That said, his books still aren’t as widely read as they should be. Part of that is due to the fact that for the longest time Calder was the only publisher of Locus Solus and Impressions of Africa. Calder is a great home for both of these books (the quality of the Calder list taken as a whole will likely never be replicated), but there were various distribution and availability issues.

Thankfully, last summer Dalkey Archive issued in Mark Polizzotti’s new translation.

I haven’t read this version, but knowing the book, and knowing Mark, I’m 100% sure that it’s brilliant. And for those of you unfamiliar with this book, here’s the Dalkey description:

In a mythical African land, some shipwrecked and uniquely talented passengers stage a grand gala to entertain themselves and their captor, the great chieftain Talou. In performance after bizarre performance糖心传媒攕tarring, among others, a zither-playing worm, a marksman who can peel an egg at fifty yards, a railway car that rolls on calves’ lungs, and fabulous machines that paint, weave, and compose music糖心传媒擱aymond Roussel demonstrates why it is that Andr茅 Breton termed him “the greatest mesmerizer of modern times.” But even more remarkable than the mindbending events Roussel details糖心传媒攁s well as their outlandish, touching, or tawdry backstories糖心传媒攊s the principle behind the novel’s genesis, a complex system of puns and double-entendres that anticipated (and helped inspire) such movements as Surrealism and Oulipo. Newly translated and with an introduction by Mark Polizzotti, this edition of Impressions of Africa vividly restores the humor, linguistic legerdemain, and conceptual wonder of Raymond Roussel’s magnum opus.

Anyway, the main point of this post is to gush on about Roussel in context of by Alice Gregory that went up on the Poetry Foundation website earlier this week.

First of all, anything with the subtitle “the upside of crazy” is effing awesome in my book. But more importantly, this is a really interesting look at Roussel’s odd being and its relation to his very strange works. You really have to read the whole article, but here are a few bits:

糖心传媒淲hatever I wrote was surrounded by rays of light,糖心传媒� a young Raymond Roussel told his psychoanalyst, Pierre Janet. 糖心传媒淚 used to close the curtains, for I was afraid that the shining rays emanating from my pen might escape into the outside world through even the smallest chink; I wanted suddenly to throw back the screen and light up the world.糖心传媒� Roussel was speaking literally, and Janet, who would treat Roussel for years, was taking notes.

Though nobody knows for sure, it糖心传媒檚 suspected that Roussel first started seeing Janet in the years just before World War I, almost a decade after that first ecstatic experience he described in their early sessions. The manic spell coincided with the editing of La Doublure, a novel in verse that took most of Roussel糖心传媒檚 adolescence to complete and that he believed 糖心传媒渨ould illuminate the entire universe糖心传媒� when it was published. When it finally was published in 1897, La Doublure was ignored by critics. The reception to his obsessively detailed and obviously unsalable work ushered in a lifelong series of public disappointments for Roussel, a writer whose work was met糖心传媒攊n his own words糖心传媒攚ith 糖心传媒渁n almost totally hostile incomprehension.糖心传媒�

In later sessions with Janet, Roussel proved himself to be outlandishly hubristic and deluded about his chances at fame, predicting, for instance, that he would 糖心传媒渆njoy greater glory than Victor Hugo or Napoleon.糖心传媒� Over dinner recently, I quoted this prophecy to a friend and 谤辞耻蝉蝉别濒濒芒迟谤别 (what one calls a Roussel enthusiast), and he laughed. 糖心传媒淭hat糖心传媒檚 what糖心传媒檚 so insane about him,糖心传媒� my friend shouted over the restaurant糖心传媒檚 ambient noise. 糖心传媒淗e actually thought that what he wrote was normal, that people would like it, that he deserved糖心传媒攁nd would find糖心传媒攁 mainstream audience!糖心传媒� [. . .]

Roussel糖心传媒檚 world is strange because it is so specific, and his imaginative audacity reminds me of nothing so much as anime. Like Hayao Miyazaki movies糖心传媒攊n which buses look like cats, amphibious girls have mouths full of salubrious saliva, monsters vomit up bathhouse employees, and decapitated spirit heads cure leprosy糖心传媒擱oussel糖心传媒檚 works are littered with inconceivable amalgams. But at least in anime, there are protagonists with motives, however simplistic糖心传媒攖hey avenge family members, fall in love with characters that look like themselves, and seek adventure in parallel worlds. Roussel糖心传媒檚 characters, if they can even be called that, express almost nothing a reader could identify as emotions. Bearing witness to the products of Roussel糖心传媒檚 imagination isn糖心传媒檛 nearly so unnerving as the moment that comes糖心传媒攓uite late, it seems糖心传媒攚hen you are finally struck by the severe lack of human feeling. Janet outlines what he understands to be some of Roussel糖心传媒檚 aesthetic principles: 糖心传媒淭he work must contain nothing real,糖心传媒� he deduces, 糖心传媒渘o observations on the world or the mind, nothing but completely imaginary combinations.糖心传媒� [. . .]

Roussel糖心传媒檚 eccentricities were sundry and systematic. His biographer, Mark Ford, generously identifies them as 糖心传媒渁ttempt[s] to screen out or neutralize the anxieties of living.糖心传媒� He fasted for days, wore garments for only limited amounts of time (collars, once; neckties, three times; suspenders, 15 times), and started and stopped work always on the hour. Roussel糖心传媒檚 love for his own mother bordered on the erotic, and when she died, he had a pane of glass inserted into the lid of her coffin so that he could look at her corpse just a bit longer. There are more impish examples too, like his habit of tearing pages from his favorite books so that nobody could see what he was reading and then devouring them in the back seat of a chauffeured car. Most telling of what was clearly a personality disorder was Roussel糖心传媒檚 conduct at social events, where 糖心传媒渉e became so afraid of causing offence, or of himself being offended, that he would pre-empt all potentially upsetting topics by asking an endless series of factual questions.糖心传媒�

That last little bit is so amazing . . . I think I’m going to employ it next time I’m anxious at some social event . . .

But seriously, you should check out this article and then read the new translation of Impressions of Africa.

The entire conversation is worth reading, but I’m going to pull our a few of the highlights. To be honest, this sort of discussion usually gets under my skin. The debate on whether a poem can really be translated from one language to another swerves so greatly from the actual point of an anthology like this: putting together a collection of excellent poems to be read and enjoyed. Literature, ideas, beauty, and words, are what I’m really interested in. Sure, there are interesting theoretical spaces that one can knock around in while thinking about the transference of ideas and writing from one language to another, but so often these discussions simply bolster the pervasive prejudice that, by reading works in translation, you aren’t getting the real thing and, therefore, why bother? It’s all “lost in translation,” anyway, right?

The other week at the Best Translated Book Awards, I read a passage from Edie Grossman’s new book Why Translation Matters about the defensive position of the translator. I know I should get on with quoting from the Kaminsky/Kirsch conversation, but I want to frame this first—so here’s a quote from Edie:

We read translations all the time, but of all the interpretive arts, it is fascinating and puzzling to realize that only translation has to fend off the insidious, damaging question of whether or not it is, can be, or should be possible. It would never occur to anyone to ask whether it is feasible for an actor to perform a dramatic role or a musician to interpret a piece of music. Of course it is feasible, just as it is possible for a translator to rewrite a work of literature in another language. Can it be done well? I think so, as do my translating colleagues, but there are other, more antipathetic opinions. Yet even the most virulent, mean-spirited critic reluctantly admits on occasion that some few decent translations do appear from time to time. And the very concept of world literature as a discipline fit for academic study depends on the availability of translations. Translation occupies a central and prominent position in the conceptualization of a universal, enlightened civilization, and, no small accomplishment, it almost defines the European Renaissance.

This “rhetoric of failure” that’s often applied to translation pisses me off. It’s not like the book and media industry isn’t dripping in failed enterprises already. (Case in point: Adam Kirsch used to write for the New York Sun, which went bankrupt.) I agree that there’s a danger to over-celebrating everything just because it falls into a certain category (not all translations or translated books are wonderful), but why do we have to start with the point of questioning an entire discipline? Theoretical notions be damned, translators and anthologies like this help generate more interesting reading material for people who don’t speak all the languages of the world (re: all of us excepting Peter Constantine and Michael Henry Heim).

All that baggage was what I brought to this article. I was already defensive that I was going to have to be defensive. And Kirsch didn’t let me down. (Which isn’t surprising, considering his reaction to Le Clezio receiving the Nobel the other year.) Although as the interview develops, his position vacillates from a much more interesting perspective to a semi-deluded one. Rather than interject or flood you with my commentary, here’s a remixed version of the conversation—just the pertinent extracts:

AK: But let me start by asking you about the book糖心传媒檚 title, which points to one of my own persistent doubts about poetry in translation. Wouldn糖心传媒檛 you agree that there is no such thing as an international poem? A poem can only be written in one language, just as it can only be written by one person at a given moment in history. This is, in fact, one of the great themes of twentieth-century poetry, as your anthology makes very clear糖心传媒攖he obligation of the poet to his place and time.

IK: Let me 铿乺st state that there is no hidden meaning in the title of this book. A quick look at Answers.com de铿乶es 糖心传媒渋nternational糖心传媒� as 糖心传媒渋nvolving two or more nations.糖心传媒� It is simply an anthology that collects poetry from more than one nation.

I糖心传媒檓 assuming that when you speak about your 糖心传媒減ersistent doubts about poetry in translation糖心传媒� you aren糖心传媒檛 speaking about the classics, from Chapman糖心传媒檚 Homer to the King James Bible to Pound糖心传媒檚 Cathay. Therefore it糖心传媒檚 not that you have doubts about the art of translation itself, but rather about certain translations? If so, I am inclined to agree with you, as I agree with Auden糖心传媒檚 statement that a translator should know at least one language well, preferably his own. Anyone who aims to translate into English needs to write well in English. When this is the case, the translation enters the canon of the new language and, perhaps, changes that canon.

AK: The terms of Heaney糖心传媒檚 praise for 糖心传媒淚ncantation糖心传媒� are signi铿乧ant: he refers to its message and its truth, but not to its language or music. [. . .] This is why the examples you give of successful translation are really examples of successful reinvention, in which the foreign poem is made to serve the translator, not vice versa. (Notoriously, Pound introduced a Frigidaire into 糖心传媒淗omage to Sextus Propertius.糖心传媒�) My fear is that this kind of boldness is less and less common or even possible today, precisely because of our more catholic and cautious approach to international poetry. Maybe we are best served when the translator is not a scholar but a plunderer, taking what he or she needs from the original and flinging aside the rest.

IK: If your standard for translation, along with Brodsky糖心传媒檚, is work in which meters attain a spiritual magnitude 糖心传媒渇or which nothing can be substituted,糖心传媒� then I agree that very few works of art can meet that rigorous standard. We can stop now and announce to the world that translation is impossible and therefore no one should do it. Various works in English, from Chaucer糖心传媒檚 Troilus and Criseyde to Marlowe糖心传媒檚 Ovid, from FitzGerald糖心传媒檚 Rubaiyat to Pope糖心传媒檚 Homer, and all the way to Anne Carson糖心传媒檚 Euripides and Sappho, should be discarded as failures.

But perhaps not so quick? As I said in The Ecco Anthology, according to George Steiner an original poem exists in an ideal, static state, and the translator attempts to transmigrate this ideal totality into a second language. Since two languages never mesh perfectly, a translation can never be completely successful; something is always lost.

Few translations in any century could be called 糖心传媒渟uccessful reinventions糖心传媒澨切拇綌or what I would call great translations. But how many great poems are there in any century? Hundreds of poets wrote during the Romantic era; perhaps two dozen are still relevant today. A translator of genius糖心传媒攍ike a poet of genius糖心传媒攊s hard to 铿乶d. But the fact that there are few translators of genius in any century doesn糖心传媒檛 justify rejecting the art. [. . .]

But what interests me is not only the genius of the poet translated but also the genius of what is possible in English as it bends to accommodate or digest various new forms. By translating, we learn how the limits of our minds can be stretched to absorb the foreign, and how thereby we are able to make our language beautiful in a new way.

AK: But reading your anthology made me think of how impure all literatures are, and how ironic the cycle of influence can be. In the sixties, American poets helped to liberate themselves from the formal and emotional constraints of the New Criticism by reading Latin-American poets like Neruda. Merwin糖心传媒檚 and Bly糖心传媒檚 translations of Neruda, which you include in the book, helped to push their own poetry in the direction of open emotionalism, free association, and the speaking voice.

IK: This importing of foreign forms, tones, and approaches is an integral part of our literary tradition. Sonnets and villanelles come from Italy, pantoums come from Malaysia, ghazals from Arabic verses, and so on. English poets whom we ordinarily think of as masters of music are often able to become such masters because of their conversations with other traditions. For instance, Louise Bogan claims very persuasively that 糖心传媒渕any of the effects in Hopkins which we think of as triumphs of 糖心传媒榤odern糖心传媒� compression are actually models of Greek compression, as transformed into English verse.糖心传媒�

AK: Randall Jarrell said that in a golden age everyone goes around complaining about how yellow everything is. I don糖心传媒檛 want to make that old mistake, but I wonder if there are some costs to living in a time when books like The Ecco Anthology make so much foreign-language poetry so easily accessible. [. . .] But ironically, the current abundance of English translations from all imaginable languages糖心传媒擳he Ecco Anthology contains not just French and Spanish and Russian poems, but Armenian and Marathi and Gaelic ones as well糖心传媒攎eans that the stimulating experience of estrangement is harder to come by. The only way to really 糖心传媒渆ngage in conversations with other traditions糖心传媒� is to get to know those traditions, which requires a good deal of study糖心传媒攁nd not just of a language, but of the whole literature and tradition in which any given poem is situated.

(Ed. Note: OK, one interjection. Does Kirsch hold that kind of standard to readers of American lit? No Sam Lipsyte for you until you understand your Faulkner and O’Connor.)

IK: You speak of the abundance of English translations of poetry available. But the truth is, very little is available: 50% of all the books in translation worldwide are translated from English, but less than 3% are translated into English. And that 3% 铿乬ure includes all books in translation糖心传媒攊n terms of literary 铿乧tion and poetry, the number is actually closer to 0.7%! (The 铿乬ures are available at wordswithoutborders.org. My anthology is published in alliance with Words Without Borders, and all the royalties will be donated to keep them alive. They need all the help they can get.) Don糖心传媒檛 these 铿乬ures suggest that we in the us may be looking into the mirror a bit too much? Maybe we should start looking through more windows for a change?

Opening the window to the world is, in part, the job of a translator.

Rock on, Ilya. Rock. On.