Obituary: Anthea Bell died on October 18th
Anthea Bell, chuyên dịch Kafka, Sebald, mất.
https://www.economist.com/obituary/2018/11/03/obituary-anthea-bell-died-on-october-18th
Through a glass, brightly
Anthea Bell,
doyenne of English literary translators, died on October 18th, aged 82
THE FIERCEST
dispute in the world of literary translation, where knuckles may be bared over
the precise nuance of solitaire or Gestalt, concerns whether the translator
should be visible or not. Anthea Bell, one of the most acclaimed, knew exactly
where she stood. She wished to be glass. The glass, for example, through which
the narrator of W.G. Sebald's "Austerlitz" observed a raccoon in the
artificial dusk of the Nocturama at Antwerp Zoo, "washing the same piece
of apple over and over again, as if it hoped that all this washing, which went
far beyond any reasonable thoroughness, would help it to escape the unreal
world in which it had arrived, so to speak, through no fault of its own."
Or the "window panes covered by frost-flowers" of the little houses
through which Franz Kafka's K. struggled on his way to the Castle,
"pulling his feet out of [the snow) as they kept sinking in again",
hearing the great bell ring "with a lively, cheerful note, although the
sound was painful too, and made his heart quail momentarily as if threatened with
getting what it vaguely desired."
At the desk where she worked in her small house in Cambridge,
she looked out at the garden through two panes. One was modern, perfectly
transparent; the other old, with small distorting flaws. She felt she was the
second, interpreting freely rather than literally. What mattered was to spin
the illusion that the books she translated-chiefly from French and German,
though she had learned Danish, over a single Christmas, for Hans Christian
Andersen's fairy tales-had originally been written, even thought, in English. Her
last act was always to put the original aside and read through in English only.
Readers would be sure to pounce on anything clumsy. At the same time she did
not want to lose the foreign feel of a book entirely, and indeed could not
start until she had found the writer's voice. She was ever aware of that
tension, proceeding obliquely and open-eyed, like the soft-pawed Birman cats
who really ruled her house. One of her favorite projects was E.T.A. Hoffmann's
"The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr" (1819-21), in which Murr's
scribblings on scraps emerged as the work of a true genius, "possessed of
intellect, understanding, and sharp claws".
Wit and melancholy often shared her desk, with several projects
on the go at once. She would try anything except poetry, which she felt should
not be touched unless it was deliberately bad. The wild novellas of Stefan
Zweig, a neglected Austrian writer, or the teenage fantasy of the Inkheart
series, or the cliché-ridden memoirs of Hitler's last secretary, were balanced
by the anarchic fun of the Asterix comics, her main work for years. Invisibly,
as before, she presented the cascading jokes and puns of the indomitable Gaulish
villagers as if they had been minted in English; many readers, to her delight,
supposed they had been. Thus Idefix (Asterix's dog) became Dogmatix,
Assurancetourix (the bard) Cacofonix, and Panoramix (the druid) Getafix-not,
she stressed, because he was on drugs (would she dream of such a thing?) but
because he got a fix on the stars. Two Roman soldiers became Sendervictorius
and Appianglorious; a British-Irish chieftain was O'veroptimistix. She was
determined to "carry across" as many jokes, and learned digs, as she
could. One swordfight, originally in the literary style of Cyrano de Bergerac,
she made Shakespearean, Laertes fighting Hamlet. The cry of one shipwrecked
pirate on a raft, "Je suis médusé!" (an allusion to Gericault's
"Raft of the Medusa", which also meant "I'm dumbstruck"),
became "We've been framed, by Jericho!"
She had never expected to have such fun translating, but then
the whole thing was unplanned. A childhood spent with Loeb classics, those
tempting little red and green volumes of parallel texts, gave her a love of
languages that she took to Oxford, but she swapped all that "like a good
girl", as she said, for a secretarial course when she got married. Her
first translation, which fell to her simply because she had German, was done
with her first baby in a carry-cot beside her. Appropriately it was Otfried
Preussler's "The Little Water Sprite", a children's story, observed
through the window of a house beneath a mill-pond.
Every part of her career pleased her. To work with living
authors was a privilege, especially when they could wrestle English almost as
well as she could. Sebald, "Max" to her, sent back her drafts by post,
eschewing email; she treasured the way his central European melancholy and
wandering sub-clauses touched the scenes of her native East Anglia. Rene
Goscinny, of Asterix, loved her puns round "old fruit" in ''Asterix
in Britain", wishing he had thought them up himself. Rough-drafting,
polishing and tweaking were equally satisfying. She revelled in the
encyclopedic knowledge needed to capture the exact shading of phrases, and
blessed the internet for allowing her to track down, through their Latin names,
obscure plants and birds. There were nice surprises: that Freud, like her, got
such mileage from wordplay (though they were called slips, with him), and that
Kafka was funny. Best of all, she was bringing great authors forward to seduce
new eyes and minds.
Watching at the feast
As the pages
of their works were turned, there was no trace of the translator. After the
title page, she disappeared. And yet she inhabited the works so completely that
she was surely somewhere in the scene. Perhaps she was in Sebald's Salle des pas perdus in Antwerp Central
Station, where "the railway passengers seemed to me somehow miniaturised,
whether by the unusual height of the ceiling or because of the gathering dusk,
and it was this, I suppose, which prompted the passing thought, nonsensical in
itself, that they were the last members of a diminutive race which had perished
or been expelled from its homeland, and that because they alone survived they
wore the same sorrowful expression as the creatures in the zoo." Or
perhaps she was giggling behind the tree where Cacofonix sat gagged and fuming,
at the end of most Asterix adventures, while beer-horns were raised at a great
village feast and wild boar rapturously devoured, in French ("Scrotch! Scrotch!")
or English ("Scrunch!") .•
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