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Translating modern Japanese literary prose : a theoretical approach Woodburn, Alexander Gordon 2000

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TRANSLATING MODERN JAPANESE LITERARY PROSE: A THEORETICAL APPROACH by Alexander Gordon Woodburn B.F.A. The University of British Columbia, 1986 B.A. The University of British Columbia, 1989 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Department of Asian Studies; Modern Japanese Literature) We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August 2000 © Alexander Gordon Woodburn In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. Department of A$)ays SjuJt'eS. The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada DE-6 (2/88) Abstract This paper investigates language and translation theories as they pertain to the English translation of modern Japanese literary prose. The four chapters deal, respectively, with a general discussion of language theory; a discussion of some important theoretical issues in translation; a case study, consisting of a detailed discussion of some of the problems and issues encountered in translating a specific work of Japanese fiction; and, finally, the translation itself. Chapter I examines some influential language theories, including the concept of signification, Bakhtin's theory of heteroglossia, and Whorf's theories on how languages influence our conceptualization of reality. Language is presented as dynamic, shifting, contextual, and self-referential, expressive and at the same time creative of who we are and how we see ourselves in relation to the world around us. Chapter II examines several translation issues, including translation metaphorics, the subjectivity of the translator, the nature of fidelity in translation, translating cultural subtext and supertext, and structural differences between Japanese and English that affect translation. Translation is an interpretive art: the translated text acts as a 'meta-text' to the original, with the translator's unique, subjective interpretation intrinsic to its production. Although translation is driven by a desire for sameness, difference is the more fundamental aspect, and the translator's art lies in using these differences to illumine and complement the original. Chapter III studies the translation of a specific literary work, "Uji" (Maggot) by Fujisawa Shu. General structural problems discussed include indeterminacy and delayed determinacy of meariing, problems of tense/aspect, kanji overdetermination, and issues relating to cultural subtext and supertext. In addition, several difficult passages are analyzed to illustrate the interpretive and creative process of rendering Japanese into fluid English. Chapter IV is the translation itself, a grotesque but artfully wrought description of a maggof s journey over the raped and murdered corpse of a young woman. The delicacy of its prose combined with the sensitive nature of its content demand that the translation be carried out with considerable tact, so as not to disturb the precarious balance between poetry and abomination that the original so successfully achieves. ii Table of Contents Abstract i i List of Figures iv Introduction 1 CHAPTER I Language 5 1.1 The Conceptualizing Animal , 5 1.2 Sign/Language: The Development of the Concept of the Signifier 7 1.3 Language and Subjectivity: Bakhtin's Heteroglossia 17 1.4 Benjamin Whorf: Language, Thought, and Reality 20 1.5 Summary—Chapter I 23 CHAPTER E Translation : 25 2.1 Signature to Signature 25 2.2 Translation as Pleasure 30 2.3 Fidelity Beyond Equivalence 33 2.4 Translating Culture: Subtext and Supertext 39 2.5 J toE: Some Structural Differences Affecting Translation 43 2.6 Summary—Chapter H . 49 Chapter IH Case Study: Translatmg / /LZ/7''byFujisawaShu 53 3.1 Introduction—Chapter m 53 3.2 Analysis of Relevant Literary Features 55 3.3 Issues and Problems,Encountered in Translating "Maggot" 62 3.3.1 Kinari 62 3.3.2 Tense/Aspect ;• 64 3.3.3 Indeterminacy and Delayed Determination 66 3.3.4 Cultural Supertext and Subtext 72 3.3.5 'Difficult Passages' . .: 75 3.4 Summary—Chapter HI .' 80 Chapter IV "Maggot"—The Translation !. 82 Conclusion 98 Bibliography 103 iii List of Figures Figure 1 Illustration by Yamamoto Takato iv I. Introduction The problems encountered in interlingual translation are—in theory, at least—to a certain extent common to all translation events, regardless of the languages in question. Translation occurs across the boundaries of language: it is, in the words of Barbara Johnson, "a bridge that creates out of itself the two fields of battle it separates." (148) Therefore, translation is first a problem of language, of what it is that makes language meaningful (in the very broadest sense), and of how different languages impart this meaning differently. Johnson speaks of translation as creating the two fields it separates, and in an important sense this is true: the boundaries of language are defined by difference—the difference between disparate linguistic systems, each of which segments and conceptualizes the reality of human experience in its own way. It is in the act of bringing two languages together with the intention of effecting a transfer of meaning that these differences become apparent. And, as we shall see, the 'battlefield' of an individual language is itself governed by difference, with internal differentiation acting as the basic vehicle for compartmentalizing, conceptualizing, and defining the objects and events of the world. Moreover, as a manifestation of social interaction, language is also the field in which the battle for subjective expression and validation takes place among all of the variegated sub-groups within a given cultural milieu. Translation is a search for similarity within difference, and to the extent that two languages differ, the problems encountered are amplified. Although the general, theoretical problems of translation may be common among all languages, the manner and degree to which they manifest themselves are not. Japanese and English are not only linguistically unrelated, but until recently have developed and evolved as vehicles of expression in cultures with little similarity in regard to social structures or epistemological origins, and no opportunity for interaction. The Western-centered discourse on translation is to some extent influenced by the fact that European languages share largely common linguistic, cultural, and epistemological roots (they are branches of the same language 'tree/ so to speak), and so, historically, there has been a much greater expectation for the preservation of some manner of 'sameness' across translation, with a concomitant dismay at the inevitable manifestation of difference. Recent theoretical developments in the fields of language and translation have made great strides in acknowledging and coming to terms with this difference, but entrenched attitudes still persist of translation as a secondary activity that consists of a mere facile swapping of equivalent words and grammatical patterns between two linguistic systems in a world identically conceived and experienced by all human beings. The contradictions inherent in this old model are especially evident when considering translation between two languages as different in their structures and habitual modes of expression as Japanese and English; therefore, in this paper, I intend to focus mainly on what are commonly referred to as post-structural theoretical developments, which embrace difference and flux as fundamental aspects of language, as in my estimation they provide a more sophisticated and productive basis for the study and practice of Japanese-English translation. I have specifically limited my discussion to modern literary prose, as the translation of pre-modern Japanese or of Japanese poetry, drama, or other genres entails specific difficulties beyond those considered here. As to what qualifies as literary prose, I intend this term in the broad sense, as the evocative use of written language in all of its holistic complexity with the intent of stimulating - 2 -complex, emotional reactions in the reader beyond the narrow and frequently limited response of the rational mind. My one qualification, though, is that I am specifically referring to 'signed' or distinguished literary prose, as there are often significant differences between what is expected of a translation involving a work that bears its author's name as opposed to a work that does not: the imperative to somehow retain the authorial 'voice' of an original restricts the freedom of the translator in a way that an anonymous work, such as, for example, an advertisement or an unsigned political tract (which may be equally as evocative as a canonical literary text but not constrained by any fealty to its originator) often does not. Also implicit in my discussion is the idea that that which originally was read as literature must also read as literature in translation: a partial translation which conveys only putative meanings or merely describes in dead phrases what was brought to life in the original cannot be considered complete. Literature, as a category of writing, is language which presents itself as art, and art that does not directly affect the psyche of its audience is no art at all. We should expect no less of a literary translation. The movement of this paper is from the general to the specific: the four chapters deal, respectively, with a general discussion of language theory; a discussion of some important theoretical issues in translation, including a section on some of the structural differences between Japanese and English that affect translation; a case study, consisting of a detailed discussion of some of the problems and issues encountered in translating a specific work of Japanese fiction; and, finally, the translation itself, which hopefully will serve as a living example of the previously discussed theories, successfully applied. There is a danger when engaging in theoretical discussion of becoming - 3 -lost in a rats' warren of logical debate, in which the satisfaction of successfully learning to navigate its convoluted pathways becomes an end in itself. John Hollander writes, "The domain of logic is a kind of paradise in which it is easy to be right. No harder, at any rate, than to be wrong; and from the tangle of problems that confronts the literary theorist, the regions of formalized discourse are extremely tantalizing." (205) Though the pathways of theory may at times be convoluted, it is in the messy business of practical application that we find the truly Gordian knots. If there are those who treat theory as an end in itself, there also are those who spurn itas irrelevant to the practical concerns of doing. But every intellectual activity is founded on a bedrock of theoretical assumptions, whether spoken or unspoken: it is by making these assumptions explicit and investigating their consistency and validity that we may develop new insights into the process at hand, and possibly even employ our newly gained perspective to dissolve the frustrating tangles that face us in application. In selecting from a grab bag of modern linguistic and translation theories, I have endeavored to choose those that seemed to me to have the greatest potential to influence actual translation practice, and have interpreted them with the eye of a pragmatist, who sees the fulfillment of theory in its successful application. - 4 -I. Language "Speech is the best show man puts on." —Benjamin Whorf (249) 1.1 The Conceptualizing Animal It has been said that 'man is the tool-making animal/ but, before we are a tool-making animal, we are most certainly a conceptualizing animal. It is the concept of leverage that creates the lever, and raises it to the level of abstraction that allows it to be equally applied to raising a boulder or firing a gun. Tool use may be universal among humans, but not all human cultures are equally handy; language, on the other hand, which is the vehicle of conceptualization, is as constant in its complexity throughout human cultures as it is diverse in the realms of expression it creates. Language is an integral part of who we are as human beings, and, in fact, Jacques Lacan and others have even suggested that the basic structure of the human mind is similar to that of language. The language we use—and the language that others use— affects us directly, with an immediacy that can at times cut right to the core of our psyches. Consider the following excerpt from the entry on poetry, taken from the Grolier Encyclopedia: The legend of the poet Archilochus, whose imprecations drove his enemies to suicide, suggests some of the functions that poetry originally served and the reverence with which the poet was regarded. It could placate and invoke spiritual powers in poems that were the remote ancestors of odes, hymns, and panegyrics, and it could expel evil influences by violently abusive verses that were - 5 -the earliest satire. These functions are now so weakened that they have virtually disappeared, but poems in praise of public acts are still written, especially in totalitarian states, and satirists are still capable of inducing fear and hatred. (Howard Batchelor, "Poetry") Aside from totalitarian feel-good propaganda and suicidal rants, and in addition to fear and hatred, language is also capable of evoking in us side-splitting laughter and joyous rapture, of transporting us to imagined worlds with an intensity of experience nearly equal to our own physical existence, of moving us to pity, despair, rage, sexual arousal, disgust, angst, saccharine sentimentality, and genuine compassion. Words by themselves can sicken or heal. A dog lives in a world of smell, a bat in a world of sound, but we humans live in a world of language, which hangs like a veil between us and the physical act of existence. It is through language that we parse the raw data of our senses and construct from it an ordered, sensible reality; and, through language, that we project our own inner worlds outward for others to interact with and respond to. Any theory of language that merely describes its superficial structures without attempting to account for the complex emotionally, intellectually, and even physically embracing effects that it has on us, or fails to acknowledge language as an essentially subjective act of communication between the internal worlds of individual beings, each with his or her own unique psychogenic sense of self in relation to a larger society and beyond, is sure to be deficient. For humans to explain language, though, is rather like asking a tiger to explain its claws: a tiger emanates through its claws—it is with them that it grasps the world (or, at least, that part of the world that is important to it), rends it and draws it in for consumption. A tiger is a function of its claws, just as the claws are a function of the tiger. Likewise for humans, there is a certain Mobius strip quality _ 6 _ in trying to use language to explain language. A questioning of language leads eventually back to a questioning of the question: the meta-language of inquiry is built on its own assumptions, couched in its own jargon, all of which tend to influence the inquiry's direction and the conclusions it wi l l reach. This does not mean that such investigation is in vain, but only that it wi l l be always ongoing, and never truly conclusive. Just as the tiger's ability to use its claws is inborn, so too is the human facility for language. It is precisely because of this that the most obvious questions may go unasked, and the most common-sensical answers prove unfounded. It is not my ambition here to attempt a comprehensive explanation of language; I hope merely to take an eclectic look at some of the more influential theories of the last hundred years and discuss them as they relate to translation. In particular, I wi l l discuss the concept of signification as put forth by Ferdinand de Saussure and further developed by Lacan and Derrida; Bakhtin's theory of heteroglossia; and Whorf's theories on languages and their influence on how different cultural-linguistic groups conceptualize reality. 1.2 Sign/Language: The Development of the Concept of the Signifier i Saussure begins his study of language with division: language, he says, can be divided into Language (langue), which is the received system of language consisting of rules to which everyone must conform if she1 wishes to understand or be understood; and Speech (parole), which consists of the 1 In the interest of gender equality, I randomly alternate between 'he' or 'she' in places where either pronoun will do, avoiding the technically more accurate but clumsy 'he or she' that is often used. The only exception is in the chapter on translation theory, where the initial discussion on gender and metaphorics in translation makes it seem more appropriate to refer to the translator as 'she' and the original author as 'he' throughout, except when conforming to pronoun use within a specific quote. - 7 - ' •. individual utterances made by speakers of that language. Saussure confines his study principally to Language, which he says is stable and relatively unchanging, and beyond the influence of individual speakers. The study of Language can be further divided into investigation of its synchronic aspects (the state of Language at a given time) and its diachronic aspects (Language's historical development). Though the diachronic aspect of Language can be relevant to translation when examining the effects of translation across time, here I intend to concentrate on Saussure's observations pertaining to its stative characteristics. Language, says Saussure, is communal, a received system that preexists any individual speaker, and therefore the individual, having no control or influence over its conventions, is a passive recipient who must comply with its dictates if he wishes to successfully communicate. It is a communal property, which "is not complete in any speaker; it exists perfectly only within a collectivity." (14) This assertion that language is an imposed system over which the individual has no control is contradicted, though, by Saussure's further statement that "speaking is necessary for the establishment of language, and historically its actuality always comes first.... Speaking is what causes language to evolve." (18-19) This would imply an ongoing negotiation between Language and Speech that Saussure did not appear to acknowledge, but which is of fundamental importance to understanding language as a living, organic form. We wi l l return to this issue when we examine Bakhtin's theory of heteroglossia. The most significant and seminal aspect of Saussure's trunking was his development of the concept of the sign. Previous to Saussure, it was generally held that a word was a label affixed directly to a 'thing': the word, 'tree,' for example, was a name assigned to those tall, leafy objects protruding from the ground. He asserted, though, that the word 'tree,' as a linguistic sign, "unites, - 8 -not a thing and a name, but a concept and a sound image." (66) This l inguistic sign,, therefore, can be d iv ided into its two components: the signifier, ' t ree/ wh ich consists of a sound or other symbol, and the particular concept, or signif ied, that it is associated wi th—in this case, the mental concept of tree-ness. The ' th ing ' to wh ich the sign refers—the referent— bears no posit ive relationship to the sign, in that it plays no direct role i n delineating the boundaries of either the signifier or the signif ied. Furthermore, the relationship between the signifier and the signif ied is completely arbitrary, as there is no necessary connection between the two save the l inguistic convention that brings them together as a signifying unit. What was revolutionary i n Saussure's thinking was this assertion that both signifier and signified are totally arbitrary, wi th no necessary connection either between each other or to the referent. They are determined, he says, solely by their differentiation f rom al l other signifiers and signifieds wi th in the Language system: the phonetic utterance 'tree' is differentiated from 'f lea' or 'knee' or ' truck' or 'f iddle-dee-dee' by its unique combination of phonemes, wh ich combine into a l inguistical ly significant, phonetic unit that is associated wi th a particular concept. Likewise, the concept of tree-ness jostles up against concepts of bush-ness, flower-ness, grass-ness, animal-ness and rock-ness, its boundaries of meaning delineated not by any posit ive association w i th the objects of this wor ld , but by its differentiation f rom al l other nodes i n the web of conceptualization that language comprises. Thus, we have Saussure's famous statement that " i n language there are only differences without positive terms." (120) The logical impl icat ion of this is that it is not objects that define language, but language that defines objects: we parse the raw data of our senses to comply with the conceptual framework dictated by whatever language we happen to speak, seeing a tree as one thing, a bush as another, differentiating a blue moon from a broken heart, treating a wave as a thing rather than an event because it exists as a noun in our language—we customarily look upon language as a transparent window through which are exposed our thoughts and the reality of the world, but in a way it is more the opaque backing over which our thoughts and perceptions are traced. Saussure said that, "without language, thought is a vague, uncharted nebula. There are no preexisting ideas, and nothing is distinct before the appearance of language." (112) In this sense, it is truly language that creates us, rather than the other way around. In practice, Speech (which for the purpose of our discussion would include writing) is composed of parallel streams of signifiers and their signifieds, which are linked by the preexisting conventions of Language, the rules of which also determine their relative positioning. The signs within the stream are bound by a relationship that is both syntagmatic (linear with respect to time) and associative with respect to other signs with which they are phonetically or conceptually related. Saussure's conception of this association between signs, though, seems curiously limited. He offers us the example of the French defaire (un-do), which he illustrates as "a horizontal ribbon that corresponds to the spoken chain.... But simultaneously and on another axis there exists in the subconscious one or more associative series comprising units that have an element in common with the syntagm." For defaire, he lists two such series, "decoller de-placer decoudre etc." and "faire refaire contrefaire etc." (128-9) While these are certainly associations that would be made, one cannot help but imagine that there are more complex yet equally significant chains of association that the subconscious mind would produce. It is like taking the English word - 2 0 -'dismember' and drawing up chains of association like 'disqualify, displace, disenchanted, etc/ and 'member, membership, remember, etc/ without ever mentioning the image of a mutilated corpse that such a word evokes. In the section of his book titled "Associative Relations," (125-7), Saussure hints at such paradigmatic associations, but only explicitly mentions associations due to "analogy of the concepts signified (enseignement, instruction, apprentissage, education, etc.); or ... simply from the similarity of the sound images (e.g. enseignement and justement 'precisely')." [126] Thus, while his theory wil l accommodate conceptually associative chains for 'dismember' such as 'mutilate, dissect, decapitate, etc/ this is still only a sterile list of synonyms that does not fully address the emotive impact of language. Overall, Saussure appears to show little interest in the associative effects of language, preferring to concentrate on its syntagmatic aspects. Perhaps Saussure would counter that he wishes to address only Language in its pure form, without the cluttered baggage of emotional associations produced by the human psyche. But are the two really separable? If language plays an intrinsic role in shaping our sense of self, then it follows that our inner world, with all its emotional, irrational, and capricious associations, plays an integral role in making language what it is, whatever that may be. Saussure's theory exemplifies the reductionist imperative of scientific thinking, which insists on eliminating the messy variables of an object in interaction with its environment, separating it out for controlled, independent scrutiny. According to this imperative, what is important to know about a frog, for example, can be found out on the dissecting table; but while there are no doubt some interesting and possibly even valuable insights that may be gained into a frog this way, it effectively denies the relevance of the frog's world to it, negates the significance - 2 2 -of its 'ker-plop' that echoes off the stones of the old pond where it lives, ignores the play of twilight off the ripples and the surrounding trees. And, of course, it fails to account for the role of the observer, who frightened the frog into the pond in the first place. Jacques Lacan, who revolutionized psychoanalysis by combining Saussurean linguistic theory with Freudian insights into the mind, contended that Saussure over-emphasized the syntagmatic aspect of language while at the same time failing to appreciate the full importance of its associative qualities. He states that, "if ...[Saussure's] ... linearity is necessary, in fact, it is not sufficient. It applies to the chain of discourse only in the direction in which it is oriented in time." Lacan contends that language is "polyphonous" in nature, that "all discourse is aligned along the several staves of a score ... a whole articulation of relevant contexts suspended 'vertically,' as it were, from that point." ("Instance" 194) By "relevant contexts," here, we may assume he meant the multitude of previous contextual streams of signification in which the sign has been strung, and all of the connotations and associations the sign engenders, which relate back to and infuse the present context with a superabundance of meaning—a I symphonic effect, beyond the simple, linear, unitary model suggested by Saussure. This is why a simple haiku, a solitary tinkling of words, has the power to reverberate through the mind like a temple bell. — Lacan did not see the stream of signification as a simple linear progression of signifier/signified units bonded together in a sign, but as a "signifying chain ... rings of a necklace that is a ring in another necklace made of rings." ("Instance" 193) Thus, each language act is inter-linked with the whole of Language, in an infinite chain of association, ultimately self-referential, as "no signification can be sustained other than by reference to another signification" ("Instance" 191). - 1 2 -The words themselves are dependent not onreality for their meaning, but on their relations within the fabric of interdependent, mterlocking chains of conceptualization that forms the veil though which we view the world. For, says Lacan, "the concept... engenders the thing. ... It is the world of words that creates the world of things" ("Symbolic" 184). Nor does Lacan view the relationship between the signifier and the signified as fixed: there is, he says, a "sliding of the signified under the signifier" ("Instance" 194) that further undermines the apparent stability of the Saussurean model. Because words are not linked directly to reality, he viewed Saussure's famous example of the word 'tree' over the drawing of a tree (meant to represent the concept of tree-ness) as misrepresenting the true nature of the relationship of the signifier to the signified. Instead, he offered his own illustration, of the words " M E N " and " W O M E N " over two doors ("Instance" 192), which obviously would signify a public toilet rather than segregated closets full of male and female specimens of our species. While some might find this example clever but slightly disingenuous, it does illustrate the important point that the concept a signifier conveys is contextually based, related not only to a simple, abstract and constant pairing, but to the relationship ofthe sign to its environment in each instance of use. If the signified slides beneath the signifier, then it follows that the chains of signifier and signified slide against one another as well, and with different rhythms; for if the link between the two is arbitrary, as Saussure asserts, and furthermore each is determined not by a common referent but by differentiation from others of its own stratum (that is, signifier to signifier, signified to signified), then each must shift according to its own contextual imperatives, which are independent. A signifying utterance spoken in a particular context - 2 3 -\ may 'cal l to m ind ' a related conceptual string, but the signifiers, as phonological events, trace a web of associations different f rom those of the concept, and these juxtaposed streams of association i n turn echo off of one another to form sti l l other associations i n their reflection. In this way, a chain of words—a series of nominal ly l inked signi f ier / signif ied relationships—forms its own , unique unit of signification (Lacan's "rings of a necklace that is a r ing i n another necklace") that cannot be whol ly reduced to its constituent parts. Literary prose, wh ich consists i n such turns of phrase rather than mere strings of words, relies on this holistic, irreducibly complex relationship to achieve its effect: that is why 'The guy the bel l is r inging for' is a poor paraphrase of 'For whom the bel l tolls,' regardless of their conceptual affinity. Just as Lacan combined Saussure's linguistics wi th psychoanalysis, so d id Derr ida combine it w i th phi losophy. In his concept of differance, a neologism that plays on two senses of a French word that in Engl ish are usually expressed as deferral and differentiation, he expresses the idea that impl ici t i n the sign is not only the sort of difference described above, but also the deferral or absence of the referent. "The sign is born at the same time as the imaginat ion and memory, at the moment when it is demanded by the absence of the object for present perception" ("Signature" 88). Therefore, the sign is a product, or at least a 'Siamese twin, ' of imagination and memory, the mind's attempt to grasp at the absent referent, which, because of the self-referential nature of the sign, is infinitely deferred. Differance—the simultaneous differentiation and deferral of the sign—is a function of what Derr ida refers to as play and trace. Play can be thought of as the infinitely regressing interaction of signs described above, i n its historic sense: al l of the mult i tudinous interplays of each sign i n each context i n wh ich it has - 2 4 -ever been used, and the constant shifting of the signified beneath the signifier with each new context in which it appears. Trace, on the other hand, is the product of the action of difference. For, says Derrida, there can be "no difference without trace" ("Differance" 71). Trace is the associative link created in individual instances of the sign within a context; "traces ... can also be interpreted as moments of differance" ("Differance" 71). In other words, trace is what is created by the action or movement of differance: it is the ephemeral thread that marks the contextual relationships between signs. Derrida's writings are marked by an acknowledgement of the true complexity of language, along with a refusal to attempt to reduce or simplify it into easily digested, comfortable abstractions. He denies any constancy to the sign, any ideal, objective, unchanging core of meaning; rather, it is in a constant flux, continually reinvented by its shifting context: "Every sign," he says, "... can be cited, put between quotation marks; thereby it can break with every given context, and engender infinitely new contexts in an absolutely nonsaturable fashion. This does not suppose that the mark is valid outside its context, but on the contrary that there are only contexts without any center of absolute anchoring" ("Signature" 97). This is especially true of written language, in which the context in which it is written is necessarily different from the context in which it is read. The the act of writing is an arrow shot into the dark; the writer has no notion or control over the context of its destination. Likewise, the act of reading is an arrow shooting out from the dark; the reader has at best only a vague notion of the context of its origin. Though the ideas of Lacan and Derrida with regard to the sign are logical extensions of concepts implicit in Saussure, it is unlikely that Saussure could have anticipated acting as catalyst to such a radical paradigm shift in the way -15-language is viewed. This shift is normally referred to as the movement from structuralism to post-structuralism; whereas the structuralists assumed that language possessed a stable, consistent, centered structure that could be elucidated through scientific scrutiny, post-structuralism pulled the rug out from under all of these assumptions, and further questioned the validity of the so-called objective, scientific stance that claimed to explain language while at the same time being inexorably tangled up in it. Terry Eagleton describes this shift as follows: The implication of all this is that language is a much less stable affair than the classical structuralists had considered. Instead of being a well-defined, clearly demarcated structure containing symmetrical units of signifiers and signifieds, it now begins to look much more like a sprawling limitless web where there is a constant interchange and circulation of elements, where none of the elements is absolutely definable and where everything is caught up and traced through by everything else. If this is so, then it strikes a serious blow at certain traditional theories of meaning. (112) In fact, the conclusion toward which the post-structuralist argument appears to point is that language indeed has no meaning; for if the relationship between the signifier and the signified is continually shifting dependent on an ever-changing context—if "there are only contexts without any center of absolute anchoring"— then it follows that there is is no original meaning to any language utterance: If you can't step in the same river twice, as they say, then you can't step in the same river once. But does this mean that there is no river? If it is not valid for the structuralist working within the system of signs to assign meaning to those signs, then it is equally invalid for the post-structuralist working within -16-the same system to take meartirig away. Here, of course, I may be guilty of misrepresenting the post-structuralist position, which does not necessarily deny meaning to language, but rather denies meaning in an absolute sense, that is, meaning as a pure and stable bond between signifier and signified that exists outside the contexts of both the individual instance of its use and of all previous uses up to that point. Meaning in this sense is not absolute, but fundamentally and profoundly relative. 1.3 Language and Subjectivity: Bakhtin's Heteroglossia The discussion up to this point, whether structuralist or post-structuralist, has been purely abstract—Lacan and Derrida (at least as presented here) have followed Saussure's lead in inquiring into the properties of Language, without concerning themselves specifically with the individual Speech act. Saussure said that Language exists prior to and outside of any individual; but if it 'exists,' it can only be said to exist as an historically occurring collectivity of individual communicative transactions, each of which is an active negotiation of meaning, the outcome of which, as we have seen above, affects the whole. Therefore, though Language may appear to have an existence external to and independent of individual subjects, and it may even be useful in certain contexts to speak of it as if it did, it in fact does not. Like the internet, which is composed of myriad interacting nodes without a central control, so too does Language trace its existence to the individual human subject functioning within a group, and not to any external, independent existence. As Eagleton observes, Language is not so much something that is, as "something that we do, [which is] indissociably interwoven with our practical forms of life" (127). -17-Bakhtin develops a theory of language as being internally stratified by the multiple individual and collective subjectivities within the larger language-speaking, group, which makes language heteroglossic in nature. Heteroglossia he defines as: The internal stratification of any single national language into social dialects, characteristic group behavior, professional jargons, generic languages, languages of generations and age groups, tendentious languages, languages of the authorities, of various circles and passing fashions, languages that serve the specific sociopolitical purposes of the day, even of the hour (each day has j its own slogan, its own vocabulary, its own emphases)—this internal stratification [is] present in every language at any given moment of its historical existence .... (263) Heteroglossia is the collective effect of all the sub-groups and strata within a common language group, each struggling to co-opt existing modes of expression and mold them to voice their own subjective world experience: it is the ideological struggle for self-validation through linguistic expression. This is a view of language that is rooted in the social act of its use, one of language conceived "not as a system of abstract grammatical categories, but rather ... as ideologically saturated, language as a world view, even as a concrete opinion ...." (271) A l l language use is rooted in the ideology of the subject, and therefore to attempt to define correct usage, or to assign absolute meaning, is an inherently political act, as is the abuse, misuse, or creative distortion of such imposed conventions. The effect of heteroglossia on language is dispersive, or "centrifugal," tending to fragment and pull it apart; this force is counteracted by the normative -18-or "centripetal" effect of language's inherently conventional nature, which arises based on the need for sufficient consistency of interpretation within and across conflicting subjectivities in order for communication to occur. Language is not so much static, as Saussure suggested, but in a state of dynamic flux, churning, volatile, held in place by the opposing forces at work in each individual Speech act. "Every concrete utterance of a speaking subject serves as a point where centrifugal as well as centripetal forces are brought to bear. ... [Each utterance] is a contradiction-ridden, tension-filled unity of two embattled tendencies in the life of a language." (272) Nor is the ideological position of the speaker the sole determinant of the meaning of an utterance: the listener, too, by interpreting the utterance according to his own ideological perspective, is an active participant in the creation of meaning. The "contradictory environment of alien words is present to the speaker not in the object, but rather in the consciousness of the listener, as his apperceptive background, pregnant with responses and objections. ... A passive understanding of linguistic meaning is no understanding at all, it is only the abstract aspect of meaning." (281) By denying the objective meaning of an utterance outside the apperceptive background of the listener, Bakhtin deconstructs the usual model of communication, which posits the speaker as the primary determiner of a meaning that the listener must passively strive to understand, and ascribes an active role to the listener's subjective mental environment in determining the meaning of a given statement. The meaning of the word, then, is in thexresponse it evokes. Bakhtin's theory of language is rooted in the subjectivity of the individual interacting with other individuals in a group, and the multiple subjectivities of ( groups interacting in a larger society. Rather than treating Language as an object. of abstract contemplation, unrelated to its actual use, he asserts the primacy of the Speech act, and thereby empowers the multiplicity of sub-groups within a cultural-linguistic whole. The way each one of us uses language is in itself a statement of who we are and where our affiliations lie: heteroglossia gives equal validity to all of these perspectives. It removes the center and replaces it with centering influences—the necessity for communication among disparate, ideologically conflicting groups. George Steiner asks the question, "Why should human beings speak thousands of different, mutually incomprehensible tongues?" (49) He reasons that it must be because language is not only about communication, but also about exclusion, a sort of 'circling the wagons' of signification to preserve the intimacy of the group and to deny outsiders access. Bakhtin's theories could be extrapolated to express in positive terms what Steiner phrases negatively: if the heteroglossic tendencies within a given language are products of "specific points of view on the world, forms for conceptualizing the world in words, specific world views, each characterized by its own objects, meanings, and values" (291-2), then could not the same be said of the multiplicity of tongues? If this is so, one would expect to find as many human tongues as there are human cultures. And, it just so happens that this is more or less the case. 1.4 Benjamin Whorf: Language, Thought, and Reality Whereas the discussion up to this point has focused on words, or signs, and their meaning, Benjamin Whorf developed a theory of language based on the patterning of relationships between the signs. If language is a veil through which we perceive reality, then Whorf tells us that it is a patterned veil, and - 2 0 -moreover, it is these patterned relationships between the signs, which are determined by the formulaic structure of a language, that most profoundly influence how we think and perceive reality. "Sentences, not words," he says, "are the essence of speech, just as equations and functions, and not bare numbers, are the real meat of mathematics." (258) Language determines our perception of reality on two levels: first, lexically, and second, on a higher level of the unconscious patterning of linguistic relationships. On the level of the lexicon, the boundaries of meaning imposed on words have the effect of concretizing the concepts they signify, thereby imparting an illusory reality to the referent. " ' H i l l ' and 'swamp' persuade us to regard local variations in altitude or soil composition of the ground as distinct THINGS almost like tables and chairs. Each language performs this artificial chopping up of the continuous spread and flow of existence in a different way." (253) Of course, according to this line of reasoning, the tables and chairs are no more distinct 'things' than the hills and swamps: a table could become a chair if we chose to sit on it, just as a chair would be a step if we climbed on it to reach something; and either would serve equally well as a perch for a tired seagull. But this merely serves to prove Whorf's point, that the boundaries of meaning determined by linguistic convention have become so naturalized as to govern our perceptions without conscious reflection. This level of language, though, which partitions the world into conceptual units and their signifiers, is only the lower, more superficial level of language. Beyond is a higher order of language, which consists of the ordering principles that govern the ways in which signs can be combined in relationship to one another: It is as if the personal mind, which selects words but is largely - 2 2 -oblivious to pattern, were in the grip of a higher, far more intellectual mind which has very little notion of houses and beds and soup kettles, but can systematize and mathematize on a scale and scope that no mathematician of the schools ever remotely approached. (257) Like mathematics, this level of language is formulaic, governing the relationships of the variables independent of their value, so that, at an unconscious level, "... the forms of a person's thoughts are controlled by inexorable laws of pattern ... the unperceived intricate patterns of his own language." (252) Not only does each language incorporate a certain point of view inherent in its structure, however, but also "certain patterned resistances to widely divergent points of view." (247) (Here, we might add that, from a Bakhtinian perspective, these patterned resistances are not only structural, but cultural as well; the habits of phrasing within a particular level of discourse, to which one is obliged to conform if one wishes to be accepted into that discourse, to some extent determine what can be said easily, and what can be said only with great difficulty or not at all.) These structural patterns of language govern, at an unconscious level, our conception of time, of space, of human inter-relationships, and even our sense of self. The structural differences between Japanese and English serve as an excellent example of this theory, as we shall see later in the case study. While it is possible, even probable, that on a deep structural level all languages share a common core—all humans, after all, share the same physical, neurological configuration that gives us our innate potential for language, and all are capable of learning one another's tongues—it is at the level of difference that language presents a problem for translation. The many diversely patterned - 2 2 -I veils of language, laid over the "continuous spread and flow of existence," segment it differently, draw different lines of association, emphasize and amplify certain aspects of reality, and ignore or occlude certain others. There is a tendency when drawing examples illustrating language concepts to take them from the external world of 'things,' such as trees and tables, but it is important to note that all of these concepts equally apply to language as it describes our inner realities—how we express our internal psychic environment; and also to our social realities—how we express relationships within a social order. That people are capable not only of learning other, divergent languages, but also of intuitively managing the profound perceptual and psychological reintegration that this entails, attests to the innate flexibility and linguistic adaptability of the human mind. 1.5 Summary—Chapter I What is consistent throughout the various theoretical perspectives considered here is a view of language as dynamic, shifting, contextual, and self-referential, expressive and at the same time creative of who we are and how we see ourselves in relation to the world around us. "It is the world of words that creates the world of things, and not the other way around"; and the world of words in turn sustains itself, a vast web of signification shot through with associative traces that play off of one another like the veins of static electricity on a Van de Graaff globe. Language is a communal possession, but it is stored in our individual consciousnesses and actualized through communication, be it reflexive, interpersonal, or inter-communal. Language may, as Saussure said, exist only imperfectly in any individual, but that is not to say that language has a - 2 3 -perfected, objective, external existence; rather, there is a synergy produced by the myriad negotiations of meaning that take place at each instance of linguistic exchange: an organic flux of evolving interpretation as the many conflicting strata of human society seek to appropriate language in order to speak the world from their own particular view, while at the same time bound by the historical discourse that is their linguistic heritage. } Literary prose utilizes all of these aspects of language in order to influence us globally, not only on the level of the conscious intellect, but right down to the core of our being, where our awareness of language is rooted. The effect of a literary text is never wholly rational or apparent, any more than the human mind is wholly rational or self-conscious. Even the simplest stringing together of words to convey their facile meaning is supported by a matrix of associations so complex that it defies rational inquiry. This is why there is an art to writing: the intuitive ability of the human mind to grasp language in its full complexity and to anticipate the effect it wi l l have on the reader. Conversely, there is an art to reading, also: the intuitive ability to grasp the complex associations embodied in a text. The translator, who occupies an intermediate position between the two, must anticipate both, while at the same time dealing with the often intransigent differences of structure and perception that separate two languages. — 24— II. Translation 2.1 Signature to Signature "How would you translate a signature?"—so ends Derrida's famous essay on translation, "Des Tours de Babel." (205) But, in a sense, this is the question from which the discourse on translation ought to begin. The act of translation, at least as it is problematized in modern Western cultures, originates in the desire to communicate, across linguistic boundaries, 'the words of a great writer'—not his thoughts, nor an explication of them, nor even the impressions, interpretations, or inspired reveries of an insightful reader of the original, but the words themselves, so that the reader of the translated text may feel the illusion (for it is obviously an illusion, if our previous discussion on language carries any weight) that she has gained direct, unmediated access to the 'great writer's' intellectual and creative genius, expressed in the very same words and turns of phrase, together with all their complex web of nuance and association, that made the original a unique product of the man himself. Anything less than this, we are told, or even anything more, is a 'failure.' We want the signed original, together with a magic glass, free of lint, tint, or refractive curve, that wi l l allow us to read it in a language we understand. Such is the importance placed on the signature as guarantee of a genuine product of individual genius that we compulsively affix signatures even to works with no clear originator. In this paper, I quote Saussure as if I knew him, whereas in reality the book from which I took his words was written by several of his students after his death, based upon their lecture notes. We talk of the Iliad as being written by Homer, despite that fact that, as an artifact of oral - 2 5 -transmission, it was almost certainly a product of the many minds through which it passed. I enclose the above question, 'How would you translate a signature?' in direct quotation marks, and attribute it to Derrida, even though whatever Derrida originally wrote, he wrote in French, a language in which I could barely order a ham sandwich. And yet I do so because it is a convention of the milieu in which I write; it is required of me, not only because I must 'give credit where credit is due,' but also because the 'signature' of the man—what he said, in the exact words he said it—lends a greater weight of verisimilitude to my argument than if I were merely to say the same thing in my own words. As with designer clothing, a signature is the guarantee of a certain level of sensibility and craftsmanship, an assurance that even on a bad day, Derrida is capable of deeper and truer insight than the rest of us. So, we want his exact words, just to be sure that it is what he actually said and not the bumbling attempt of an anonymous scribe to ape him (we specifically want a parrot, not a monkey); but, paradoxically, we want those exact words to be respoken in a different language, namely, our own. This is the true origin of the abuse heaped on translators and translation in general: a translation cannot live up to the promise of the signature, and yet, somehow in our culture there is the unreasonable expectation that it should. In "Gender and the Metaphorics of Translation," Lori Chamberlain examines the various metaphors that have been historically used to describe translation, and discovers that they frequently characterize it in terms of male-female relationships. (There is the familiar French quip, for example, that a translation is like a wife, either 'ugly and faithful/or 'beautiful and treacherous.') Simply put, the author is assigned primary importance as the male 'creator/ with the translator in a secondary, devalued, and passive role as the female 'recreator/ - 2 6 -Translation is thus depicted in terms of production and reproduction: the author provides the seminal inspiration—the important part—while the translator merely does what comes naturally and waddles around till her belly bursts. And if, lo and behold, the product should too little resemble the father, the mother is accused of infidelity. As in marriage, fidelity in translation is depicted as a "contract between translation (as woman) and original (as husband, father, or author)." Furthermore, in the spirit of old-fashioned family values, "this contract... makes it impossible for the original to be guilty of infidelity." (58) If it is difficult to imagine how, in practice, an original text could be accused of infidelity to the translation, this in itself may be an indication of how deeply entrenched the concept of the absolute primacy of the original is. Chamberlain does not elaborate, but, to stretch the metaphor, we might consider the one-sided injunction that the translation must never be 'better' than the original to be a manifestation of this concept: the role of the wife is to support her husband, and never, to her peril, outshine him, even when he is at his most clumsy, loutish, and rude. In fact, it is considered the supreme act of faithfulness that she limp when he limps, and fall when he trips, for never is fidelity more difficult than at these moments. Chamberlain observes that "this metaphorics of translation reveals both an anxiety about the myths of paternity (or authorship and authority) and a profound ambivalence about the role of maternity ...." (63) At stake is the bloodline of the author, the transmission of his thoughts and words as untainted as possible by the corrupting influence of the vessel of their transformation. The focus is not on what might be gained through the mother but only on what the father wi l l lose. And, "what the original risks losing, in short, is its phallus, the sign of paternity, authority, and originality." (67) As the family gathers around - 2 7 -the birthing table their hearts are filled, not with joy and wonder at the new creation before them, but with dread and anxiety over whether or not the child wil l have its father's eyes, or his lips, or his comical, bulbous nose. And if, by chance, the child should have the petite nose of the mother, or worse, the aquiline nose of the local goat herd, the mother is treated to a stoning, as punishment for the injury she has caused her cuckolded, castrated husband. Whether these metaphorics arise out of attitudes toward translation or the other way around is a moot point; likely, there is an interaction, with metaphor and attitude each reinforcing the other. What is important to appreciate here is that, historically, a naturalized and repressive system of gender relations has been metaphorically transposed onto the relationship between source text and translation, in turn making the subordination of the translation appear also to be natural. Most discussions on translation start from the unexamined assumption of the need for unilateral fidelity of the translation to its source, and perhaps some sense of fidelity is the minimum requirement for a work to be considered a translation, rather than a version, or a rendition, or some other category of work. But does this mean that the translator must walk in the shadow of the author, three steps behind, head bowed, silent and invisible but always willing to lend a hand with the luggage? Surely there must be a definition of fidelity that does not imply subjugation, and a definition of translation that does not doom itself to failure. Paul de Man has said that "the translator, per definition, fails. The translator can never do what the original text did. Any translation is always second to the original, and the translator as such is lost from the very beginning." (80—italics mine) That the problem here lies not in an inherent deficiency in the act of translation itself but in the dysfunctional nature of the definition is exactly my point. The word 'translation' is a sign, like any other, and the definition of what it signifies is therefore arbitrary and changeable. The definition 'per which' de Man operates contains its own contradiction, and thereby negates its own function. It is only by resolving this contradiction that functionality can be restored to translation, so that it may even at times be allowed to succeed. If the act of reading is inherently interpretive, and the act of writing creative, then it follows that translation, which combines elements of both, must be an interpretive, creative act as well. Therefore, implicit ih any translation is the 'signature' of the translator, the mark of the translator's subjectivity—her unique interpretation of what was said in one language, and how it can most fruitfully be expressed in another. (It is generally accepted as a truism that ten different translators wil l produce ten different translations of a given text, and that, paradoxically, if two turn out to be identical, it is a sure sign that one translator has plagiarized the other.) A translated work, then, has two signatures, that of the original's author, and that of the translation's author. A translation should enhance an original: it has the potential to embody two views and two modes of expression simultaneously. Yet, for some reason, according to the standard theories of translation as embodied in de Man's statement, all differences between the two are regarded in terms of loss. What is at stake here, though, seems not so much the preservation of the original, intact and unchanged despite massive linguistic and cultural intervention, but the perceived threat of the translator's signature toward the signature of the original. And perhaps it is in this pathological urge to erase the signatureof the translation that the original might be accused of infidelity. 2.2 Translation as Pleasure Walter Benjamin claims in "The Task of the Translator" that a translation, like its original, is "[not] intended for the reader," and that attempting to please the reader is the "hallmark of bad translations" (69); though it is difficult to see how this is so. It is the reader who, in the very act of reading, completes the translation: without the reader's active participation, the translated text remains a mere caravan of ink blotches worming across the page. If a translation is made without any regard to its readership, the translator may fulfill her task any way she pleases, but even in this case the pleasure of the reader (her own pleasure) is involved, albeit reflexively. Even if the ultimate goal is, as Benjamin implies, the glorification of God, through the manifestation of a metaphysical "pure language ... which no single language can attain by itself but which is realized only by the totality of their intentions supplementing each other" (74), then the pleasure of God is at stake. It goes without saying that a translation which pleases no one, including its author, is the very definition of travesty. Contrary to Benjamin, I would propose that translation is a social activity, and it is the pleasure of the reader that defines its parameters. In a legal document, for example, the control of ambiguity is at stake, and all other linguistic considerations are secondary. A lawyer's profession consists in finding loopholes, and so he would be displeased if a translation closed any that he could have used, or opened any he could not. A researcher would be most pleased with a translation done in the manner of an archeological dig, carefully analyzed and copiously footnoted to inform her of different possible interpretations, historical context, the opinions of other scholars, etc. A language teacher looks - 3 0 -to a translation for evidence of the student's understanding of various normative rules of grammar and vocabulary in the source language, and so would be happiest when it manifests this, and displeased with any artistic embellishment. What, then, of a literary translation? Who is the audience—or, at least, which is the audience about which the translator should care most—and what would be likely to please it? Benjamin reasons as follows: "[C]onsideration of the receiver never proves fruitful. Not only is any reference to a certain public or its representatives misleading, but even the concept of an 'ideal' receiver is detrimental... since all it posits is the existence and nature of man as such." (69) Certainly, the translator whose mind is cluttered with an imagined committee of public representatives is unlikely to produce anything more than a bland, conservative affirmation of normative cross-lingual values; and, in a post-structuralist era in which all positivist, centered thought systems have come under fire, the concept of a single, "ideal" receiver who is representative of something universal in mankind is also suspect. In a universe in which the singular, idealized center has been replaced by multiple, often conflicting, perspective views, the concept of a transcendent reader who embodies all subjectivities with equanimity is inadequate to express the complexity of human interaction as many have come to view it: the validation of one point of view wi l l necessarily imply the negation of others. To deny universality, however, is not to deny commonality. A literary work is the product of an individual functioning within a social group, or community, and its success within that group depends to some extent on its r ability to express, through language, certain aspects of a world view common to that community. In order to successfully translate a work, a translator must first -31-insinuate herself into this community, to discover a sufficient sense of commonality in her own self to understand the work as much as possible in the general terms of the group that produced it. ("This insinuation of self into otherness," says George Steiner, "is the final secret of the translator's craft." [359]) It is important to keep in mind, however, that if there is no ideal, universal reader, neither can there be an ideal reader who objectively represents a specific community. In any community, there are only multiple, overlapping fields of subjectivity; and the translator, having discovered that aspect of shared subjectivity which allows her to insinuate herself into the group, must then seek to reproduce its expression as she understands it, in another language for another group, of which she is also a member. But because she can only understand it 'as she understands it,' it is pointless for her to try to work from a position of imagined understanding of some hypothetical other or idealized reader. She can only know the work from her own perspective, and so can only be satisfied by a translation that most closely resembles her own understanding of the original. This is a complicated way of making a simple point: that the translator is most likely to succeed when the reader she pleases is herself, with faith in the idea that, since 'no man is an island,' there wi l l be others with sufficient commonality of perception to be pleased also by her interpretation, while at the same time resigning herself to the fact that there wil l also be those who are not. And perhaps this is approximately the point that Benjamin is making, in the language and sensibility of another era: that the translator must, first and foremost, be faithful to herself, as an individual reader and writer of literature, and as a common member of two disparate communities, which touch each other at the point of translation. - 3 2 -2.3 Fidelity Beyond Equivalence Translation, though, as a social activity, requires that the translator perform her function as an individual within a group. If she worked solely for her own pleasure, she could quite well translate "Wagahai wa neko de aru" (We are a cat) as "They call me Puss'n'Boots," and have a good chuckle over it without fear of reprisal. But, as soon as translation becomes a public act, she must to a certain extent submit to the exigencies of communal expectations, or be prepared to defend her decisions. There is a general expectation that a translation should be somehow 'equivalent' to the original, that it follow the original as closely as possible in all important respects., John Bester has said, "As I interpret it, the word 'translation,' in relation to literature at least, signifies the attempt to render faithfully into one language (normally, one's own) the meaning, feeling, and, so far as possible, the style of a piece written in another language." (73) Unfortunately, such a definition only raises questions as to the meanings of such words as "faithful," "meaning," "feeling," and "style." If we wished to be tendentious, we might end up chasing our tails till we dropped, in a Derridean game of infinite deferral that sees all attempts at defining the sign merely dispersing its meaning among other, equally ambiguous signs. This is where 'common sense' is most often called upon to prevail: in an approximate way, every native speaker of English knows what Bester means by this statement, and could demonstrate his understanding by means of a paraphrase—an equivalent statement expressed in his own words. At this point, though, we are likely find out that common sense is not so common, that there is a divergence among the various interpretations and their verbalizations. In fact, if two paraphrases out - 3 3 -of ten turned out to be identical, it would be a sure sign that one had plagiarized the other. A l l ten people might say that they agree with Bester, while at the same time disagreeing with each other over what it is that there is to agree with. They may resort to the dictionary or other reference works to prove their respective points, but a dictionary definition is only another context, a pithy annotation to an ongoing discourse on meaning that was unfolding long before it was penned, and has continued to unfold since. So, the problem of N equivalence is one that is inherent in language, and is not specific to transfers across linguistic boundaries. In "On Linguistic Aspects of Translation," Roman Jakobson states that there are three levels of translation: , 1) Intralingual translation or rewording is an interpretation of verbal signs by means of other signs of the same language. 2) Interlingual translation or translation proper is an interpretation of verbal signs by means of some other language. 3) Intersemiotic translation or transmutation is an interpretation of signs by means of signs of nonverbal sign systems. (233) This outwardly banal classification of the three different levels of translation masks a very important point: that interlingual translation (the "translation proper" that is the subject of this paper) is a more radical linguistic transformation than any paraphrase within a given language. If even paraphrases are problematic in terms of equivalence, we would expect interlingual translation to be even more so. To ask for a paraphrase in the exact words of the original would be nonsensical, yet for some reason this is what many expect of a translation: the exact same words, but in an entirely different language. - 3 4 -Roy Harris summarizes this false notion of equivalence in translation as follows: "The translation dilemma reinforces and is in turn reinforced by acceptance of a venerable semantic fallacy ... that words are simply vocal labels attached by convention to objects, actions, qualities, etc. in a world which has been given in advance by Nature and is identically conceptualized by all human observers." (69) This leads to an attitude toward translation in which utterances in two respective languages are regarded as perfectly parallel, much like the rails on a ladder, with rungs of '=' signs joining the words on either side in a relationship of mathematical unity. The translator need only look up the appropriate tables to find the correct answer. If she should fail to find the exact equivalence, and fill in the blank with what she regards as an appropriate alternative, she is then somehow guilty of cheating, and "Translation is then denigrated as a mathematics which constantly fudges the answers." (70) From a different perspective, though—one which acknowledges and accepts difference as inherent in translation—the 'fudging' might be considered to be where the craft leaves off and the art begins. Equivalence across languages, in short, cannot be equated with sameness. Not only do different languages parse reality differently, but different readers (and a translator is first a reader) interpret and understand the same text differently, as a product of the active interaction between the words on the page and their own subjective worlds. Therefore, though translation may be driven by a desire for sameness, difference is the more fundamental aspect. Susan Basnett-McGuire, in Translation Studies, describes the process of translation as a two-fold act of interpretation: the translator must first interpret the text as a reader of the source language (SL), and then reinterpret it in terms of the target language (TL) frame of reference. The resultant text is not merely 'the same text, - 3 5 -in a different language/ but rather a "meta-text, or translation-reading (an interlingual reading)" (104) which embodies in it as a fundamental aspect of its production the translator's interpretation of the original. Once we accept that "sameness cannot exist between two languages," she says, "it becomes possible to approach the question of loss and gain in the translation process. It is again an indication of the low status of translation that so much time should have been spent on discussing what is lost in the translation of a text from SL to TL whilst ignoring what can also be gained, for the translator can at times enrich or clarify the SL text as a direct result of the translation process." (30) According to Harris, this one-sided obsession with loss is at the root of the "ritual wailing about translation [that] still passes for literary penance among Western intellectuals." (68) Perhaps these unhappy intellectuals could more gainfully employ themselves through comparative studies of the various insights that different translations offer of a common original, rather than wringing their hands over ill-conceived notions of sameness and unilateral loss. This, of course, still leaves unanswered the question of the nature of equivalence in translation. The model of equivalence considered thus far has implicitly been one of strictly linguistic equivalence: the reproduction (so far as is possible) of the lexical and grammatical features of the SL in the TL. Basnett-McGuire, though, asserts that translation is a search, not so much for linguistic equivalence, as for semiotic equivalence. She says: [Although translation has a central core of linguistic activity, it belongs most properly to semiotics, the science that studies sign systems or structures, sign processes and sign functions .... Beyond the notion stressed by the narrowly linguistic approach, that - 3 6 -translation involves the transfer of 'meaning' contained in one set of language signs into another set of language signs through competent use of the dictionary and grammar, the process involves a whole set of extra-linguistic criteria also. (13) This semiotic transfer implies not only a transfer of 'meaning' in the narrow sense, but also of significant images, concepts, and relations that are embedded in the TL text as a product of human culture. Any linguistic utterance is founded on a much broader understanding of its significance in relation to a cultural whole, and often serves as a verbal shorthand for powerful associations unrelated to the putative meanings of the words themselves. If, in a certain context, an American says, "If s all about apple pie, and how everyone on God's green earth wants a piece of it," we can be sure he is not complaining about the lineup at the dessert table. The trouble is, though, that "once the translator moves away from close linguistic equivalence, the problems of determining the exact nature of the level of equivalence aimed for begins to emerge." (Basnett-McGuire 25) The model of linguistic equivalence is the firm ground on which the translator tries to stand, and, even if there can be no such thing as exact equivalence, there are certain widely-accepted conventions as to what is 'close enough' between any two major languages for most significations in most situations. Post-structuralist thought may have shown us that what's close enough for horseshoes is close enough for hand grenades, and that all meaning in language is arbitrary and conventional, self-referential without positive relationships, and therefore open to question; but this is merely to say that conventions are important, for without them we would not even be able communicate well enough to misunderstand one another. Convention, as Bakhtin says, is the normative force that holds - 3 7 -language together, and, though arbitrary, has such a powerful effect on communication that even a simple spelling mistake (and what could be more arbitrarily conventional than spelling?) has the capacity to undermine an argument. A large part of translation can be adequately accomplished through sensitive mimicking of the SL texf s lexico-grammatical features along conventional lines. Of course, such a level of adequacy can never be a sufficient end for literary translation, partly because it ignores the inherently subversive nature of language as evidenced by heteroglossia, and partly because translation, as Basnett-McGuire argues, is never a purely linguistic activity; but mainly, it is insufficient because, in the case of a literary text, the goal is not to produce an adequate translation, but a superb one. To step outside of linguistic convention is to venture into dangerous (that is, contentious) territory. While the translator remains within the bounds of convention, she enjoys the support of established orthodoxy: if questioned, she can jab her finger at the appropriate entry in her dictionary or grammar book, and successfully deflect the most forceful attack, redirecting it away from herself and onto the authority of the reference work. Unfortunately, as we have seen, simple linguistic conformity is an insufficient condition for the fulfillment of the translator's task. There wil l be times when she must be daring and step outside its comfortable confines, in order to produce a translation that is a faithful expression of the source text: as a 'translation-reading,' her work must seek always to enhance and illuminate the original as she has read and understood it. Any divergence from established norms wi l l be sure to attract attention, both positive and negative, and so the translator must have sufficient artistic vision to defend her choices. For, as I asserted previously, to step outside the conventions of equivalence into the uncertain territory of creative -38-improvisation is where the art of translation begins. Unfortunately, it is also the same region wherein lie the treacherous sands of laziness and self-indulgence. Here, once again, the translator must first of all be faithful to herself. 2.4 Translating Culture: Subtext and Supertext Perhaps the most difficult aspect of an SL text to transfer over is the complex net of cultural assumptions, values, symbols, icons, tendencies of thought, aesthetic tastes, moral positions, etc. that supports it. This is the unspoken subtext implicit in the original that directly affects the native reader, yet is not fully exposed on a verbal level. George Steiner has said, "The translator must actualize the implicit 'sense/ the denotative, connotative, illative, intentional, associative range of significations which are implicit in the original, but which it leaves undeclared or only partly declared simply because the native auditor or reader has an immediate understanding of them." (276—italics mine) Of course, to actualize this implicit sense in its entirety would be impossible: it represents an entire world view that, to make explicit, would require several volumes over and above the basic translation. To a certain extent, the text itself is an explication of its own values, which can be manifested in the TL text through careful control of word selection and i • phrasing/without resorting to major departures from lexico-grammatical convention. There are occasions, though, when the SL text relies for its effect on culture-specific references that someone riot intimately acquainted with the source culture could not reasonably be expected to understand, and without the knowledge of which the TL text would remain lackluster, shallow, or obscure. One possible solution would be the use of footnoting, but such a technique can - 3 9 -be extremely intrusive if excessively used, as it interrupts the natural flow of language that is so important to a literary text. (A notable exception is Edward Seidensticker's translation of The Tale of Genji, in which Seidensticker's extensive annotation provides a cultural meta-narrative that is quite fascinating to read in parallel with the main work. Genji, though, is an ancient text, and the sheer cultural distance between it and our modern world, together with the weight of cross-textual references in the original, make footnoting an expedient course of action.) Bruce Fulton, in "Translating Cultural Subtext in Modern Korean Fiction," suggests a different method, in which the implicit subtext of the original is explicitly reproduced in translation as a sort of invisible footnote, embedded in the TL text. "[I]t seems justifiable," says Fulton, "as long as the integrity of the target language is observed, to make explicit in the translation—but as unobtrusively as possible—at least some of what is implicit in the original." (129-30) This involves a process of interpolation, in which the translator must recognize the implicit meaning of a cultural reference, and find a way to work it explicitly into the TL text in such a manner as to preserve its natural flow. Fulton offers the following example: One spring day Y6ngo, fresh out of high school, had flown out of the house like a nighthawk, his schoolboy crewcut not quite grown out and sticking up indignantly in all directions. The italicized words, though implicit in the original text, do not appear there; they are part of the cultural subtext. A friend who read our initial, literal translation of this sentence asked why the fellow's hair was sticking out. Only then did we realize that we were taking something for granted on the part of the reader of our - 4 0 -translation, and we amended the sentence accordingly. (130) Cultural subtext is represented in a text through specific references to symbols or icons that are immediately recognizable by participants in that culture, and carry with them a whole set of implications and significancies outside of the putative meaning of the signifier. In a Japanese context, for example, if a man winks and silently holds up his pinkie, we (that is, those who are culturally savvy) may guess that he is referring to his mistress. A woman rushing about to make travel preparations who sighs and says that she still has to purchase anomamori (an amulet for safe travel) is probably dreading the weary trek to a local temple or shrine where such items are sold. In a television drama, merely focusing in on a pair of shoe-clad feet standing atop a tatami mat informs the viewer, directly and with visceral impact (for even a three-year-old reflexively removes his shoes upon entering a dwelling), that the wearer is an aggressive intruder, probably intent on harming the house's occupant. In addition to subtext, the SL text also embodies certain supertextual qualities that are more difficult to express through translation. Where the subtext is often specific, focusing on cultural particulars that can be made explicit through the kind of interpolation described above, supertext is an extrapolation. It is the ground on which the text is laid: the scene, the setting, the mumbled thread of agreement or discord with established values and norms that winds its way through the text, the tacit stereotypes, the oblique references to shared cultural experience, the contradictory values and unvoiced fears of the community, the struggle for validation of all the myriad sub-groups that make up a society. The text in its entirety is an expression of its supertext, a window onto the world view of the culture that produced it, from the unique perspective of its author. The original text assumes that its readers wil l know what they are -41-\ looking at when they look through this window; unfortunately, the translation cannot. It is difficult to imagine how any strategy of translation based on linguistic mimicry could clarify to the naive reader all of the complex interrelations of the text to its supertext. On the other hand, any strategy that departs from linguistic mimicry so radically as to make explicit its relevant supertextual implications would not fall under the aegis of translation as it is commonly understood in our present world. Insofar as a text is a commentary on its own supertext, one can rely on the TL text reader's imagination to guess at its social implications; but in cases where this is judged to be insufficient, an extended preface or introduction may be the only way to set up the appropriate background for appreciation of the work. A l l of this assumes that the translator has, in addition to the prerequisite linguistic ability, a knowledge not only of the source culture sufficient to appreciate the social significance of the original work, but also of the target culture sufficient to represent it in contrast. For a translator who has grown up simultaneously in two worlds, and is equally schooled, enculturated, and experienced in both, this is not an issue; such individuals, though, are rare. Of the social experience required of a Japanese-to-English translator, John Bester (assuming a non-native of Japan translating into his own language, as is most often the case) has written: Ideally; he should have eaten, got drunk, traveled, discussed, argued, quarreled, made up with, and slept with as many Japanese as possible, on a scale not given to most of us to achieve. Failing that (from the sublime to the ridiculous!) he can at least keep up with the soap operas and other TV programs." (82) Such is the wearisome task of the translator: to immerse himself in the culture - 4 2 -of a foreign land; to engage in profligate eating, drinking, fighting, and sleeping with its natives; and, failing that, to lie around on his stomach soaking in the inane wash of the 'tube/ until the foreignness is dislodged from his skin (for the quality of foreignness resides most properly in him, and not in the culture in which he finds himself) and he begins to understand, not in his brain, but in his belly, what it means to be of that world. Then, he must make the journey (through translation) back to his own native land, and, once again a foreigner, try to explain where he has been. 2.5 J to E: Some Structural Differences Affecting Translation As linguistically unrelated languages, Japanese and English exhibit some major structural differences (which frequently also manifest as cultural differences) that impede the simple transfer of meaning or literary effect at a fundamental level. Their two differently-patterned veils, laid over the same patch of reality, each draw attention to certain of its aspects, and ignore or occlude certain others. Not only is the translator faced with an incessant lack of direct equivalence between individual signs, but also in the manner in which the signs relate grammatically to one another, thus creating by turns either a structural need for information lacking in the original, or an intolerance for the efficient expression of concepts or relations that are made explicit in the source language simply as a function of its grammar. English, for example, requires information on gender and quantity merely to determine a pronoun, whereas this information is optional in Japanese; Japanese, on the other hand, is extremely efficient at expressing social relationships through variations in vocabulary and verb endings, where English would require an entire phrase. - 4 3 -f Jakobson writes, "Languages differ essentially in what they must convey and not in what they may convey.... Naturally the attention of native speakers and listeners wi l l be constantly focused on such items as are compulsory in their verbal code." (236) For literary purposes/though, it is also important to note that languages differ not only in what they must say, but in what they are capable of saying with great economy, and also in what they are capable of leaving unspoken. In "Translating Local Color," Robert Danly sums up the contrast between Japanese and English as follows: Modern English, on the one hand, is a lean and precise medium. If s picky. It demands that verbs have specific subjects, and that sentences proceed in a businesslike fashion. But Japanese, even modern Japanese, can be a good deal less specific. ... Sentences drift along, clause upon clause, often without a verb in sight until the very end of the sentence. (21) Japanese is a much more loosely structured language than English. The subject is frequently omitted, the demands for logical connection and agreement between clauses within a sentence are less stringent (hence, they sometimes feel as if they "drift along"), and the locus of information is often contained in an agglutinated mass of compounded adverbs, verbs and verbal suffixes that forms a great ball of nuance at the end of the sentence. Whereas "English, a highly organized language, uses a multitude of small words—indefinite or definite articles (and, by implication, their omission), an elaborate system of prepositions, complex verb forms, and so on—in order to make precise its meaning from moment to moment and show in which direction its thought is tending," Japanese, on the other hand, "relies to a much greater extent on context, or an - 4 4 -appeal to the reader, to make its meaning clear." (Bester 80) Much of the information required to form a natural, grammatical sentence in English is often left undetermined in Japanese, or, when revealed, may not come until the end of a sentence or even in a subsequent sentence. This indeterminacy and delayed determinacy is a prominent feature of Japanese in contrast to English (some excellent examples are found in the Case Study section of this paper), and is at the root of the oft-voiced complaint that Japanese is a 'vague' tongue. But, whereas Japanese may be vague with respect to information expected or required in an English context, it is rich in information indicating the relational positions of different speakers in a social hierarchy, and also in expressing social obligation and debt. In fact, until around a hundred years ago, there was no objective, colloquial language of narration—no manner of elocution that did not explicitly indicate both lexically and grammatically the social position of the narrator and his hierarchical relationship to his intended audience—in which a writer could express himself. (See Language and the Modern State: The Reform of Written Japanese by Nanette Twine.) Although this emphasis on linguistic expression of social-hierarchical relativity has become somewhat blunted in modern Japan, it is still very much apparent, especially in spoken Japanese. For example, consider the following two exchanges: 1) —Ore ga ivarui tte yutteiru kai? —So na no yol Anata ga warui no\ 2) —Atashi ga warui to osshatteiru no? —So darol Kimi ga warui ni kimatteirul Both of these exchanges would be rendered more or less the same in English ("Are you saying I was wrong?" "Yes! You were wrong!"), but in the Japanese, - 4 5 -the lexical and grammatical differences make it unambiguously clear that in the first instance, the first speaker is male and the second female, while in the second instance it is the other way around. Furthermore, from the tone, choice of pronouns, and relative levels of formality, W e can surmise that this is probably a tiff between a married couple, most likely middle-aged or older. In addition, the use of an honorific verb form (ossharu) for 'to say' in the second instance serves less to elevate the addressee than to establish an icy distance where greater intimacy would normally be appropriate—a common ploy, especially among Japanese women of a certain age and breeding. Such nuances would be impossible to express in English without considerable embellishment, and yet there are contexts in which to forego such embellishment would entail an unconscionable loss in translation. Another way in which (written) Japanese can display greater informational density than English is through the use of kanji. Saussure observes that in ideographic writing, the ideogram effectively acts as a signifier independently of the spoken word, causing the concept to be related directly to it. This is why speakers of different Chinese dialects are able to communicate with each other through writing, even when their spoken tongues are mutually incomprehensible. (25-6) The combination in written Japanese of Chinese ideograms (kanji) with its own native, phonetic script frequently results in an over determination of meaning through the interplay of the signified of the kanji with the signified of the phonetic reading assigned to it. This is especially apparent in ateji, in which kanji are combined for their conceptual value and assigned a non-standard reading, often written in phonetic script alongside the kanji compound. (A typical example would be the word for cigarette, which combines the kanji for 'smoke' and 'grass,' normally read in compounds as 'en' - 4 6 -and 'so/respectively, and assigns the phonetic reading of 'tabako.' Thus, somewhat ironically, the meaning of a once foreign loan word is clarified through the use of a once foreign system of writing.) A writer wi l l also sometimes use a non-standard character in a compound to impart the nuance of that character on the word in question. This is an important device in literary writing, as it is not only subtle, but efficient: by setting up an interplay between the phonetic and ideographic signs, the author is able not only to say two things at the same time, but also, through their syntagmatic overlapping, to achieve a greater density of effect in the play of their respective signifiers and signifieds. Another structural difference between Japanese and English that can be problematic in translation is the grammatical expression of time. Roy Miller, in response to a statement by Masao Miyoshi that "Japanese has no clearly established tense," (Miller 1) asserts that Japanese "indeed does not have tense: what it does have is much closer to what in other languages is usually called aspect." (3) He goes on to define the difference as follows: 'Tense' is a grammatical term that is generally reserved for the verb systems of languages in which the different forms of the verbs are essentially, or mainly, concerned with identifying, marking, or (if one wishes to think of it in such terms) 'expressing' differences in time, indicating when the action or event to which the verb has reference took place. 'Time' is something in the real world, 'tense' is a grammatical feature. 'Aspecf is a grammatical term that is generally reserved for the verb systems of languages in which the different forms of the verb are concerned not with when something was done, but how, particularly and typically ... with whether or not a given action was or is completed (over and done with) or was or is - 4 7 -still continuing (not over and done with, uncompleted or incomplete). (4-5) Viewing the Japanese expression of time in the terms Miller suggests can be very helpful in arriving at an understanding of what he calls the "perverse ... shifting back and forth from 'pasf to 'presenf tenses" (8) that is such a prominent feature of literary Japanese in particular; though it is important to note that it is only "perverse" if one attempts to decipher it from the standpoint of English grammar. While reading the Japanese as Japanese, the frequent shifting between '-ta' ('past') and '-ru' ('present') verb forms is transparent and unproblematic: it only presents itself as a problem in an interlingual context, when one attempts to impose English-language concepts of past and^present tense on it, or to translate it into English according to a model of direct, grammatical correspondence with respect to tense. Although semantic arguments over whether the Japanese expression of chronology is more correctly defined as 'tense' or 'aspecf may carry important implications for the linguist, what is important to note from a translator's perspective is that there is a fundamental difference in the way the two languages express time, and therefore the manner in which it is depicted in a given Japanese text cannot serve as a transparent indicator of how it ought best to be expressed in English. A comprehensive examination of the differences between Japanese and English that affect translation, including all linguistic, cultural, and epistemological considerations, would require a far more extensive and rigorous study than is my ambition here; the above examples, though, serve to indicate some of the gross, structural differences between the two languages that make translation on a model of simple, linguistic equivalence problematic, to say the least. Although any language is more flexible in its capacity for expression than to act simply as a mouthpiece for a particular culture (English, after all, serves as the lingua franca among many diverse cultures), the above examples support Whorf's thesis that each language incorporates "certain points of view and certain patterned resistances to widely divergent points of view" (247) that make it difficult or impossible to express in one language that which is expressed easily or even necessarily in another. A more extensive discussion of these issues backed by specific examples can be found in the Case Study chapter of this paper. i 2.6 Summary—Chapter II If it is inappropriate to artificially limit translation through a gendered metaphorics that portrays it as secondary/devalued, and passive, neither is it appropriate to liberate it entirely from the original through a misguided application of modern, feminist ideology. The translated text is not a 'g i r l / any more than the original is a 'boy'; yet such is the power and the limitation of metaphorics that the mere act of labeling them as such automatically tethers them to a discourse on gender relations to which they have no fundamental relation. A century ago, to make the SL text male and the TL text female was to establish as a natural relationship the hierarchical dominance of the one over the other; today, maintaining such a metaphorical relationship tempts one to argue for the complete equality and independence of the translation, as it has become distasteful (at least, for most of us) to think of woman as being in any way subordinated to man. But, the SL text, unlike the human male, is antecedent to the TL text, and therefore does enjoy a certain native right of leadership in determining the direction they both wil l follow. It is the desire to follow the SL text which makes the TL text a translation, - 4 9 -i and through difference that it illuminates the original in its reflection. As de Man points out, "the translation can never do what the original did": it is a different voice, spoken in a different language, to an audience of a different culture, and perhaps even of a different time. But it can parallel the original, relaying its general meaning and mimicking its structures, while at the same time realizing that in order to be read and enjoyed as literature, it must sometimes speak in its own voice, obeying the exigencies of its own tongue and culture, so that eloquence may be matched with eloquence, and music with music; for in literature it is often not what is said, but the way it is said, that is meaningful to the reader. Original and translation travel a parallel course; but it is not the rigid parallelism of exact, word-for-word and grammar-to-grammar equivalencies as is commonly held to be true. It is more the parallelism of a sloppy double helix, with the two texts intertwining, moving together and drawing apart, sometimes appearing to overlap (though a ninety-degree shift in perspective shows them to be still separate), joined not by '=' signs but by arrows of intention, that split apart or draw together as one sign divides into many, or many bunch together as one. This parallelism is maintained by the two-fold intervention of the translator, who first must read and interpret the SL text on its own terms, then reinterpret and transpose it into the TL frame of reference. To accomplish this, linguistic convention is an important but insufficient means: the effects of language are synergistic, and add up to more than the sum of the abstracted meanings of its signs. Supporting what is spoken is an entire substrate of unspoken cultural values and assumptions that are often expressed in the text through a shorthand of significant images, symbols, and icons, meaningfully juxtaposed to elicit deeply-felt emotional responses in native readers of a common culture. - 5 0 -It is this sub-rational response that makes literary language such a powerful tool for communication, and yet it can be the most difficult aspect of a work to translate, as it often has little to do with the facile meaning of the text. One cannot always ring the same poetic bells in different languages; but perhaps the answer is not to try to ring the same bell, nor even merely to describe its ringing through prosaic paraphrase, but to attempt to ring different, but concordant, bells in the translated text that complement the ringing of the original. In departing from linguistic convention, the translator enters uncharted territory: her only compass with which to maintain a parallel course is a sensitive awareness of the significant literary effects achieved in the original—its themes, phrasing, imagery, symbolism, heteroglossic interactions, cultural references, etc.—and, of course, her own innate sense of direction. The metaphorics and theoretical models we employ have a direct effect on the constraints placed on translation and on the values by which it is judged: those of the past have resulted in the subjugation of the translation to the original and an attitude that it is merely a counterfeit, an impoverished imitation that is bound to fail through its difference. But if a model based on direct equivalence has been shown to be theoretically unsupportable, then perhaps it is better to replace it, with a model based on translation as a "meta-text, or translation-reading," that celebrates difference in translation as a fortuitous opportunity to enrich, clarify, and perhaps at times even expand on the original. Joshua Mostow writes, "A definitive translation is a murdering translation, one that claims there is nothing more to be said." (86) Ideally, an original work would give birth to multiple translations, each of which adds a new facet through which to illuminate it. For, if there can be no one, true, objective reading of the original, then how can there be a single, definitive - 5 1 -translation? Obviously, just as some readers display greater depth and complexity of insight, so too will some translators; and, just as some writers display greater talent for evoking an image or emotion, so again will some translators. But, arguments over relative depths and capacities aside, each translation provides a unique perspective on the original, and therefore contributes to its growth beyond what it was as a unilingual product. In the words of John Bester: "In short, there is only one kind of translation, as opposed to travesty: good translation—though a single passage of prose may yield any number of different and, in theory, equally good translations." (74) This is a good thing, and should not be bemoaned as a loss. - 5 2 -JU. Case Study: Translating "Uji" by Fujisawa Shu 3.1 Introduction—Chapter III For my case study, I selected a short prose work titled "Uji," or "Maggot," by Akutagawa Prize-winner Fujisawa Shu, which appeared in the May, 1996 issue of Shosetsu Shinchd, a leading Japanese literary journal. The story is a grotesque but artfully wrought description of a maggot's journey over the raped and murdered corpse of a young woman, and of the consumption and erasure of that corpse by the army of maggots that eventually swarms over it. The text, which could be situated somewhere between Rimbaud's "Le Dormeur du vol" and American Psycho, may prove disturbing to some, but its value as a work of literature cannot be ignored. Literature is not always beautiful or comfortable: this story's unconventional narrative perspective and startling juxtapositions—of eroticism and violence, beauty and the grotesque, human tragedy and the benign indifference of nature, social representations of femininity and the male violence directed toward them—are disconcerting, but by being so effectively pry open the lid of the reader's conscience and force him to confront his own moral positions on these issues and the compromises he makes as a participant in a society where such monstrosities occur. The story offers no comment or solution: it merely points and describes. Its 'big picture' perspective appears to say that we are all mere stuff of nature's unending transformations, and that it is a matter of indifference whether or how one more office girl becomes food for worms; but this very distance and bland objectivity only serve to magnify what lies beneath. The work is also interesting from a Japanese social perspective, as - 5 3 -representing the kind of fiction that is accepted and encouraged by mainstream literary society. As mentioned above, its author is a winner of Japan's most prestigious literary award for new authors, and the periodical it appeared in is one of the country's respected literary journals. In the current North American social climate, one wonders if this work would be similarly received. Certainly, depending on one's bias, it could be viewed as a deeply misogynist work, a finely crafted literary version of a snuff film, whose ultimate goal is the violent and demeaning portrayal of women. While "Maggot" would surely find a niche in North American letters, it is doubtful that such a work would appear in The Atlantic Monthly. Do the Japanese take a more sophisticated view, or are they merely insensitive to such issues? Such inquiries can be expected to promote greater insight into both cultures. "Uji" is also interesting as an object for translation. Though as a text lacking dialogue or human interaction it provides no instances of the social-hierarchical relativity that was previously discussed as such a prominent feature of Japanese, it does offer abundant examples of other important translation issues. Also, the delicacy of its prose combined with the sensitive nature of its content demand that the translation be carried out with considerable tact, so as to ensure that it is rendered into English without disturbing the precarious balance between poetry and abomination that the original, so successfully achieves. The following case study is divided into two sections: an analysis of the general literary features of the text that influenced me in my translation; and a survey of some of the issues and problems that arose, and the solutions I adopted to deal with them. - 5 4 -3.2 Analysis of Relevant Literary Features While it should not be necessary to engage in extensive literary analysis of a text in order to accomplish its translation, it is essential to recognize the significant aspects of the text with respect to prose style, thematic elements, and cultural context, as these factors wil l constantly influence word selection and phrasing, as well as aid in determining what must be retained in translation, what may be lost without significant detriment to the work's integrity, and which gains permitted by the target language wil l be most fortuitous. Additionally, it wi l l help in clarifying implicit signifieds i n the source text and in determining when and how they might most appropriately be made explicit in the target text; and, when departing from close, lexico-grammatical mimicry, in maintaining appropriate parallelism between the two texts. Source text and target text must maintain parallel courses over different linguistic terrains, and a firm grasp of the literarily significant aspects of the source text creates an essential compass for maintaining this parallelism, despite the many rubs and obstacles encountered along the journey. Following is a brief analysis of the literary features of "Uji" that I considered significant to its translation, based upon which I hope to justify both the many small liberties I took with the text in transforming it into English and the strategies I adopted for dealing with the translation issues that arose during that process. First, with regard to the narrative tone, Fujisawa adopts a slightly elevated, but accessible, literary prose style, fluid and yet formal, making liberal use of stylistic devices such as the rhetorical question, elliptical construction, and poetic double entendre (often aided by kanji over-determination). This text would make a poor example for heteroglossia: its gloss is consistent throughout, - 5 5 -with little resort to idiomatic expression or the myriad formalized and non-formalized planes and spokes of the wheel of Japanese language. In Bakhtin's centrifuge, it would certainly occupy a position closer to the hub than the periphery. In fact, from a Bakhtinian perspective, which differentiates poetry from prose partly by its conformity to an elevated, formalized, homologous gloss, "Uji" stylistically approaches poetry, or at least prose-poetry; however, the very monotonality and dainty aesthetic of the narrative creates an uncanny distance between it and its grotesque content, paradoxically increasing the reader's sense of immediacy. "Uji" makes up for its flatness of aspect by the enormous thematic tension it develops both symbolically, as I wil l discuss momentarily, and through its use of language and imagery. Throughout, the phrasing and imagery employed draw lines of tension between juxtaposed representations of birth and decay, beauty and morbidity, sex and savagery, the refined sensibility of human culture and the raw, redolent forces of nature. These combine to form a tripartite configuration of eroticism, violence, and the mysterious insanity that draws them together, grounded in and consumed by the total, all-embracing indifference of nature's constant flux. Therefore, in my choices of language and phrasing, I endeavored consistently to err on the side of the erotic, the violent, the indifferent, and to try to capture the undercurrent of madness that courses throughout. The three main symbolic components of "Uji" are the maggot(s), the woman's corpse, and the wild cherry tree. One might make an argument for a fourth component, the rapist, who is represented in absentia through the traces of his violent act, but this is not an important distinction to make from the point of view of translation, as references to the rapist's effects are almost always made -56-in relation to the woman's corpse, and can therefore be dealt with as an aspect of its representation. The maggot, and by extension the entire swarm of maggots that eventually engulfs the woman's corpse, symbolizes quite explicitly the spontaneous, impersonal, (re)generative force of nature. The description of the maggot in the opening paragraphs clearly portrays it as something more significant than a mere fly larva, imparting qualities of amorphousness, spontaneous generation, almost limitless power, and a quality of color (kinari-iro) that I wi l l discuss at length in the following section. The narrator speaks mainly from the maggof s point of view, allowing the text's lens to travel over the corpse in minute detail, dwelling on each wrinkle, each follicle, each undulation of flesh, each fleck of slimy, smelly residue, each trace of violent brutality, with a detached indifference that completely obliterates the woman's former subjectivity and negates the horror of her demise. To the maggot, the corpse is mere stuff, rendered up for transformation in nature's constant flux. In addition to being a generative force, though, the maggot is also a gendered force. In the ninth paragraph, it is referred to as "kare" ("he/him"), and this conceit is maintained for the remainder of the story. Also, the forced entry of the maggot swarm into the woman's vagina is clearly a symbolic rape, or 're-raping,' of her corpse, perhaps establishing a parallel between the brutalization she suffered in life and the brutalization her corpse suffers in death, and certainly emphasizing her complete victimization. Finally, the maggot's curious transformation and emergence from the woman's armpit as a giant maggot, as thick as the woman's wrist, and his positioning on the trunk of the wild cherry could easily be construed as phallic, opening up a tantalizing array of interpretive possibilities. - 5 7 -And the woman: what is it that she symbolizes? Certainly, she is a woman under erasure, both literally and figuratively. Physically, the swarm of maggots advancing up her leg is obliterating her as surely as an eraser over a penciled drawing, erasing along with her body the text of her tragic end that is written over it. The woman, along with the events which lead to her brutal rape, murder, and abandonment beneath the wild cherry, is treated with profound indifference. Consumed by maggots, covered over by a sweet-smelling carpet of cherry blossoms: as a woman, as a thinking, feeling, individual human being with her own unique subjectivity, hers is a story that took place in the past, and is of no concern to the eternally changing, eternal present of nature. The narrative tone toward the woman is ruthlessly objectivizing, repeatedly denying this 'utterly typical office girl ' a shred of importance to the world, yet at the same time eroticizing her, caressing her dehumanized carcass with a scopophilic eye that renders the delicacy of her flesh in delectable detail—delectable with the exception that it is a repast for maggots. The eroticizing of the woman's corpse is sadistic in tone, showing no empathy for and little more than a casual curiosity toward her humanity, as it appreciatively caresses her lustrous flesh, prods her orifices, sniffs appraisingly at her fluids, casually observes the traces of vicious brutality that testify to the rapist's mad act. The gouge on her leg from the rapist's claw; the branch viciously thrust into her vagina; the sheaf of grass rammed into her mouth; the voluminous discharge of semen that covers her averted face like a net: all is described unrelentingly in objective and objectivizing detail, with the sort of detached curiosity one might expect to find in a pathologist/s report (though perhaps a pathologist with necrophilic leanings). Postulations on the woman's past sex life are thrown in casually, almost gratuitously. However, these -58-speculations serve to vivify the narrative's erotic fantasy of the woman as not only sexually alluring, but also sexually yolitive. The woman, as the only human character in the piece, is where the reader's interest is most sure to be captured—it is her story that we really want told. Yet, the text resolutely refuses to take us there: in the grand scheme of things, she is merely a stereotype, a typical office girl, a 'refracting body,' inside which the question, 'What am I? Why am I? to wind up here, consumed by a swarm of maggots?' is bottled, unanswered, just as it is in any other woman victimized by man's brutality. The third symbolic component is the wi ld cherry tree. The cherry tree, of course, is one of Japan's preeminent cultural icons: its blossoms, so beautiful, yet so fleeting, represent the ephemerality of life. The cherry tree in "Uji," resplendent in its blossoms, which mysteriously fall unwithered on the woman's corpse, clearly employs this conventional symbolization as a component of its symbolic field. But in addition to symbolizing ephemerality, the cherry in this story is also a symbol of nature's eternity—or, 2,000 years, to be precise, a span which exceeds what is generally considered to be the entirety of Japanese civilization, and could certainly be considered (in the poetic sense) to be an eternity relative to the brief, 25-year life of the unfortunate young woman. Does the tree, as old as Japan itself, in some way serve as a symbol for Japanese civilization as an historical whole? Such a case could probably be made, depending on one's interpretive bias. Certainly, the tree's presence introduces a pastiche strongly associated with traditional Japanese aesthetic, and in this way unambiguously roots the story in a Japanese cultural context. (This is doubly emphasized by the story's location in the vicinity of Kamakura, perhaps the most famous and venerable historical locale east of Kyoto, and one sure to evoke strong associations with Japan's traditional heritage for anyone—and this would certainly include most Japanese who live within a few hundred kilometers of the Tokyo hub—who has visited there.) What gives real thematic significance to the tree in this story, however, is not its role as a symbol of cultural norm, but as a disturbing influence on normality. This is a story in which something has gone awry, a story possessed with a strange madness that perverts the natural processes of nature, twisting them and spurring them to demented excess, and the tree is portrayed as the conduit of this madness. It is a yamazakura ('mountain cherry'), the more rugged cousin of the daintier, cultivated Japanese cherry tree that adorns most parks and gardens—huge, untrained, less a symbol of nature than a force of nature itself—there it is, blooming out of season (in Japanese, 'kuruizaki/ or 'mad blooming'), out of the natural rhythm of nature, in such a mad excess of blossoms that even a crow would be expected to avoid its interior. Is it the tree, we are asked, 'radiating whiteness and weirdness' and clouding onlookers' heads with its madness, that is to blame for the young woman's savage rape and murder? This rhetorical question, of course, implies its own answer. It is fascinating that Fujisawa would choose such a traditional aesthetic icon as the cherry tree as the agent of madness in this story: it certainly begs an interpretation that ties the event in with larger aspects of Japanese culture. This being said, it is worthwhile to note whether or not the tree is gendered in the story, as was the maggot. Though I noticed no clear markers of gender for the tree, I found it interesting that, in the last line, the maggot as thick as a woman's wrist (and, one would assume, proportionately long) positions itself motionless part way up the tree's trunk: now, that would make a well-hung tree, indeed! I was tempted to make it either dangle or stand erect; but, in doing so, I would -60-clearly have deserved to have my own wrist slapped, for over-interpreting. (While viewing the giant maggot as a phallic symbol is the only sensible interpretation that occurs to me, other interpretations may well be possible. Also, its positioning on the cherry does not necessarily imply that the tree has been gendered male: it might even be viewed as the passive, female counterpart to the maggof s active maleness, and their coming together a reunion of the yang and yin of nature. Or, perhaps Fujisawa merely found that the ending gave an emotionally satisfying sense of closure, and there is no rational connection to be drawn....) The above analysis is not meant to be complete, or in any way conclusive, but merely to make explicit the factors of literary significance that I noticed and took into account during the act of translating "Uji." The questions left open are the same as those left open in the text; or, at least, they are the questions the text begged of me as an individual reader and translator. This particular act of translation both required and stimulated in me approximately the degree of insight indicated above, though this can in no way be said to be an objective measure of the degree of literary cognizance necessary for the work's translation: another translator with insights either shallower or more profound might produce a quite different version of the story that is not necessarily either better or worse than the present one, but merely different in its interpretations and their application. And , just as each telling of a myth cuts a new facet through which it can be viewed, so each translation intrinsically holds in it the impressions and interpretations of the translator/conduit through which the mysterious transformation between languages takes place. The great variety of possible variations, I think, enhance, rather than diminish, both the original and its translations. -61-3.3 Issues and Problems Encountered in Translating "Maggot" In translating "Maggot," I encountered problems with respect to tense/aspect, indeterminacy and delayed determination, cultural supertext and subtext, and kanji over-determination. There were also several instances where the logical or grammatical structure of the Japanese would have proved unpalatable to the English ear if translated too directly, forcing me to draw apart from the original and dance a slightly different step for several beats. The problem which caused me the greatest consternation, though, was how best to translate a single, humble word that appeared in the very first line, and again with rhythmical regularity throughout the text. 3.3.1 Kinari The first line of the original reads, "Suketa kinari iro no kapuseru wa chiisaku hikatteiru ga, sono naka de ugomeku mono wa nanika." (63) The word "kinari" is an uncommon one, which Kdjien defines as: "1) Soboku. Kazarige no nai koto. [Simple, plain, unadorned] 2) Kimama. Ki no muku mama. [Self-indulgent; whimsical, spontaneous.]" (A good idiomatic translation of 'ki no muku mama' might be, 'As the spirit moves you.' However, within the Japanese social context, this expression usually has negative connotations, as a person acting 'as the spirit moves him' is by implication not taking into consideration his social and interpersonal obligations. In the context of the maggot, though, this does not apply; therefore, I feel that the nuance of spontaneity is predominant.) What is striking about this word in context, though, is the kanji used to represent it, which literally mean, 'life becoming,' - 6 2 -and, indeed, when read according to their on-yomi (seisei), do mean 'genesis/ As a modifier to the word 'color/ kinari's primary meaning in this sentence must be taken as simple, plain, and unadorned; yet, in the context of the story, its tertiary and associative meanings of spontaneity and genesis cannot be ignored without incurring a tragic, thematic loss. In this single word, the maggot is established as a symbol for the spontaneous generation of life from death—the constantly self-renewing genesis of nature—thereby establishing the nuances of the word as more important to the work than its primary meaning. Furthermore, kinari is repeated several times throughout the text, sometimes to indicate the maggof s color, sometimes directly to describe the quality of his flesh. Certainly, there is no one English word that incorporates all these nuances, and is descriptive of both color and flesh to boot! Yet, to preserve the translation's fidelity to the original, a solution had to be found. To convey kinari's primary meaning, I chose the word homely; like kinari, homely implies a quality of plainness, of unadorned simplicity. In the continuum of appearances, homely would fall somewhere between 'plain' and 'ugly/ but, perhaps due to its close phonological association with the word 'homey/ has greater warmth than does plain, and lacks the strong, negative connotations of ugly. (We might imagine feeling quite at ease—spontaneous, even?—with homeliness, but ugliness would engender discomfort.) Also, like kinari, homely is an unusual modifier for color: it implies a certain value or mood, without any specificity, thereby momentarily arresting the reader's attention and demanding her involvement in visualizing what 'color' homeliness implies. In order to include the nuances of spontaneity and genesis, I decided to state them explicitly in the first line: ' A transparent capsule glistens faintly, the - 6 3 -homely, spontaneous color of genesis .... ' By presenting these two concepts in juxtaposition to the word homely, I hoped to establish a Derridean trace or association within the context of this story, which wil l be recalled during the several subsequent textual references to homely color or flesh. Furthermore, I used the term, 'homely genesis color,' at a point approximately midway through the text, to reinforce this association. The degree to which this ploy is successful wil l depend on the individual English reader; but, of course, the same may be said of the nuances embodied in the original. 3.3.2 Tense/Aspect The second problem I encountered was one of how to represent English 1 tense. Although the original is written primarily in the present, it jumps freely between present and past verb forms, often within the same paragraph, and sometimes even within the same sentence. Consider the following passage (with sentence-final verbs underlined for emphasis): ... uji no ugoki ga tomatta. Onna no zanshi ga shilyaku shiteiru nioi. Uji wa kuroi chiisana atama de nanika ueru yd ni ugoki wo misetaka to omou to, nuno no shiwa no kiretsu no aida ni atama wo ireru. Amatta karada ni chijimu yokoshiwa no kankaku ga tsugitsugi ni fukurami, hageshiku unetta. Sukoshi zutsu karada ga hairikomi, kuttsuiteita nuno no kiretsu ga chiisaku sakeru. Isshun shiroi ito ga mijikaku hiita to omou to, kire, hakudakushita tama ga kiretsu no ryosen ni hitotsu kuttsuita. (65) A n English paraphrase of the action in this passage, according to the - 6 4 -conventional wisdom that labels '-ta' as a past-tense marker, would be as follows: "The maggot stopped. He inserts his head into the split. He twisted his body violently. The split tears. A cloudy bead was stuck to the ridgeline of the split." As English, this alternation of tenses is confusing, to say the least. In order to maintain a sense of temporal continuity, the passage would have to be written either entirely in the present or entirely in the past. The above passage would provide an excellent example for Miller's thesis that Japanese emphasizes aspect (completion or incompletion of an action relative to surrounding action) rather than tense (relation of an action to linear time). The stopping is a completed action, therefore ends in '-ta.' The insertion of the maggot's head is ongoing, and ends in '-ru.' The twisting of his body is a one-time, completed action: '-ta.' The tearing of the split is rendered as '-ru:' do we infer from this that the tearing is not really completed, that there is at least a potentiality for it to continue? The bead of thread, however, is singularly stuck—'-ta'—an independent, completed event. The passage supports Miller's position, but does not quite prove it: the entire passage could be written in either '-ru' or '-ta' forms without offending Japanese grammatical sensibility. Miyoshi's more general assertion that "Japanese has no clearly established tense, and forms for past and present are often interchanged without creating any confusion for the reader" (Miller 1) certainly holds true, though, for this passage and for the entire text of "Uji." As an English translation, however, such constant flip-flopping between past and present forms would be manifestly confusing, and, while it is not impossible to mix tenses in English, it is an operation requiring some delicacy, and not one to be undertaken merely through some misguided desire for grammatical 'equivalency' to the original. For, however the Japanese grammatical expression - 6 5 -of time might be labeled and classified, it is clear that it is different from that of English, and therefore can provide only a tentative guide to establishing appropriate tense in translation. M y decision to render the text in the grammatical present, even though English prose is more commonly written in past tense, was in part because the original is written predominantly in the present (above arguments aside), and mimicking this structure produced the same stylistically pleasing sense of immediacy in the English as it did in the original. Also, writing the story in the present tense is thematically more appropriate: it emphasizes the eternal present of nature—the perspective of the maggot and the cherry tree—and heightens the contrast between the woman's present state of erasure, and the past events of her life and brutal slaying, which the procession of time has rendered indifferent. The logic of English, however, requires that the paragraph which speculates on the woman's lifestyle, written in present tense in Japanese, ("Roppongi no kafe reibakku no tarako no pasuta ga suki? Ekimae no eikaiwakydshitsu ni shu nikai kayotteiru? ..." [64]) be translated in the past tense, as the woman is no more, and her corpse no longer able to enjoy the simple pleasures of life described therein. 3.3.3 Indeterminacy and Delayed Determination The text also manifested problems relating to indeterminacy and delayed determination. It is not until the ninth paragraph, for example, that the maggot is referred to as "kare" (he). Prior to this act of labelling, the maggot is amorphous, a spontaneous manifestation of the genetive force of nature, undefined, being neither 'he,' nor 'not-he/ nor even an 'it' as far as the Japanese is concerned, for the Japanese language does not require this distinction. The - 6 6 -usual strategy when encountering this added detail of information would be to modify previous English pronoun references retroactively to maintain consistency; however, I did not think it would be appropriate to do so in this case. In the Japanese, labelling the maggot as "kare" at this point is an intentional act, one that gives him both gender and an anthropomorphic quality, and therefore marks a subtle but important transition. This transition cannot be captured in quite the same way in translation, as English requires a pronoun from the beginning, but a similar effect can be obtained by referring to the maggot as 'it ' in the opening paragraphs, then shifting the pronoun to 'he' at the point where it becomes 'kare' in the Japanese. Further indeterminacy with respect to the maggot is encountered after the introduction of the maggot swarm. With several maggots grouped around the hole in the woman's knee, we are told, "sude ni kare na no ka do ka wakaranai" (68) ('Already it is impossible to tell which is he'), and from this point on, the individuation of our particular maggot becomes obscure. He could be swimming with the other maggots in the fluid inside the wound; or, crawling up the woman's opulent thigh; or, burrowing deep inside her body. Furthermore, with no grammatical markers for quantity, it is often unclear whether the text refers to a single maggot or a swarm of maggots, and, even when the context would suggest that a single maggot is being described, there is no indication on a linguistic level as to whether or not it is the individuated 'He' whom we have been following. The effect in the Japanese is that it is at the same time both and neither, 'not-both' and 'not-neither'; for several pages, the individual is subsumed in the swarm, and yet not subsumed, for there are times when it seems likely that the text refers to our maggot, but not with the degree of certainty that English is inescapably, grammatically, obliged to provide. ' A -67-maggot'; 'The maggof; 'Maggots'; 'It'; 'He'; 'They': all the options that English provides are more specific, more defining, than the simple, unmodified Japanese 'uji/ which includes in it the possibility of all the English interpretations, without specifying any one of them. It is not until the final paragraph, in reference to the giant maggot that has emerged from the woman's armpit, that the Japanese pronoun 'kare' is once again used, thereby marking this as the particular maggot of the story. In the English, I felt obliged to continue using 'the' and 'he' throughout this passage, in places where it seemed most likely that it was referring to our maggot, for to do otherwise would have given the passage a destabilizing lack of focus. The alternatives would have been to use 'a' and 'it,' which would have had the effect of clearly defining the subject as not the individuated maggot, or to have used some unnatural form of concocted English, such as 'a/the maggot(s)' which, aside from being stylistically repulsive, would have had the paradoxical effect of being more explicitly undefined than the original. This unavoidable shift toward specificity does not degrade the quality of the English version, but it does illustrate how a gain in information can result in a loss of literary effect. Indeterminacy is also a factor in translating the passage that speculates on the woman's past lifestyle, constructed as a series of rhetorical questions. In the Japanese, the addressee is undefined ("Roppongi no kafe reibakku no tarako no pasuta ga suki? Ekimae no eikaiwakyoshitsu ni shu nikai kayotteiru? ..." [64]), and could be interpreted either in the third person, as a sort of internal monologue of the narrator to himself, or in the second person, as questions directed toward the woman—either way would be logically consistent within the context. Once again, this is a choice that English necessitates: in Japanese, the addressee is at the same time both and neither; it is a question that its grammar -68-neither poses nor responds to. I chose to translate this passage in the second person ('Did you l ike the tarako pasta at Cafe LayBack in Roppongi? D i d you attend classes twice a week at the Engl ish school near your train station?') as it imparts a casual, prosaic air, reminiscent of Hamlet 's graveyard banter wi th dead Yor ick 's skul l , ghoul ish i n its fr ivol i ty. This passage is the closest the narrative comes to considering the woman as an ind iv idua l , and the int imacy of the direct address, as if the narrator had cradled her head in his arms and is querying her on her past as he affectionately strokes her hair, heightens the poignancy of her fal l as he once again (figuratively) tosses her aside i n the fo l lowing paragraph. O n a more subtle level, indeterminacy is also manifested throughout the text i n the form of subject-undefined rhetorical devices, such as 'to omou,' 'miru fo, 'and 'wakaranai,' wh ich beg the question, W h o is thinking? Who is looking? Who does not understand? These are al l active verbs wh ich imply an agent, but at the same time do not supply one. Frequently, the only logical answer is, that it is the narrator who is thinking, looking, or fai l ing to understand, but to state so explicitly wou ld be stylistically intrusive. However, as these phrases are most commonly rhetorical devices, I found it was often best either to substitute an Engl ish rhetorical device of similar effect, or to al low them to be subsumed in the rhetoric of the text, rather than being caught up expressing i n their l i teral meaning. For example, i n the Japanese sentence, "To omotteiru uchi ni, onna no migiashi no hizani ippiki [ga arawareta]" (66), the sentence-initial use of to omotteiru uchi ni, wh i ch l i terally means 'whi le thinking that,' has the rhetorical effect of letting the reader know that something has transpired over a per iod of time whi le the narrative eye was otherwise engaged. The common Engl ish wo rd to express this narrative shift is 'meanwhile, ' as in , 'Meanwhi le , one appeared on the woman's right knee.' - 6 9 -In addition to indeterminacy, there are several examples of delayed determination in the text, one of which I wil l illustrate below. The Japanese text is as follows: ... uji wa ...karada wo fukuramase, hiru sanagara mata potori to ochiteshimau no dard ka. Usui shiroi kumo ga kakatta sora ni, shoben to shio to kasukani aminosan ga hakko shita yd na nioi ga fuyu suru wake demo nai. Mata, sokoni kinari iro no niku ga komakaku uchifurueteiru no mo mieru wake demo nai no da ga, ikinari sakura no kozue wo yurasu hashiputo garasu ga arawareta. Genjiyama koen kara Rokkokukensan atari wo dfuku suru mure no ichiwa dard. (65-6) Translating the passage literally, maintaining the order of imagery as much as possible, would yield something like, 'Wi l l the maggot swell up like a leach and drop to the ground again? [NP] In the thin, white cloud-covered sky, it is not even that the smell of urine and tide and faintly fermented amino acid wafts. Also, it is not that the homely-colored flesh faintly quivering below is even visible; but suddenly, rustling the top of the tree, a mountain crow appeared. Probably it is one of the flock that comes and goes between Genjiyama Park and Mount Rokkokuken.' It is clear in this passage that the sensibility of Japanese sentence structure has been expanded to paragraph level: a long string of modifying clauses leading up to the locus of information for the signification stream—in this case, the arrival of the crow. The significance of the wafting odors and the squirming flesh is that they cannot have been sufficient to have attracted the crow; yet, if the Japanese ordering of images is followed, they are presented before we are aware of the crow's existence, or even prepared for its existence, as the maggot - 7 0 -was the focus of the previous paragraph. This suspension or delay in determining the locus of information is relatively transparent in Japanese, which is structurally so inclined, but as English, in which the locus of information normally comes near the beginning of a sentence or paragraph, it is merely confusing. For this reason, I felt it best to position the crow at the head of the paragraph, and rework the remaining phrases to clarify their relationship to it: ... his body swelled up like a leach, drop to the ground once again? Suddenly, a mountain crow appears, rustling the top of the cherry tree—probably one of the flock that haunts the area between Genjiyama Park and Mount Rokkokuken. How could it have known? Surely it did not scent the faint odor, like amino acid fermented from urine and tide, wafting up into the thin, white cloud-covered sky. Nor could it have spotted that homely flesh, quivering faintly down below. It raises its round, obsidian eyes ... This translation, liberal from a linguistic perspective, is, I think, far more faithful as a semiotic transfer of significant images, concepts, and their relationships. The above examples of indeterminacy and delayed determination were ones I found most striking, but are far from isolated events. The different structures of Japanese and English, along with the different informational requirements for forming grammatical, idiomatic sentences, make this a problem endemic to translation between the two languages at all levels, whether the text be an owner's manual for a television set, or a great work of literature. - 7 1 -3.3.4 Cultural Supertext and Subtext Cultural supertext and subtext are inter-related, both having to do with the inter-textual associations between the source text and its social context that form a common basis of understanding within its original soeio-linguistic sphere. In practical terms, the difference between the two lies in their treatment: whereas matters of supertext are treated as extra-textual, lying outside the purview of translation, subtextual matters are dealt with as implicit signifieds that may be made explicit in the target text. Two supertextual aspects of "Uji" are its setting and the stereotype of the O.L. The setting, Kamakura, is one familiar to nearly all Japanese, and is richly charged with associations. Not only was it Japan's seat of government from the 12th to 14th centuries, it is also the home of many of Japan's most famous temples and shrines. Such a location evokes rich historical and cultural associations, and, as a popular destination for both tourist and student field trips, is a place with close, personal familiarity for a great number of Japanese, many of whom may actually have walked along the forested paths through the hills where the story takes place. Simply by establishing Kamakura as the setting, Fujisawa invokes supertextual associations that would require pages of text to establish, even partially. (Of course, one needn't be Japanese to share this association: I myself have walked those same trails, though I did not manage to stumble on any beautiful corpses.) The 'beautiful corpse,' in this case, is an anonymous O.L., or 'Office Lady,' which is probably the preeminent stereotype of young, single Japanese womanhood in Japan today: A n endless stream of popular magazine articles and television chat shows hold this stereotype up to public scrutiny, examining - 7 2 -her economic status, her fashion sense, her social habits, and her sexuality. The typical O.L., as an office clerical worker with steady income, few responsibilities, and no long-term career ambitions (except, perhaps, to marry the next Director of Planning), possesses the time and financial resources to enjoy all the fruits of urban Japan's affluent, cosmopolitan environment. She is a sophisticated consumer of gourmet foods and designer clothes, a socialite, sexually adventurous, and well-travelled to the world's most popular resort destinations, yet still old-fashioned enough to demand that her boyfriend buy her dinner. Paradoxically, her repression under Japan's still strongly patriarchal society is her source of liberation, for, denied an active economic or political role in society, she is left free to enjoy its fruits. Needless to say, this is viewed as a dangerous, destabilizing influence by some men, whose vested interest lies in maintaining the status quo, and with jealousy by others, who might feel that they live as cogs in the patriarchal machine, with little to show for their sacrifices. There may even be some who, drunk on the weird vapors of the madly-blooming cherry, feel an insane rage well up inside them, just thinking about 'how good she's got it.' The raped and murdered corpse in "Uji" is, as we are constantly reminded, just such a stereotypical O.L. Even references to her individuality, far from individuating her, trace a circuitous route back to her ordinariness. Her clothing, her tastes, her sexual proclivities, all conform to a stereotype readily identifiable by anyone acquainted with it. And, as with any stereotype, it imparts a feeling of familiarity, that, though we do not actually know any individuals like her, we have certainly sat next to her on a train, or seen her sampling the tarako pasta with her friends at a Roppongi restaurant. Here, 'we,' of course, refers to anyone culturally savvy to modern Japan; one cannot assume that a - 7 3 -naive reader of the English would understand this. Although the text does make it clear that she is typical, there is an affective difference between reading a stereotype and recalling a stereotype as one reads: this is the kind of supertextual loss that is unavoidable in translation. In contrast to losses of cultural supertext, losses of subtext are the sorts of small details that can be remedied through creative embellishment, elision, or rephrasing. Thus, in translating the name of the shrine in the phrase, "zeniaraibenzaiten he to iu mono" (63), which literally means, 'people headed for zeniaraibenzaiten/ I elected to separate the descriptive portion of the name (zeniarai) and translate it as a phrase: "Some wi l l go to wash their money at Benzaiten Shrine." Doing so transforms a meaningless stream of syllables into a tidbit of cultural insight, allowing the monolingual English reader access to knowledge that is common to most native readers of the original. When the narrator queries the corpse, asking, "basurumu de hdnyo suru?" (64) (literally, 'Do you piss in the bathroom?') there is an unfortunate collision between the loan word, 'bathroom,' as it is used in this context, and the word as it is commonly used in North America, where, because the bath and the toilet are normally located in the same room, the expression 'go to the bathroom' has come to mean 'visit the toilet.' In Japan, however, where the toilet is located in a separate closet, a person who feels a sudden urge to urinate in the middle of bathing is faced with the choice of either toweling off and scampering through the common areas of the house ih a state of partial undress, or quietly using the, drain in the tiled bathroom floor. In contrast to the mildly erotic image evoked by the original, of the woman perhaps pausing in her bath to squat by the drain, then discretely rinsing her urine away with a ladle of water before hopping into the tub, the literal translation invites the most mundane of interpretations. As a - 7 4 -t \ partial remedy, I phrased the English as, 'Did you pee by the drain in the bathroom floor?' thus at least clarifying the context, if not capturing all of the cultural associations. For the reader of any foreign literature in translation, guessing at the supertext must be viewed as part of the adventure of encountering another culture. A text produced within a given cultural milieu is inextricably intertwined with the context of that society, and the greater one's understanding of that context, the richer one's appreciation of the text wil l be. It is beyond the translator's purview, though—at least, in terms of the model of translation presently under consideration—to illuminate the reader on such matters of supertext. Subtext, on the other hand, deals with the many small specificities of 'local color' that are implicit in the original, and which, if judiciously and creatively introduced into the target text, serve to clarify and enrich passages that, if translated directly, would remain lackluster, shallow, or obscure. In such cases, it is only by 'betraying' the original that one may remain faithful to it. 3.3.5 'Difficult Passages' In any translation, there wi l l be passages which, though not necessarily difficult to comprehend in and of themselves, are intransigent as objects of translation. (When translating from Japanese to English, this is more often the case than not!) This may be due to a difference in the underlying logic that supports the lexical relationships introduced by the grammar; or, to a pattern of phrasing that is amicable to the source language, but antagonistic to the target language; or, to a choice of language or wording which, due to the rich connotations it invokes, is not directly reproducible in any satisfyingly - 7 5 -equivalent form. More frequently, it is a combination of these factors, along with other difficulties such as those outlined above. Below are three examples of difficult passages taken from "Uji" that illustrate these points. The first, though not particularly challenging per se, is one I selected because it so clearly shows how subtle differences in underlying logic can affect the way in which the semiotic transfer is most appropriately expressed linguistically. The original is as follows: "Tsuchi ni kosurete sukoshi yogoreteiru hiza ga, yokei, sono namahada no shirosa wo kiwadatasete, sono ue no daitaibu nado sara ni shirokute ..." (64). Literally translated, this passage would read, 'Her knee, which scraped in the dirt and is slightly soiled, makes the whiteness of her fresh skin all the more conspicuous, and her upper leg even whiter .... ' As an English speaker, I was initially uncomfortable with this phrasing. The reason, I realized, was that it defines the relationship between the knee and the skin as highlighting the skin's whiteness, whereas logically it is the stain on the knee that accomplishes this task. The knee itself, previously described as shining like polished fruit, would be as lustrous as the rest of her leg. I therefore reworded the English to read, 'The stain on her knee, slightly soiled from a scrape on the ground, only highlights the fresh luster of her skin, causes the flesh of her upper leg to glow all the more white .... ' Whether by linguistic or by cultural habit, Japanese is indisposed to worrying about such logical subtleties; English, though, benefits stylistically from such attention to detail. (Or, the difference may be epistemological: whereas English separates stain from knee and treats each as a discrete, conceptual unit, Japanese does not differentiate between the two—which, after all, form a continuum.) With regard to the use of the word, 'white,' I felt it was overused in this sentence, especially when it had been applied so liberally elsewhere in the text. - 7 6 -'Shiroi' (white) is often used in Japanese to describe a woman's skin, not for any similarity to Caucasian skin (which can look rather pasty when untanned), but for its pale, fresh, almost translucent luster. I therefore substituted 'luster' for 'white,' and shifted the 'fresh' which had directly modified skin to modify luster, so that, by modifying the modifier, it affected it indirectly. Thus, 'the whiteness of her fresh skin' became 'the fresh luster of her skin.' The next example is: To, ikinari kuroku hantno shita muragari ga atta. Wakai onna no shotsu no naka ni tojikomerare, nadetsukerareta yd ni osamatteita seimo no muragari wo, otoko wa ranbo ni washizukanda no dard, midare, uzu wo makiageteiru. (68) Literally translated, this would read, 'Then, suddenly there was a blackly luxuriant mass. Probably the man roughly gripped the mass of pubic hair that had been closed up and put away as if patted down inside the young woman's panties, (it is) disheveled and swirling up.' Translating hanmo as luxuriant, of course, disregards its strong connotation as referring to lush foliage; this can be easily remedied by replacing the somewhat vague 'mass' with 'bush,' an English word most appropriate in this context for its slang association with pubic hair. This clarifies the context of the passage without being more specific at this point than the original. The second sentence, though, is slightly more problematic. The direct object marker 'wo' grammatically defines the mass of pubic hair as the object of the man's grabbing; but, to do so in English forces the sentence to center on this action, leaving the present state of the hair—disheveled and swirling up—as an afterthought. In the Japanese the long, prepositional clause preceding and modifying muragari, together with the contextualizing effect of the previous - 7 7 -sentence, effectively establishes the pubic hair as the locus of information; and the phrase referring to the man's action, bracketed as it is by commas, comes across as an afterthought. In order to faithfully convey the image rather than the grammar, I rephrased the passage thus: "Then, suddenly, a luxuriant, black bush. The mass of pubic hair, once neatly packed away inside the woman's panties as if patted into place, now spirals up in a disheveled swirl, no doubt from the;man's rough clawing.' (My decision to replace 'grab' with 'claw7 came as a result of the kanji over-determination found in the Japanese 'washizukamu/ literally, 'eagle-grab.' 'Clawing,' though technically different from 'grabbing,' better conveys the image that the kanji tacitly conveys of being raked at by a bird of prey.) By employing slightly different footwork, the resulting sentence provides a more natural, fluid, and stylistically pleasing flow of images than would a direct, lexico-grammatical translation, without betraying the intent of the original. The final example presented multiple problems. The original reads: Inshu, to henki na hito nara ii, mata, wakai onna no seiki no do ni mo naranu nioi, to mo chokusetsu ni itteshimatte ii dard, taieki no tsumatta nioi wa, sarani wakiga ni mo nita enpitsu no shin no yd na nioi mo majitteiru. (68) Firstly, this is a passage about smell, so I reversed the order of phrasing to avoid the deleterious effect of delayed determination and introduce the description of the smell at the beginning, like this: 'The stuffy odor of bodily fluids, mixed in with a smell somewhere between armpits and the graphite core of a pencil:.. . . ' The grammatical construction, "... ni mo nita ... no yd na" (Tike ... and also similar to ...') I replaced with the idiomatic 'somewhere between ... and ...,' which conveys the same effect with more economy and grace. The word -78-'graphite' was added to emphasize the smell of the substance itself, as 'core of a pencil' has rather weak olfactory connotations in English. 'Sarani' ('furthermore'), which furnishes a necessary transition in the Japanese, was superfluous to the English, and so was deleted. L The first half of the sentence provides more difficult problems. Its initial phrase contains two kanji compounds, 'inshu' and 'henki,' which are not listed in standard references (including Kdjien), but whose kanji compounds mean '(lewd, licentious) + (smell)' and '(inclined, biased) + (strange, eccentric),' respectively, to render a tentative translation of,'People who are inclined/eccentric would say lewd smell. . . . ' A person with eccentric leanings could be said to have certain 'proclivities,' which in this case would be a reluctance to name a particular smell for what it is. (Use of the word 'proclivity' also conveys the slight, ironic twist that was present in the original, as 'proclivity' has mild connotations of sexual deviance, thereby suggesting—as does the original, in my opinion—that it is somehow perverse to resort to such prissy turns of phrase.) This rather elliptical description is given in opposition to the second, highly idiomatic phrase, 'onna no seiki no do ni mo naranu nioi/ which is presented as the more direct way of saying the same thing. What is important to convey in this passage is the contrast between a rather stuffy, proper, indirect way of referring to an unpleasant odor versus a very direct, idiomatic expression that 'tells it like it is.' Far from 'telling it like it is,' though, the phrase, 'do ni mo naranu/ if rendered into an English approximation such as 'can't do anything with it' tells us almost nothing. Whereas the Japanese has the effect of saying, 'You know: that smell,' the English effectively leads the reader away from such a direct pointing. I therefore decided to interpolate from the general to the specific, relying on context to guide me, and chose the term 'funky reek' to directly express the sentiment that a smell consisting of bodily fluids, armpits and graphite would engender, in opposition to a more discretely worded 'obscene aroma.' The completed sentence reads: "The stuffy odor of bodily fluids, mixed in with a smell somewhere between armpits and the graphite core of a pencil: an 'obscene aroma' is what those of certain proclivities would say, though perhaps it is better to call it what it is, the funky reek of a woman's genitals." 3.4 Summary—Chapter III The above examples illustrate the major issues raised in translating "Uji." For reasons of brevity, I did not list separate examples of such problems as repetitive word use, compound verbs, or specific problematic words, as to engage insuch level of detail would have been excessively cumbersome, and also because they are well represented as peripheral elements in the issues treated above. Indeterminacy presents probably the the most intransigent structural problem in translating Japanese into English. On a basic level, it demands continuous interpretation on the part of the translator in order to accurately supply information implicit or even non-existent in the original that must be made explicit in order to form, natural, grammatical, idiomatic English sentences. On a more subtle level, this gain of specificity often entails a loss of literary effect, because, as was shown in "Maggot," the clear delineation of what a subject is also defines what it is not, forcing a single interpretation from among what in the Japanese was a range of possibilities. This ability of Japanese on a structural level to arrest the reader in a state of ambiguity contributes to the rich, - 8 0 -reverberative quality that is quintessential to much of Japanese literature, but, unfortunately, most often goes flat in translation. Other problems encountered can for the most part be solved through creative intervention and a willingness on the part of the translator to depart from slavish adherence to lexico-grammatical convention. The above examples illustrate, if nothing else, that the fidelity of a translation rests not in its lexical or grammatical equivalency, but in the semiotic transfer of significant images, concepts, and relations, with a sensitivity to the stylistic demands of the target language. Often, this task can be accomplished by mimicking the word selection and sentence structure of the source text, but such imitation, if carried out blindly, has the converse effect of damaging the literary impact of the translation product. Prose is often differentiated from poetry by its transparency, because for the most part, like air, it flows through us invisibly, unawares. For this very reason, prose is often taken for granted; but invisibility is a state more difficult to attain than is often supposed, especially when attempting to transform language between widely different conceptual worlds. Prose is a stream of signification, at its most lucid when it flows gracefully—it is most often through the arresting ugliness of clumsy style that it makes itself opaque. Literary prose depends on this fluidity to affect the reader directly, emotionally and intellectually: any translation which, by allowing lumps of half-translated dross to impede its flow, fails to make this connection with its readers, cannot be said to have succeeded as as a literary translation. — 81 — IV. "Maggot"—The Translation Below is the original title page for "Uji" by Fujisawa Shu, as it first appeared in Shosetsu Shincho: an excellent example of intersemiotic translation. Fig. 1. Illustration by Yamamoto Takato. Shosetsu Shincho 52.5 (1995): 62. -82-Maggot by Fujisawa Shu (Translated by A . G . Woodburn) A transparent capsule glistens faintly, the homely, spontaneous color of genesis—what is it that squirms within? Inside the plastic-like sheath, engorged with color, a lump twitches tentatively, then, tentatively, squirms again. The color curls around once more, permitting a glimpse of its amorphous flesh. Suddenly^ in the slick serum that impregnates the space between the thin shell and its body, the lump spins around once, then twice. It is a maggot. Stretched to its limit, the force in this larva could topple the universe. It breaks through the cellulose wall and exposes its face to the outer world, then, arching from the midriff, or rather, right from its foot, it probes the air with the single whisker of its head. Like a small scrap of paper charged with static electricity it stands on end, trembles and folds at the middle, then again stretches taut. The motion of its head makes it appear as if it is scattering threads to the heavens up beyond the full-blooming cover of the wild cherry above—or, as if hanging, swinging from a thread. A sunken hollow, heavy with the damp smell of earth and the stench of grass. Among the valleys of Kamakura's Genjiyama Park, this one is particularly deep; but the full blossom of its lone, giant, two-thousand year-old cherry, visible from the curving edge of the mountain path, brings pleasure to the eyes of visiting sightseers. They squint and gaze down on the whiteness of the blossoms -83-that bloom so madly out of season, spreading out like an ocean of cloud beneath them. Some wi l l go to wash their money at Benzaiten Shrine, others wi l l head for Kaizoji Temple, and still others visit Jufukuji Temple; but not a single one of them wil l attempt to gaze up into the tree from below. Of course, the type of person who would find that narrow trail—more like an animal track, really—that leads down under the wild cherry, would need to be either a crazed eccentric, or someone driven by considerable urgency: unless one has a pressing need to urinate, for example, one would never think of going down there, never be able to discover what lies there. Aah, or lovers perhaps, looking for a place to do it out of doors; or, perhaps, a murderer .... Far below, under the great, wild cherry, beneath-where the occasional muted voices of passersby can be heard, he was born quietly into the faintly sour-smelling gap between a young woman's toes. A burgundy pedicure with a touch of pearl. Amid the luxuriant growth of pungent dokudami, shepherd's purse, and herbs, the wine color looks for an instant like a venomous flower; but those nails, rimmed conspicuously by the white flesh of the toe, standing out against the green of the thicket, look for all the world like a fresh, new variety of poison itself. He presses the tip of his head several times to the faint wrinkles along the crotch in the toe, searching. As if it is already imprinted in his genes, he naturally searches for a preferred scent, dampness, and softness, and, like a seal with a suction cup, taps his homely flesh up along the crotch between the woman's toes. Where he is, the woman's right foot is bare, but the calf of her left leg, splayed open and bent at the knee, is tangled in a pair of beige pantyhose and white panties. Her stockings, hitched up on the neighboring grasses, stretch out -84-slovenly like a discarded snake skin; her panties droop, reminiscent of a froth of white tree frog eggs bulging from a blade of grass. The twisted section which had kept her crevice concealed imparts a desiccated hardness, glistening iridescent almost as if a slug had slithered over it. The shiny, black objects lying strewn in the grass are the woman's pumps. One displays the slender arch of its sole, spike thrusting out from its heel, which is round as a horse's rump. From inside the glossy, pearl-colored leather of the other shoe peeps the logo, PHILIP MODEL, likely a popular brand with the ladies. Undulating the horizontal profusion of wrinkles along his back, the maggot moves away from the lingering odor of sweat on the woman's toe. Even as he moves, he swings his head to and fro, affirming the smell of the woman's flesh as he goes. His accordion-like body expands and contracts with the soft resonance of rippled waves—but, the rim around each individual wrinkle also resembles scales. Journeying over the gentle swell atop the woman's foot, the maggot pokes at its undulations once more, then, raising up his body in a distorted arc, twitches his head, and thrusts it at the white skin. His homely flesh is so soft, so new-born, that it melts in the sunlight leaking down from the treetop of the wild cherry and gathers it in; the young woman's corpse is barely a day old. Like a drop of water swollen with the power of earth's gravity, he drops his head forcefully to the woman's ankle; yet, though he adhedes to it, there is no chewing through this youthful female skin. Because even now, her shin, her knee, shine like polished fruit. Because her body is just like that of any other ordinary, twenty-five year-old office girl. —Did you like the tarako pasta at Cafe LayBack in Roppongi? —Did you attend classes twice a week at the English school near your train station? —For -85-luck, did you keep an ammonite fossil at the back of your desk drawer at work? —Did you sleep just the once with the assistant to the Director of Planning? —At night in your one-room apartment, did you play the Coastal Dead Heat Series video game? —Did you float a red camellia in a wide-mouthed vase of Korean white porcelain, and blow on it? —Did you sign up for National Mutual Insurance? —Did you pee by the drain in the bathroom floor? —Did you buy consecutively-numbered lottery tickets from the kiosk at the Karasumori exit in Shinbashi? —Did you like to be fucked from behind as you pressed up against the glass of the hotel window? —Did you rid your body of unsightly hair once every three days? ... Perhaps. The half-naked corpse of this utterly ordinary office girl lies beneath the wild cherry in a hollow in Genjiyama Park, and already the maggot has advanced almost to her knee. 'Beneath each cherry tree, a corpse lies buried'—so said a writer of old. But one might as well say, 'Beneath each cherry tree, a woman's corpse lies.' Needless to say, an utterly ordinary, utterly average, utterly commonplace, young woman. The stain on her knee, slightly soiled from a scrape on the ground, only highlights the fresh luster of her skin, causes the flesh of her upper leg to glow all the more white; and the maggot's body looks almost like a tiny twig of skin, protruding by mistake, somehow sprouted from her thigh. But, this protuberance continues to undulate its body, intent on its journey. The as yet immature, homely grain of flesh stiffens in resistance to the hard sensation of the knee bone separated from it by a single layer of thick skin; but hardness reacts against hardness, and, all at once contracting its taut, horizontal wrinkles, it bunches its body up into a ball and tumbles down the - 8 6 -woman's inner thigh. For an instant, as he fell, d id the maggot sense an odor different from the grasses' bitter aroma? It is the smell of a new scent the woman had just started wearing. As if surprised at the release of tension that had held him like a suction cup to the woman's skin, the maggot arches his body back, bends, twists, balls up, arches his heavy body again, and wriggles on the damp, black earth. The maggot wags his head and tail on the ground, flexing indiscriminately without regard to back or belly, squeezing both ends together so that head and tail point the same way—open, shut, open, shut—only the tips stretch so taut their color grows even fainter, as he searches desperately for a spot to settle. i The great, jutting bow of the wild cherry sways in the breeze, but not before sending a shower of petals fluttering down at an angle. Caught by the light, they reflect diffusely, faintly brightening the shadowy gloom beneath the huge tree. This cherry tree that blooms so dementedly out of season—is it the air, or the atmosphere, that it dyes with its color? It dyes the insides of onlookers' heads white, and, from every opening and orifice of their bodies—from their pores, their mouths, their eyes, their noses—causes them to exude, languidly and lackadaisically, like smoke, whatever it is, pent up inside them. Perhaps it was the clouds of blossoms on this wild cherry, drawing in the vague shimmerings of heat in the air and radiating whiteness and weirdness with all their might, that drove the man mad. Or, maybe they drove the half-naked woman mad. In any case, whichever it was, doubtless the cherry blossom petal clinging to the man's penis wil l be what cracks his alibi. The calf of the woman's left leg, splayed open and bent at the knee, is -87-where the maggot traces his way back up from the ground and onto her body. From time to time, nylon fibers catch on his mouth and gleam. The fabric of the stocking contains rows of tiny windows, lined up like cells in the vascular strands of a tulip stem that has been split down the middle. For the little maggot, the taut, glistening skin must have been easier to advance oyer. One false step and he wil l curl up and go for a tumble, just as before. Just then, he rolls down into a fold of beige-colored stocking. He twists his body and violently shakes his head, which shines suddenly blacker than when he was born. A fat woman reclining in a hammock. The maggot writhes some more, and, gripping onto the nylon fibers, clambers out. Tracing his way along the edge of some lustrous, soft, white fabric, the maggot arrives at a twisted section of different material, and stops. The concentrated smell of a woman's residuum. With a planting motion, the maggot pushes his small, black head into a split in the wrinkles of the fabric. One by one, the spaces between the constricting, horizontal lines on the remainder of his body swell up, and twist violently. Little by little, his body penetrates the split, and the cloth around its edges tears slightly. A white thread draws taut for an instant, then snaps, a single, cloudy white bead on the ridge line of the split. The maggot spasms briefly from bottom to top, rending the cloth around the split. The glistening, iridescent fabric tears, to reveal a tiny pool of clear, viscous fluid remaining. Touching his head to the saturated slime that stains the panties, the maggot remains motionless. Wil l he suck up the woman's juices, and then, his body swelled up like a leach, drop to the ground once again? Suddenly, a mountain crow appears, rustling the top of the cherry tree—probably one of the flock that haunts the area between Genjiyama Park and -88-Mount Rokkokuken. How could it have known? Surely it did not scent the faint odor, like amino acid fermented from urine and tide, wafting up into the thin, white cloud-covered sky. Nor could it have spotted that homely flesh, quivering faintly down below. It raises its round, obsidian eyes and its cracked, seasoned beak once to the sky, then looks down. As a rule, a crow never lands in a cherry tree in full bloom. Whether due to fear of losing its bearings in the chaotically blossoming white, or from an innate aesthetic prejudice, no one has ever seen it happen. The branch sways heavily as the crow alights; it slopes down in a straight line, then, gliding off at an acute angle, reverses its direction, and floats to the ground. Just then, with a sudden flurry of legs, a centipede that had been clinging like a black fern to the side of the woman's breast slides down between her side and the ground. The maggot remains motionless, his body thrust into the woman's damp underwear. Spreading its black, disheveled wings, the crow hops over toward the woman's corpse and begins to peck at it with its thick beak. Still too fresh to serve as carrion. Around the woman's neck is a fine, gold pendant. It is a simple bauble, and the gold chain is of little value; but it has Tiffany written on it, and may even have been a gift the woman gave herself to celebrate graduating from some university in Ichigaya. Or, maybe it's the necklace that she always made sure to remove before bed, ever since it was flecked with the semen of a lover who liked to pull out before coming—Who knows? But for the crow, who collects shiny objects, it is an irresistible find. He pecks it; it glitters; he pecks again, scarring the hollow over the woman's collar bone. As if picking at skin on the surface of hot milk, the crow hooks the necklace on the tip of its beak, and tugs at the glittering mound of gold. -89-Finally succeeding after several attempts, the crow gathers up the strand of necklace and, swinging it in a figure eight, adjusts its length and kicks off from the ground. A n 18-carat gold necklace in the beak of a crow; petals of wild cherry scattering in a flutter of wings—a sight rarely seen in the mountains of Kamakura. It is no illusion that the maggot appears to have grown a size larger. The speed of his growth has already circled the globe several times. His plump torso, his accordion-like wrinkles. The flesh further bulges out between each of those wrinkles, and the translucency of his homely genesis color has diminished. Meanwhile, another maggot has appeared on the woman's right knee. Another on her calf. Three more squirm inside her stocking, between the toes of her left foot. Two more arch their backs immediately behind the stain on the fabric where he had been. Again the maggot undulates his back, approaching the valley behind the woman's bent knee. Perhaps from a dab of perfume in its hollow, a faint whiff of something like lily of the valley mingles in complex refraction with the sweat trapped in the recess of flesh. Refraction? Possibly, though it is of no concern to the maggot, the young woman's corpse is a refracting body. Be it crystals incubating in the corner of an underground cave, or a woman floating up against a riverbank, or a woman heaved into a hotel bathtub, or a woman lying quietly in a hollow in Genjiyama Park—there is something that is refracted and bottled up inside. Perhaps, it is a message. Buffeted by the wild temperature fluctuations of the Apr i l weather, the fragrance of that dab of eau de cologne in the hollow of the knee is dissolved in - 9 0 -the sour sweat, the stench of grass, the smell of damp, dark earth, the cherry's full-blossomed perfume, and the odor of semen: 'What am I? Why am I? to wind up here, consumed by a swarm of maggots? Please, tell me!' —This is the message that is woven through. A l l this is of no concern to the maggot. Flexing the accordion wrinkles of his body, he crawls over the swelling flesh of her calf toward the hollow of her knee and the thigh presaging it. In that valley, though, there is no opening or pathway inside. The gradations on her skin between white and shadow are so very fine as to make one wonder if a woman's body were not perhaps made in imitation of a marble nude, and not the other way around. Poking his head into the lily of the valley scented cleft, the maggot wiggles the flesh of his lower body and advances slightly. But then, allowing his body's viscera to settle back, he slowly raises the black tip of his head and searches for the knee's crevice. At the beginning —or is it the end?—of that line, at the edge of the shadow of the soft valley that reaches around from the hollow toward the inside of the knee, the maggot plants his head and stands his body on end. He straightens his body over the rounded mound of flesh and shakes his tail at the sky. Forward and back, side to side, over and over, then he twists slowly, again shakes his tail side to side so vigorously that it strikes against the woman's skin; then, still leaning at an angle, vibrates his body like a locus of light radiating an electric discharge, and plunges his head in under the flesh. One by one, the wrinkles of the maggot's body sink inside. Oozily gnawing, he chews and liquefies an almost imperceptible hole in the flesh, sucking up the juices it exudes, enlarging, digging. Before long, a peach-colored serum wells up, forming a small rim around his body, which disappears beneath the skin of the knee as if it has been half - 9 1 -crushed. Droplets of clear fluid exude from the entire surface of the maggof s body like they were sprayed on in a fine mist, each one reflecting the color of sky that peaks between the blossoms of the wild cherry. He withdraws his head, revealing a hole of damp, crimson meat, which is once again stopped up with the maggot's homely color. He carves out the inside of the meat wall around his body like he is intentionally enlarging it, as if fashioning his own nest or cocoon. Once his body is fully inside, one can see through the rim of melted flesh that a cavity wider than the surface opening has been created. As his black head pops in and out of view inside the hole, other maggots climb the woman's leg—two, three ... a whole swarm of maggots in the shape of a fish clings to her stockinged calf; circling around under the hollow of her knee, five maggots, three maggots, seven maggots. Over on her right leg, maggots throng like bulging scales, covering her almost to the knee. The border line between the army of maggots and the woman's skin advances slowly but surely toward the thigh. One or two of the maggots appear like droplets of water on the woman's skin; but the seamless, invading mass is like crafted tile work, finely inlaid with homely colored, porcelain shells. But, because each one is wriggling the waves of its back, the reflection of light is constantly, delicately shimmering, like a viscous fluid. If, say, you were to scoop that fluid up in both hands, perhaps roll it into a ball, and then drop it on the asphalt, it would land with a dull plop, then slowly, seepingly, spread out. This, regardless of whether the maggots panicked en masse and propelled their bodies frantically away. The clump of maggots on the woman's right leg advances, bodies jostling in such a seamless mass that anyone who held their ear up close would swear -92-they heard creaking. But, what about him, over on the other leg? On the inside of the knee—the knee of a perfectly ordinary office girl, but who was murdered and her half-naked body left dumped in a hollow in Genjiyama Park—on the inside of a tiny hole dug into the back of that knee.... Already it is impossible to tell which is he. Around the hole, five maggots raise their heads, tails radiating outward. Two maggots are curled up inside. One of the five maggots above attempts to burrow in, planting its head at the center of the chrysanthemum-shaped cluster and standing its body on end. Is he one of the two inside? Or, has he already invaded further down into the flesh; or, climbed up over the maggots above, to join the mass that advances along the woman's opulent thigh? There is no way of knowing. A cherry blossom petal rests on the woman's thigh, but even it seems a dingy brown next to the smooth whiteness of her skin. A small, faint mole, artlessly poised, lies juxtaposed to a purplish-bruised gouge, likely left by the man's nails. Four or five maggots stop at the droplets of serum that ooze like beads from the scar, while others continue with undulating backs up the woman's thigh to her crotch. Beyond a slightly wrinkled, dingy patch of skin lies the singularly white flesh of her wide-splayed groin. Some lines reminiscent of the faint, red veins of a leaf, and then, over the undulations of the rising swell of flesh, sprigs of pubic hair face toward the center like iron filings in a magnetic field. Then suddenly, a luxuriant, black bush. The mass of pubic hair, once packed neatly away inside the woman's panties as if patted into place, now spirals up in a disheveled swirl, no doubt from the man's rough clawing. A n odor of concentrated sea water, but mixed with a sharp, yet softly clingy smell - 9 3 -\ like lactic acid, wafts through the thicket of hair. The maggot crawls down from the hard mound overgrown with hair, to a fleshy embankment that swells up suddenly like a walnut. Further toward the center of the thicket, another works its way into a dark crevice eaten into the flesh. A plump, soft swell the color of cinnamon, clouded over by a faint haze of down. A maggot stands on end, then another. Four more show up, three more, undulating the horizontal wrinkles of their backs. The stuffy odor of bodily fluids, mixed in with a smell somewhere between armpits and the graphite core of a pencil: an 'obscene aroma' is what those of certain proclivities would say, though perhaps it is better to call it what it is, the funky reek of a woman's genitals. Over that, nonetheless, lingers the same delicate, piercing fragrance as in the hollow of her knee. Or, it could be the perfume of the ferment of sour nectar in the aging blossoms of the wild cherry, their pistils and stamens lolling frowzily in the heat. The maggot doesn't know the source of that smell. But, right next to the woman's cinnamon-colored swell lies a patch of dried, white mucus and a soft, oozing crevice of flesh still glistening imperceptibly. Moreover, the tip of a dead branch from somewhere around the base of the wi ld cherry has been thrust in, twisting into the clear mucus and prying open a portion of the gooey rim .... The maggot has noticed the source of the scent mixed in with an office girl's perfume, and the motion of the waves on his back seethes with uncommon urgency. He licks greedily at each of the fine, diamond-shaped creases of the soft piece of meat. The labia are spread open, grinning redly, and appear as if they wil l remain so; but slowly, subtly, they begin to close up along the somber-colored rim. The swarm of maggots, though, wi l l not allow it. They pour inside, lusting after the strangely foul-smelling mucus, warmed by the sun and residual body heat, that has gathered in the pink cave. Of course, a slight amount of the man's semen may also be trapped within, warming in the woman's remaining heat, but the bulk of its voluminous discharge is cast like a net over the woman's averted face. The woman's averted face, eyes slightly open .... Thin eyebrows groomed in the shape of bows; a touch of mascara. The well-formed line of her nose. A n d her mouth, pushed open so wide that her cheeks are hollowed, with a sheaf of grass like butterbur crammed inside. When discharged over the face's contours, the semen had shone an opaque blue-white, but now, its color already faded, its viscidity gone too, it dampens the woman's face in a sloppy mess. And, it goes without saying that several cherry petals are cruelly pasted on. Maggots slither in at the point where the labia start to spread open in a distorted ellipse. The wedge-shaped sheath is such a perfect fit that it's as if it had been hidden away all along for just this purpose. There is a sound like a loach in a bucket with not enough water—the grinding sound of the woman's juices, left with no place to go in the push and shove of the two throngs of maggots that have pried open her twisted meat and jostle at the entrances to her urethra and vagina, clinging to her body in a seamless mass. The swarm of maggots that suddenly covers the woman's lower body is especially dense around her crotch. Such is the maggots' assault that it is impossible to make out the shape of her genitals, and even the black of her pubic hair has turned a homely color—or rather, it is as if the black hairs sprout sparsely from the homely color itself. A throng of maggots twists its way into the hole; another above it tries to push its way through; still more mount atop the swollen clump. Then, the clump peels off and drops. It looks like a cross-section of pomegranate, if a pomegranate were white. - 9 5 -When the clump of maggots fell, it carried with it the dead branch that had been thrust shallowly into the vagina, and for a moment the deep darkness of the hole can be seen, but it is impossible to distinguish whether it is the hole of a twenty-five year-old woman, or a tunnel formed by maggots. As if increasing geometrically, with maggot giving birth to maggot, they mercilessly push their way into the woman's genitals, the valley behind her bent knee, and even her dingy anus. Throngs of maggots have already invaded the holes of her ears, her nostrils, her tear ducts, and are feeding intently at her flesh, growing fatter by the minute and weltering the woman's skin with their bloated accordion bodies. Thousands more form a writhing pool on the woman's stomach below her dark grey skirt, which is hitched up over her ribs to reveal the opal reflection of its lining. Her jacket and satin blouse have been savagely torn away, exposing her not-so-large breasts. Against the almost bluish white of the curve of her left breast, the centipede clings once more, its blackness strikingly conspicuous. It is as if the centipede is saying that it can adhere its body more securely to a gently curving surface than to a flat one. Up above her slightly averted breast, the gather of soft, twisted wrinkles at her armpit is tinged a faint brown. The skin of her armpit calls to mind the pleats of a curtain secured by a cord, or the wrinkles on a deflated balloon. Just then, a slight grating sound—can it be? Yet, no doubt, the woman's lower body has just moved ever so slightly at the hip. A horrendous swarm of maggots swells up in a clump over her groin and down both legs, adhering in a seamless mass. Again, a grating, a slipping—the woman's body leaves its imprint in the black soil. The splayed leg opens wider, and, in plain view of all , the blossoms of the wild cherry of Genjiyama, the clump of maggots forces its - 9 6 -way into the woman's genitals. But to the cherry blossoms, the maggots chewing innocently away at the flesh merely form a human shape. Or, perhaps it is the two-thousand year-old tree itself that is creating a luxuriantly-petaled, human-shaped mound: unaided by the wind, it showers down a steady rain of petals over the hollow where the woman's body lies. For some time now, as if something has become saturated, the cherry blossoms have been separating from their branches and falling indiscriminately. These young, as yet unwithered blossoms, each one radiating a faintly pungent fragrance of unripened sweetness—to what part of the woman's body wil l they cling? The woman's arm moves slightly. ... ? Something is squirming in the swell of lymph glands under her armpit. A fleshy protuberance pokes up once, then twice, from underneath the skin, then twists round in a circle. In the next instant, the skin of the woman's armpit juts out roundly, and faint cracks appear. Like the birth of a nebula, white lines radiate out from the darkish skin of the underarm, and then, all of a sudden, a black head pierces through from below. A giant maggot! A maggot as thick as the woman's wrist bursts out from her underarm and, rolling its head to the sky, tumbles out onto the ground. Without turning back, it wriggles with all its might toward the giant wild cherry. It climbs to a spot still low on the tree's trunk, and—what next?—remains glued to the spot, utterly motionless. - 9 7 -Conclusion Word-for-word translation is commonly held to be the most 'faithful/ It is the 'ugly wife' who cleaves to her husband without regard for her own needs. But underlying this view is the assumption that the meanings and functions of words are invariable across languages, and that there indeed is a word in each language which corresponds exactly to a word in every other—an assumption that is manifestly untrue. Even simple words like 'yes' and 'no' do not always have exact equivalents. In English, if a listener responds 'Yes' to a question or a statement, it is normally taken as an expression of agreement; in Japanese, however, 'Hai' (the putative equivalent of 'yes') simply indicates that the listener is following what the speaker is saying. Similarly, if, in Japanese, Person A was to express gratitude to Person B, then Person B would likely respond with a simple 'lie,' a word which is normally equated to the English 'no/ But in English, we would be quite perplexed if someone responded to our expression of gratitude with a simple 'No. ' In this case, 'lie' means, not ' N o / but something like 'Don't mention i t / or 'Think nothing of i t / Conversely, to translate the English, 'Don't mention i t / into Japanese as 'Ano koto ni tsuite nani mo iwanaide kudasai' in this context would be equally confusing. Japanese-English translation is rife with such examples, to the extent that any attempt at a truly word-for-word translation, aside from producing gibberish, is likely to betray the , meaning and intent of the original more Roundly than a freer, more explicitly interpretive one. Once we depart from a simple one-to-one correspondence, though, we open the door to a variety of different interpretations and alternate modes of expression. The English 'equivalent' becomes just one of many possible paraphrases of something that is not directly expressible in English. -98-Another barrier to 'literal' translation between Japanese and English is the basic structural dissimilarity between the two languages, which forces the translation to say something other than what was said in the original. As was shown in the case study, English frequently demands information that in Japanese is left unexpressed or undetermined, and it is often this very indeterminacy that conveys a literary effect in the original. The structural indeterminacy of Japanese allows it to be deeply suggestive, to imply various alternate meanings and interpretations without explicitly stating any one of them, where English is grammatically compelled to 'spell it out.' To define something, though, is to dehmit it: in saying what it is, you simultaneously define what it is not and cannot be. This structural, linguistic difference between Japanese and English is also manifested culturally. In contrast to the Japanese love of the tacit understanding as itself being expressive of commonality, in English-speaking cultures there is generally an impatience with such vagueness, accompanied by a lingering suspicion that it might conceal some dishonorable intent. In Japan, on the other hand, the very act of insistence on clear, concise language can be taken as a sign of bad faith. To illustrate by way of anecdote, I was once given a job by a Canadian firm to translate back into English a standard client agreement, originally written in English by Canadian lawyers, that had been translated into Japanese by a Japanese lawyer who adapted it to conform with standard Japanese legal and business practices. I was supplied with the original English version for reference. To my surprise, the concise English of the Canadian lawyers, fashioned through centuries of experience to exclude as much as possible any ambiguity that could invite conflict, had been rendered into paragraph upon paragraph of intentionally vague Japanese. (I say 'intentionally' because the Japanese language ' . .• / -99-•, is capable of far greater precision than was displayed, and in this respect the document in question could easily have lived up to the English it was modeled on.) Moreover, each section of the Japanese version of the contract was capped off with a phrase that meant something like, 'Any disputes arising out of conflicting interpretations of the above wi l l be resolved by negotiations in good faith between the aggrieved parties.' The English version made no mention of 'good faith,' relying instead on an implicit faith in the power of its own language to resolve all such disputes in advance. In an article entitled "Translating Modern Japanese Literature," Marleigh G. Ryan sums up this difference as follows: "Ours [English] is a language formulated, built, and reworked by minds obsessed with logic. We have always to 'prove' what we say, and our proof is established by words. ... The Japanese case until very recently is the opposite. Japanese literature is expressed in a language reflecting a belief in the superiority of instinct or intuition over logic. ... We call upon [the translator] to transform the uncertain into the certain and pretend they are the same." (52-3) Of course, they are not the same: the differences embedded in the two languages and cultures wi l l not permit them to be. A translator who tries to make them so is, to once again borrow the words of Paul de Man, "lost from the very beginning." And yet, to assert that a translation cannot be the same as the original is not to say that it cannot capture something of what was essential to it, reproduced in complimentary rhythms and images, told from the point of view of a different language. For, as Benjamin Whorf has argued, a language is an embodiment of a particular world view, and any expression in that language is also, to a certain extent, an expression of that world view. -100-But if the translator cannot produce a work that is 'the same, but in English,' then what manner of similarity is she to aim for? Perhaps the ultimate goal of Japanese-English translation should not be thought of so much in terms of similarity as of complementarity. Donald Keene, in response to the "slander" of the familiar Italian expression, 'Traduttore, traditore' (Translator, betrayer), proposes instead "a Japanese pun of [his] own invention, yakusha wa yakusha, or 'translators are actors'...." (329) The translator, in the adopted persona of another, and in the borrowed words of another, yet at the same time filtered and interpreted through her own persona and spoken in her own words, performs, engages the audience in a pretense of similarity that iUurrtinates the original through its difference. Sir Lawrence Olivier and Mel Gibson have produced very different renditions of Hamlet, but, insofar as they follow a common script, they are both equally valid (though not necessarily equally talented or insightful) interpretations. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark is, of course, an imagined original, with no physical, historical antecedent, whereas the original upon which a translation is based does have a concrete existence, and in this respect, the analogy falters. There is no one who can stand up and proclaim, 'Thaf s not Hamlet! I knew him personally, and he never cupped his head in his hands that way!' The translator, unlike the actor, starts from a personal acquaintance with Hamlet, and must script her own performance (capture the central core of meaning and modality in the original that must be carried through in translation) so as to^  highlight his most distinctive features. I have just said 'her performance': can a woman perform Hamlet? Perhaps, just as the onnayaku (female impersonators) of Kabuki are said to embody femininity in a manner that no woman can, a woman performing Hamlet might attend to aspects of his persona that would go - 2 0 1 -unnoticed by a male actor. Such an idea certainly approaches more nearly the irreducible heterogeneity of the translation act. Naoki Sakai writes, "... the representation of translation as a transfer from one language to another is possible only as long as the translator acts as a heterolingual agent and addresses herself from a position of linguistic multiplicity . . . ." (9—italics mine) 'Traduttore, traditore'—Translator, transvestite? The actress is most successful when the audience, knowing they have not seen the actual, corporeal Hamlet, and knowing they were not watching a man, forget that they know these things, and leave the theater imagining that they have just met Hamlet, and understand what kind of a man he was. ' -102-Bibliography Arrowsmith, William. "The Lively Conventions of Translation." The Craft and Context of Translation. Austin: The University of Texas Press, 1961. 122-40. Bakhtin, M . M . "Discourse in the Novel." The Dialogic Imagination. Trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Ed. Michael Holquist. Austin: The University of Texas Press, 1981. 259-422. Bannet, Eve Tavor. "The Scene of Translation: After Jakobsbn, Benjamin, de Man, and Derrida." New Literary History. 24 (1993): 577-95. Bassnett-McGuire, Susan. Translation Studies. New York: Methuen, 1980. Benjamin, Walter. "The Task of the Translator." Illuminations. Trans. 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A Derrida Reader: Between the Blinds. Ed. Peggy Kamuf. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991. Derrida, Jacques. "Des Tours de Babel." Difference in Translation. Trans, and Ed. Joseph F. Graham. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985. 165-207. Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Fenellosa, Ernest. The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry. Ed. Ezra Pound. San Francisco: City Lights, 1983. Fitts, Dudley. Introduction. On Translation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959. 3-10. Fujisawa, Shu. "Uji." Shosetsu Shincho. 52.5 (1995): 62-70. Fulton, Bruce. "Translating Cultural Subtext in Modern Korean Fiction." Translation East and West: A Cross-Cultural Approach. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1992. 129-35. Graham, Joseph F. Introduction. Difference in Translation. Trans, and Ed. Joseph F. Graham. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985. 13-30. » Harris, Roy. "Who Wi l l Translate the Translators? From Homer to Derrida." Encounter. Feb. (1989). 68-73. Hollander, John. "Versions, Interpretations, and Performances." On Translation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959. 205-31. Howard, Richard. " A Professional Translator's Trade Alphabet." The Craft and Context of Translation. Austin: The University of Texas Press, 1961. 164-71. Jakobson, Roman. "On Linguistic Aspects of Translation." On Translation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959. 232-39. Johnson, Barbara. "Taking Fidelity Philosophically." Difference in Translation. Trans, and Ed. Joseph F. Graham. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985. 142-48. Keene, Donald. Introduction. "Translation and Comparative Literature." Translation East and West: A Cross-Cultural Approach. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1992. xiii-xxv. Keene, Donald. Landscapes and Portraits: Appreciations of Japanese Culture. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1971. Lacan, Jacques. "The Symbolic Order." Literary Theory, An Anthology. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Maiden: Blackwell Publishers, 1998. 184-89. Lacan, Jacques. "The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious or Reason Since Freud." Literary Theory, An Anthology. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Maiden: Blackwell Publishers, 1998. 190-205. Levine, Suzanne Jill. "Translation as (Sub) Version: On Translating Infante's Inferno." Rethinking Translation. Ed. Lawrence Venuti. London: Routledge, 1992. 75-85. Lewis, Philip E. "The Measure of Translation Effects." Difference in Translation. Trans, and Ed. Joseph F. Graham. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985. f 31-62. Liu , Lydia H . Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity-China, 1900-1937. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995. Man, Paul de. "Conclusions: Walter Benjamin's 'The Task of the Translator7." The Resistance to Theory. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986. 73-105. Mathews, Jackson. "Third Thoughts on Translating Poetry." On Translation. -105-Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959. 67-77. Matsuoka, Naomi. "Japanese-English Translation and the Stream of Consciousness." Tamkang Review. 19.1,2,3,4 (1988-89): 537-46. Miller, Roy Andrew. Introduction. "Symposium: Translation and Japanese Studies." The Journal of Japanese Studies. 6.1 (1980): 1-14. Miller, Roy Andrew. "Do the Japanese Know How to Tell Time?" Journal of the Association of Teachers of Japanese. 10.1 (1975): 1-19. Miyoshi, Masao. "Translation as Interpretation." The Journal of Asian Studies. 38.2 (1979): 299-302. Mostow, Joshua S. Pictures of the Heart: The Hyakunin Isshu in Word and Image. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1996. Nida, Eugene A . "Principles of Translation as Exemplified by Bible Translating." On Translation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959. 11-31. Niranjana, Tejaswini. Siting Translation: History, Post-Structuralism, and the Colonial Context. 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