only to relate in a few words my experience translating a poem by the German poet Christian Morgenstern, especially since it represents a case perhaps unique in both languages.
Nothing the poem’s structure, I immediately posed myself the famous quandary: letter or spirit? And of course, in keeping with the line of conduct that I have traced again and again since childhood, I decided at last to opt for both, each in its own place. here we have the origins al version:
and on the following page, on the extreme left and right, like the good and bad thieves in the legend, the literal and spiritual versions:
Now, to conclude— which of these two versions will the good or the bad reader settle on, since both of them exist? Unquestionably, the one that strikes each of them respectively as superior; or with neither of them at all, if he exercises his prerogative of rejecting any work of art that is, by its very nature, subject to neither passions, rules, nor internal constraint.
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A Writer’s Decalogue
First. When you have something to say, say it; when you don’t, say that as well. Never stop writing.
Second. Never write for your contemporaries, much less, as many do, for your antecedents. Write for posterity, when you will undoubtedly be famous, for posterity is always just.
Third. Under no circumstances forget the celebrated dictum: When it comes to literature, nothing is written.
Fourth. Say what it’s possible to say with a hundred words, with a hundred words; say what it’s possible to say with a single word, with one. Never occupy the middle ground: That is, never write anything with fifty words.
Fifth. As strange as it may seem, writing is an art; to be a writer is to be an artist, like a trapeze artist or a wrestler par excellence — one who strives with language; for this struggle you must practice day and night.
Sixth. Make use of any disadvantages, such as insomnia, prison, or poverty; the first made Baudelaire what he was, the second Pellico, and the third all of your writer friends; however, avoid nodding like Homer, or the tranquil life of a Byron, or earning as much as Bloy.
Seventh. Never pursue success. Success undid Cervantes, who was an excellent novelist until he published the Quixote. Though success is always inevitable, be sure to screw up from time to time regardless, so as to generate sympathy among your friends.
Eighth. Create for yourself an intelligent audience, which is easiest to do among the rich and powerful. Then you will never lack the sort of understanding and encouragement that flows from these two founts alone.
Ninth. Believe in yourself, but only up to a point; doubt yourself, but not too far. When in doubt, believe; when you believe, doubt. In this lies the only true wisdom that a writer can possess.
Tenth. Do your best to say things in such a way that the reader will always feel that, deep down, he is as intelligent as, or even more intelligent than, you. From time to time, he will be more intelligent than you are in earnest; but in order to convey this to him, you will need to be more intelligent than he is.
Eleventh. Never forget the feelings of your readers. Generally speaking, feelings are all they have; not like you, who lack them entirely, otherwise you would never have tried to get into this profession.
Twelfth. Once again, the reader. The better you write, the more readers you will have; as long as you continue to provide them with increasingly refined works, a growing number will long for your creations; but if you write with the masses in mind you will never be popular, and nobody will attempt to touch the hem of your garment in the street, or point at you in the supermarket.
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The two pieces above are included in The Rest Is Silence: The Life and Works of Eduardo Torres, published by New York Review Books on December 10, 2024. The book comprises a compilation of texts by and about the fictitious Mexican writer, Eduardo Torres. You may order a paperback copy from Bookshop.org by clicking here.