R茅da is what the French call a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤, a roamer who enjoys his anonymous status in a city糖心传媒檚 labyrinth. When a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤 crosses a border into a new territory he becomes a tourist. The difference between a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤 and a tourist is that a tourist usually has a destination and certain goals糖心传媒�“Today is Paris Disneyland, tomorrow Auschwitz.” R茅da is that rare species of tourist-蹿濒芒苍别耻谤; more a traveler than a tourist, he doesn糖心传媒檛 entirely belong to the first category either, since as early as the eighteenth century it was common for travelers to have a project: that of letting themselves be formed by the experience of travel. R茅da wants to be neither formed nor informed by his travels, he simply has 糖心传媒渓a bougeotte,糖心传媒� as the French would say, i.e., he can糖心传媒檛 stay put.

Although R茅da糖心传媒檚 style is very literary, he is no snob, and he probably wouldn糖心传媒檛 mind being called a tourist. With complete lack of snobbery, he declares that he loves supermarkets 糖心传媒渇or themselves,糖心传媒� a love only natural for someone who has grown up in poverty (after all, to despise richness is a luxury only the rich can afford). But this confession is immediately followed by an unexpected critical reflection: supermarkets are 糖心传媒渃ounter-museums糖心传媒� or 糖心传媒渕useums of the instant,糖心传媒� R茅da says, 糖心传媒渨hose instants are accessible, consumable, nearly straightaway consumed but indefinitely renewable . . .糖心传媒�

As a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤, R茅da is an heir to Baudelaire. As a true Frenchman, he doesn糖心传媒檛 simply record what he sees, as American writers usually do, but also analyzes it; yet I wouldn糖心传媒檛 say that he writes in the tradition of, say, Sartre, or de Beauvoir (I am thinking of their writings on their travels to the States), whose critical impulse is to seize the unknown in the Other and freeze it through their aphoristic pronouncements. Neither a lover of exotic experiences糖心传媒擱茅da prefers to stay in his European milieu rather than look for spicy otherness through some eco-tourist agency糖心传媒攏or a nostalgic ruminator for the good old days, R茅da is a lover of trains糖心传媒攖hat is, of rhythmic movement and chance encounters糖心传媒攐f temporary estrangement, and strangely familiar places. The only contemporary writer I can think of who belongs to the same family is John Taylor, an American who lives in France, whose Some Sort of Joy has recently come out in a French translation.

R茅da糖心传媒檚 style is an homage to the long sentence made of complex clauses with subordinates that intricately follow each other糖心传媒攁 perfect mastery of grammar as a logic-machine. At the end of the sentence you experience the climactic joy of a detective who has discovered the criminal. The long, complex sentence is, alas, an endangered species, at least in this country, where 糖心传媒渆conomy糖心传媒� of style or so-called 糖心传媒渕inimalism糖心传媒� is synonymous with 糖心传媒済ood writing,糖心传媒� when in fact it is often simply laziness of thinking.

Reading R茅da, the bilingual reader is also struck by something else: R茅da is a very ironic writer, but you have to read him in French in order to realize that. This is not because Prevots糖心传媒檚 translation is not good enough糖心传媒攊t is a perfectly good translation糖心传媒攂ut because what we call irony is different in every language. The irony of French writers is more artificial than that of their American counterparts because, as in R茅da糖心传媒檚 case, it represents the tone of a persona or a mask the author has put on, and the authorial masks we use are generally grounded in voices that have preceded us. In other words: our irony is never entirely 糖心传媒渁uthentic糖心传媒澨切拇綌rather it is a mimesis of the irony of other authors that have written in our language, and the reader can experience that irony because he can recognize the tone in his cultural repertoire. Contemporary American writers practice an irony that is more colloquial and more nihilistic in the sense that the authorial voice situates itself somewhere above good and evil, and is rarely self-ironic. R茅da is self-ironic, which, of course, makes him funny.

The last piece in the book, 糖心传媒淎 Paris Crossing糖心传媒� includes some metatextual commentary on the story糖心传媒檚 source, namely the fact that it had been initially commissioned by a so-called geographic tourism magazine, which, having asked for a piece in ten thousand characters, ends up rejecting it because it failed to comply with the magazine糖心传媒檚 editorial policy. We find this out both in the first paragraph and in a footnote at the end of the story. In the first paragraph, R茅da lets the reader know that the magazine suggested to him to 糖心传媒渃ross Paris in ten thousand characters,糖心传媒� and he compares this editorial practice with the ethos of athletic competitiveness, adding: 糖心传媒淢oreover, I糖心传媒檝e just squandered three or four hundred characters complaining about my fate.糖心传媒� I am the kind of reader who gets a lot of pleasure out of these disclosures, all the more so when I imagine the editor of said tourism magazine reading the piece that makes fun his policies.

I hate to sound didactic, but this a book that anyone who teaches French culture and literature should have.

Daniela Hurezanu—a translator and author who wrote a great review for us of Memory Glyphs—makes this book sound incredibly interesting. There’s a bigger sample below, but I love this line from her review: “Reda’s style is an homage to the long sentence made of complex clauses with subordinates that intricately follow each other—a perfect mastery of grammar as logic-machine.”

Anyway, the one gripe I have is about Host Publication’s website (surprise!). I really like what Host has done over the past few years, and they have quietly become one of the most consistently interesting presses publishing today. Especially in terms of poetry in translation. But for whatever reason, it looks like their website hasn’t been updated in months. At least. In fact, unless I suddenly became incapable of reading and/or using the Internets, Europes isn’t even listed on Host’s site. Not that I can actually “search” the site, seeing as that there is no seach function . . . (Sorry, everyone at Host. This kind of thing is a pet peeve of mine. And trust me, you are light years ahead of clusterfuck sites like which I’ve decided is either a joke or some devious experiment.)

Back to the subject at hand—Reda’s Europes and Daniela’s review:

After having published Return to Calm, Host Publications now offers us another book by Jacques R茅da, also bilingual and also in Aaron Prevots糖心传媒檚 translation糖心传媒�Europes. If in an 糖心传媒渙fficial糖心传媒� way Europes could be called a 糖心传媒渢ravel essay,糖心传媒� the book糖心传媒檚 fluid character undermines this characterization. Recording the fleeting instants of the narrator糖心传媒檚 peregrinations, Europes includes essays on Portugal, Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Scandinavia and France糖心传媒攐ne or two essays followed by one or more poems for each country. The poems are “po猫mes de circonstance,” that is, topical poems, in this case, poems on the countries described in the preceding essays, written in the tradition of Raymond Queneau: playful, silly, ironically rhymed.

R茅da is what the French call a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤, a roamer who enjoys his anonymous status in a city糖心传媒檚 labyrinth. When a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤 crosses a border into a new territory he becomes a tourist. The difference between a 蹿濒芒苍别耻谤 and a tourist is that a tourist usually has a destination and certain goals糖心传媒�“Today is Paris Disneyland, tomorrow Auschwitz.” R茅da is that rare species of tourist-蹿濒芒苍别耻谤; more a traveler than a tourist, he doesn糖心传媒檛 entirely belong to the first category either, since as early as the eighteenth century it was common for travelers to have a project: that of letting themselves be formed by the experience of travel. R茅da wants to be neither formed nor informed by his travels, he simply has 糖心传媒渓a bougeotte,糖心传媒� as the French would say, i.e., he can糖心传媒檛 stay put.

Although R茅da糖心传媒檚 style is very literary, he is no snob, and he probably wouldn糖心传媒檛 mind being called a tourist. With complete lack of snobbery, he declares that he loves supermarkets 糖心传媒渇or themselves,糖心传媒� a love only natural for someone who has grown up in poverty (after all, to despise richness is a luxury only the rich can afford). But this confession is immediately followed by an unexpected critical reflection: supermarkets are 糖心传媒渃ounter-museums糖心传媒� or 糖心传媒渕useums of the instant,糖心传媒� R茅da says, 糖心传媒渨hose instants are accessible, consumable, nearly straightaway consumed but indefinitely renewable . . .糖心传媒�

Click here for the full review.

In Cristian Popescu糖心传媒檚 prose poems, the author himself becomes a character糖心传媒攐r so we assume, since we are dealing with someone called Cristi or Popescu. But he isn糖心传媒檛 just any character; he is a figure in a family myth based on his own transfigured biography, in which the idyllic and the grotesque mingle in unexpected ways. I would say that, of the three authors, Popescu is the most untranslatable, not because of his language, but because of a certain Romanian sensibility, which is much harder to 糖心传媒渢ranslate糖心传媒� into English than words. For example, in 糖心传媒淎dvice from my mother,糖心传媒� he describes his mother who, after giving birth, felt crippled, and prepared to suckle her baby by powdering and rouging her breasts. She takes comfort, she says, 糖心传媒渢hinking that one day, someone will curse him [i.e., the baby] and tell him to stick himself back into his mother.糖心传媒� This is a slightly awkward translation of the most vulgar Romanian curse (糖心传媒淕o back into your mother糖心传媒檚 c___!糖心传媒� or, in a more polite version, 糖心传媒淕o back into your mother糖心传媒檚 thing!糖心传媒�). In other words, Popescu糖心传媒檚 image of his sentimental mother is done via the most obscene expression in the Romanian language. This union of some very contrary states糖心传媒攖he sentimental and the utterly grotesque糖心传媒攚hich is natural for a Romanian, may not be for a native English-speaker.

Popescu糖心传媒檚 self-mythologizing creates a sort of urban mythology grounded in self-mockery, a paradoxical world of antiheroes and sad clowns. Thus, 糖心传媒淎nti-Portrait: A Psalm by Popescu糖心传媒� starts like this: 糖心传媒淣o, Lord. Neither more nor less, neither too much nor too little. And not quite Popescu.糖心传媒� Or, 糖心传媒淧oetry糖心传媒�: 糖心传媒淭he earliest literary efforts of the poet Popescu date from the tender age of seven.糖心传媒� In the same poem we are told that Popescu wept so much in his youth that 糖心传媒渢hey had to install a miniature urinal to collect the precious stones糖心传媒� that developed at the corners of his eyes.

Iustin Panta糖心传媒檚 pieces are structurally unusual in that they combine verse poetry and prose within the space of the same poem. In the literal sense, the space of his poems is often enclosed糖心传媒攁 room in which various objects come into focus糖心传媒攖hough several poems are about waiting for the train or the bus (one could write a treatise about Romanian poems revolving around the thorny topic of 糖心传媒減ublic transportation糖心传媒�). Many of his poems refer to a 糖心传媒渟he糖心传媒� and are dialogues between 糖心传媒渟he糖心传媒� and the narrator. Of the three authors, Panta is probably the most cerebral, as his pieces are sometimes paradoxes or conundrums.

In 糖心传媒淎 Feminine Thought. A Feminine Thought?糖心传媒� pondering the difference between the breasts of a woman suckling a baby and her breasts laid bare otherwise, he concludes that the baby 糖心传媒渃ontinues糖心传媒� the breast and thus nullifies its voluptuousness. The woman is thus nullified too, proving to be 糖心传媒渁 fraud, a plagiarism,糖心传媒� like a fake painting one would examine under a magnifying glass. The infant is compared here to a magnifying glass revealing the breast糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒渢rue nature,糖心传媒� so to speak, or rather the fact that its voluptuousness is really an illusion. But Panta goes on to challenge the true nature of this very thought by saying that this feminine thought, 糖心传媒渟een through the magnifying glass! (itself, in turn, fake)糖心传媒� is also a falsehood.

Radu Andriescu糖心传媒檚 prose poems are probably the most 糖心传媒減oetic糖心传媒� in this collection in the sense that his style is more focused on its literariness and on artifice. Places and household objects are often the subject of his writings糖心传媒攁 terrace, a stove, the wrought-iron winding stairs of his house, his neighborhood, whose depiction rivals that of a Turkish bazaar: the streets are crowded

with cardboard Poles and manic writers, with plumbers cloaked in a miasma of mercury vapors, with starched paunchy senators, with mutant garages turned into candy shops or fruit markets, their plaster hanging on spiderwebs . . . with decrepit geezers only thirty years old . . . apartment buildings nearly hidden by weeds and university dorms as dreary as a comb caked with dandruff . . . with stores soaked in cheap draft beer and artificially colored syrup masquerading as wine, both red and white, with Turkish delight and stale pretzels to bite, with nonfat yogurt, cellophane, bottles, foil, paper, with the flight of clouds, heaps of vacant days, whole wastelands of lost hours, a mixture of tar and cola, books and dust . . .

The sentence goes on for two and a half pages, a dazzling stylistic feat against what Andrei Codrescu once called 糖心传媒渢ight-ass minimalism.糖心传媒� Like Popescu, Andriescu too builds a mythologized universe replicating the real world in which he lives, and appears as a character in one of his poems. As I happened to read at the same time with this collection Peter Altenberg糖心传媒檚 Telegrams of the Soul (Archipelago Books, 2005, translated from the German by Peter Wortsman), I realized that this objectification of the author is not infrequent in Eastern Europe. Altenberg too is a character in his own pieces: he is called Peter, he is a writer, and many of his scenes糖心传媒攐ften entirely in the form of dialogues糖心传媒攁re sketches of everyday life.

Altenberg (1859-1919), a Viennese-Jewish writer whose admirers include Kafka, Musil and Mann, calls his pieces糖心传媒攚hich in this country are referred to as 糖心传媒減rose poems糖心传媒澨切拇綌糖心传媒渟ketches.糖心传媒� His sources of inspiration are said to be the 糖心传媒渇euilleton,糖心传媒� a lyrical form of journalistic prose that was popular at the turn of the twentieth century, and Baudelaire糖心传媒檚 prose poems. 糖心传媒淪ketch糖心传媒� was also a term used by Romanian writers (let糖心传媒檚 not forget that until 1918, Transylvania, the Western part of Romania, was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire) in the early twentieth century. The master of the sketch was Ion Luca Caragiale (1852-1912) whose pieces were mostly dialogues (incidentally, Caragiale is the most famous Romanian playwright) written in a mood that would fall into the category of the absurd from a Western perspective (It is no accident that the French playwright of Romanian origin, Eug猫ne Ionesco, was strongly influenced by Caragiale).

Paradoxically, although Romania is a very Francophile culture, and Romanian is the only Romance language in that part of the world, what we could call the 糖心传媒淩omanian prose poem糖心传媒� is less influenced by the French tradition of the prose poem, its beginnings being closer to various forms of journalism (lyrical or satirical)糖心传媒攕till practiced in Romania, where the most common profession among writers is that of journalist.

In his preface, translator Adam Sorkin explains a bit about the collection:

First of all, the title of this anthology was lifted from the Radu Andriescu prose poem that closes the book, “The Aswan High Dam.”’ To me, the image suggests a major preoccupation of the prose poem, an esthetic amalgam as it were carved of blocks of words (as in the root of “glyph,” from the idea of cut or incised grooves or sacred symbols or script). In contrast to verse, the prose poem is a formless form, oxymoronic, with both lightness and heft, a chiseled, lapidary, elliptical poetry I have long admired. Not surprisingly then, the impetus for this anthology was my own, as was the choice of poets.

Daniela Hurezanu—who herself is a translator from both French and Romanian, and has even translated W.S. Merwin into French—wrote a fantastic review of this book that opens:

Of the three authors featured in the prose poem collection Memory Glyphs, beautifully translated from the Romanian by Adam Sorkin with Mircea Ivanescu, Bogdan Stefanescu and one of the poets (Radu Andriescu), only the latter is still alive. From the translator糖心传媒檚 preface we find out that Cristian Popescu died when he was not even thirty-six 糖心传媒渇rom a heart attack that was induced by his medication for schizophrenia and depression in potent mixture with vodka drinking.糖心传媒� Iustin Panta (pronounced Pantza) died at the same age as Popescu, in a car accident.

In Cristian Popescu糖心传媒檚 prose poems, the author himself becomes a character糖心传媒攐r so we assume, since we are dealing with someone called Cristi or Popescu. But he isn糖心传媒檛 just any character; he is a figure in a family myth based on his own transfigured biography, in which the idyllic and the grotesque mingle in unexpected ways. I would say that, of the three authors, Popescu is the most untranslatable, not because of his language, but because of a certain Romanian sensibility, which is much harder to 糖心传媒渢ranslate糖心传媒� into English than words. For example, in 糖心传媒淎dvice from my mother,糖心传媒� he describes his mother who, after giving birth, felt crippled, and prepared to suckle her baby by powdering and rouging her breasts. She takes comfort, she says, 糖心传媒渢hinking that one day, someone will curse him [i.e., the baby] and tell him to stick himself back into his mother.糖心传媒� This is a slightly awkward translation of the most vulgar Romanian curse (糖心传媒淕o back into your mother糖心传媒檚 c___!糖心传媒� or, in a more polite version, 糖心传媒淕o back into your mother糖心传媒檚 thing!糖心传媒�). In other words, Popescu糖心传媒檚 image of his sentimental mother is done via the most obscene expression in the Romanian language. This union of some very contrary states糖心传媒攖he sentimental and the utterly grotesque糖心传媒攚hich is natural for a Romanian, may not be for a native English-speaker.

Click here for the complete review.

In the last issue of Calque—one of, if not the, finest journals of literary translation being published—there appeared an interview with Michael Emmerich followed by two versions of the opening paragraphs of The Apprenticeship of Big Toe P, an unedited version, and the one that’s actually going to be published.

The huge differences between the two versions—and Emmerich’s explanation of why certain changes were made—really set off Daniela Hurezanu, who wrote a substantial letter to Calque, asking them to publish it. They did so along with Emmerich’s response.

Both letters are way too long to accurately summarize, but needless to say, the issues that come up are at the crux of literary translation, the editing of literary translations, and the nature of fitting a book to a particular country’s aesthetic and commercial desires—all of which are really fascinating and well presented in the two letters.

From Hurezanu:

In comparing the unedited translation with the edited version, one can see that the changes have been made according to a certain pattern, which obviously reflects the esthetic view of the editor(s). The first two long sentences have been chopped into much shorter sentences, and what is conveyed indirectly in the first version is expressed telegraphically in the second one, as if the narrator was answering a police questionnaire and was summoned to give the most unambiguous, direct answers possible. But the narrator is not answering a police questionnaire. She is telling a story about a woman whom she doesn糖心传媒檛 recall very well. The first version has two paragraphs about the narrator糖心传媒檚 difficulty in remembering who this woman who showed up at her door was, and the style parallels her mental hesitations. The sentences in these paragraphs have the oral feeling of an inner monologue, and contain words expressing hesitation that have been deleted in the edited version. All the nuances, the words that don糖心传媒檛 convey specific information have been deleted, and only the bare bones of the text糖心传媒攊ts 糖心传媒渕essage糖心传媒� has been kept. Why? Do the editors believe that we read fiction in order to get some 糖心传媒渋nformation,糖心传媒� and the shorter and more clearly it糖心传媒檚 conveyed, the better? Do we really read in order to find out that the narrator didn糖心传媒檛 remember Mazo Kazumi? So what? I can糖心传媒檛 speak for all readers, but when I read a book it is to be transported not only into another physical universe糖心传媒攚hich, in the case of Japan, some might equate with a desire for exoticism (and I understand Emmerich糖心传媒檚 frustration regarding such expectations)糖心传媒攂ut to be transported into another universe of thinking. It is not a book糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒渕essage糖心传媒澨切拇綌whether the narrator remembers or not Mazo Kazumi糖心传媒攖hat represents another view of the world, but the way a writer糖心传媒檚 thinking is articulated through the flow of the words, that is, his/her structure of thinking. When a paragraph begins, as some do in Emmerich糖心传媒檚 unedited version, with a subordinate clause or a sentence that draws us slowly into the story糖心传媒檚 atmosphere, the text has an entirely different rhythm than when these sentences are either deleted or replaced by short sentences starting with 糖心传媒淚.糖心传媒� There is a huge difference between a structure of thinking that places the I and its 糖心传媒渁ctions糖心传媒� at the center of the world and a structure of thinking in which the I is less important than the background on which it is placed. If one alters a text糖心传媒檚 syntax, it is this very structure that is altered.

And a bit from Emmerich:

When I proposed printing the two texts together, I assumed that this might make some readers uncomfortable糖心传媒攊ndeed, that was the point. I decided to present the most drastically edited section of the entire book, the opening paragraphs, because I have the sense that few readers are conscious of what goes on behind the scenes before a translated novel, or any novel, is published in the United States, and I hoped that putting these two texts on display might give Calque糖心传媒檚 readers some insight into this process. At the same time, I expected that translators who believe, as I do, that it is important to consider the political, ethical, and economic choices we make when we engage, not only in the nearly impossible task of translation, but also in the all-too-frequently flat-out-one-hundred-percent impossible task of finding publishers willing to assume the daunting financial risks involved in paying for and publishing our work, might also be made uncomfortable by some of the points I made. My aim was not, after all, to repeat comfortable truths: it is true that editors often do things to translations that many of us find deeply objectionable, not infrequently without allowing translators the option of undoing their edits; it is true that English prose in the United States has been deeply influenced by the 糖心传媒渟horter is better糖心传媒� aesthetic, and this has had an effect on the editing of translations, even in cases where strong arguments might be made in favor of preserving the prolixity and complexity of the original text; it is true that this imposition of a local aesthetic on translated foreign writing seems contrary to the purposes of translation as they are understood by many translators active in the United States today. While fully aware of these truths, I wanted instead to consider in discomfiting detail the fact that practical, real-world benefits can accrue from compromises that we might, in an ideal world, prefer not to make.

The whole exchange is fascinating and definitely worth reading, and hopefully we’ll be able to discuss this in more depth when Michael Emmerich comes to Rochester for a Translators Roundtable on October 1st. (An event that will be recorded and posted here.)

There’s such an interesting web of concerns related to how a translator relates to the original text, what liberties he/she takes when translated it, and what the American editor then does to the translation to make it “more appealing” to American readers. Personally, I’m very much against the idea of American editors altering the style of a book to make it more like crappy American neo-realism, but there are a number of people I respect who would probably disagree with this. To me, it’s the differences in the style and the structure of international books that is so intriguing . . .