La Narración

A person can’t be a good translator unless she can express the same mood and sentiment of the source language in the target language. José Ortega y Gasset was a Spanish philosopher, writer and translator who lived from the late 19^th through early 20^th centuries. In his work, “Miseria y Esplendor de la Traducción”, he writes about the experience of the art of translation. He comments that,

“...La traducción no es un doble del texto original...por la  sencilla razón de que la traducción no es la obra, sino un camino hacia la obra.”

“Translation isn’t a carbon-copy of the original...for the simple reason that the translation itself is not the work, but a path toward the work.”

He goes on to say,

“Lo decisivo es que, al traducir, procuremos salir de nuestra lengua a las ajenas y no al revés, que es lo que suele hacerse.”

“The imperative thing is that, when translating, we need to leave our language behind to go to the other one and not the reverse, that is what needs to be done.”

So, in order to do a proper translation, one must know more than vocabulary and sentence structure in the target language – one must be able to express the same sentiments, the same feelings, as in the original, but within the expressive capabilities of the target language. How does one get to this level of understanding and knowledge in the target language? Well, if you were raised speaking that language, then those abilities of natural expression are innate.  If, however, you’re  like me: someone who started learning the target language later in life, then it requires years of reading, studying, conversing, interacting—and ultimately reaching a point where you can dream and ponder and be creative in that language. I don’t feel there is a time limit that can be set on this level of learning. We all march to the beat of our own drummer. With dedication, we can all achieve this degree of language proficiency.

I had mentioned in an earlier blog entry that I recently completed an English to Spanish translation class. Part of that class was dedicated to creative essay writing in Spanish. There is no better way to practice and hone expression in Spanish than writing a story documenting a personal experience in Spanish. I wrote this story based on my experiences and observations during a visit to Positano, Italy. Aside from a few grammar mistakes indicated by my professor (whoops! wrong preposition!  preterite vs imperfect!) which have since been corrected, I want to share with you the end result in its entirety. I am proud of it. At the risk of sounding pretentious (but with the hope of the most humble pretension) I consider myself a skillful creative writer in my native English. To be able to express myself in Spanish—not through translation, but through expression of the original sentiment in Spanish—felt quite freeing. I can tell the same story in two languages and from two perspectives. Not the same words, but the same meaning.

Imagine un lugar completamente tallado en la roca. Una ciudad, esculpida de una montaña cerca del borde del mar. Un lugar finito, lo que se experimenta desde la base a niveles superiores. En la base, se camina por la arena de la orilla. Hay un hombre, un pintor, quien trabaja para capturar la escena: el mar, la arena, los visitantes, una fuente antigua que existe ahora solo de decoración. Las tiendas donde se venden baratijas y recuerdos. Por el lado, la boca de una calle con el cuerpo de una serpiente. Apresuradamente, se desliza y se desaparece arriba de la montaña. 

Me encontré aquí un verano. Yo quería ver este lugar secreto, el lugar del que todos hablaban. Fue el último verano de libertad, de juventud. Antes de que todas las cosas se volverían rutinarias. Tuve que escoger. Yo podía ir por la calle, seguir la serpiente misteriosa y luchar por espacio entre turistas y autobuses de turistas. Yo podía escalar las escaleras de piedra, directamente a la montaña. Allí, más sereno, pero más difícil. Pero creo ahora lo que siempre creía:  la vida le recompensa a quien toma el camino menos transitado.  Y por eso, fui yo, arriba de las escaleras.

Los escalones de piedra cortan a través de jardines cultivados en niveles diferentes hacia la cima. Los jardines de verduras, aceitunas, frutos secos y uvas, cultivados por los habitantes allí.  De vez en cuando, entre  respiraciones fuertes, vi a una persona, cubierta con un sombrero de paja, que se ocupaba del jardín. Paré para beber de una botella de agua, mientras él esquilaba las ramas de las plantas, levantó la cosecha y fue a la casa. “Verduras para cenar”, pensé yo. Sequé el sudor de mi frente y continué adelante, cada pisada más pesada que la anterior.

Después de una hora y media, llegué a la cumbre. A la cúspide había un pueblo pintoresco, enteramente hecho de piedra. Yo pasaba por una iglesia, una tienda, un café. Cada hogar, diminuto pero fuerte, rendía homenaje a la Virgen María.   Me paré frente a un hogar. Un letrero decía: “Ristorante”. Tuve hambre y curiosidad. Entré. Seguí a una mujer a una mesa, cerca de una ventana con vista a todo: la montaña, los jardines, la ciudad, el mar. La mujer era la camarera y la hija del cocinero. Ella nació en ese pueblo. Vivía allí. Trabajaba allí. Se había ido para asistir a la universidad, pero regresó. Esa fue la vida que conocía. “Me gustaría espaguetis de aceite y ajo”. Ella desapareció a la cocina con mi pedido.

Mientras me sentaba, a esperar por la cena, pensaba de no solo la camarera en el restaurante, pero todos los ciudadanos de este lugar;  turistas, como yo, llegarían y se irían, pero los habitantes se quedarían. Estables y firmes, como la montaña así. Literalmente, vidas talladas en la roca y piedra. Ellos aprendían a vivir con el mar y el viento. Se ajustaban a su entorno, no al revés.  Pensaba en mi vida, en mi ciudad de origen.  Dondequiera que vaya, estoy llamada a volver a casa. “¿Quiere queso con eso?”, la camarera esperaba la respuesta.  Sacudí mi cabeza y sonreí.

*

Narration translated:

Imagine a place completely carved in stone.  A city, sculpted in a mountain near the edge of the sea.  A place with boundaries, which one experiences from the base level to great heights.  At the bottom, one walks in the sand along the shore.  There is a man, a painter, who works to capture the scene: the sea, the sand, the visitors, an ancient fountain that exists now only for decoration.  The stores were they sell trinkets and souvenirs.  On the side, the mouth of a street with the body of a serpent.  Quickly, it slithers and disappears up the mountainside.

I found myself here one summer.  I wanted to see this secret place, the place that everyone talks about.  It was the final summer of freedom, of youth.  Before all things would become routine.  I had to choose.  I could go by the street, following the mysterious serpent and fight for space between the tourists and the buses of tourists.  I could climb the stone steps, directly up the mountain.  There, more serene, but more difficult.  But I believe now what I always believed: that life rewards he who takes the road less traveled.  And as a result, I went, up the steps.

The stairs of stone cut through  gardens grown at various levels up to the summit. The gardens of vegetables, olives, nuts and grapes, cultivated by the inhabitants there.  Once in a while, between heavy breaths, I saw a person, covered in a straw hat, that busied himself in the garden.  I stopped to drink from a bottle of water, while he dodged the branches of plants, he picked up the harvest and went into the house.  “Vegetables for dinner,” I thought to myself.  I dried the sweat from my forehead and continued forward, each step more heavy than the last.

After an hour and a half, I arrived at the top.  At the summit was a picturesque town, entirely made of stone.  I passed by a church, a store, a café.  Each home, small but strong, paid homage to the Virgin Mary.  I stopped in front of a home.  A sign said, “Restaurant”.  I was hungry and curious.  I entered.  I followed a woman to a table near a window with a view of everything: the mountain, the gardens, the city, the sea.  The woman was the waitress and daughter of the cook.  She was born in that town.  She lived there.  She worked there.  She had left to go to college, but she returned.  That was the life she knew.  “I would like oil and garlic spaghetti.” She disappeared into the kitchen with my order.

While I was seated there, waiting for dinner, I thought not only of the waitress in the restaurant, but of all the inhabitants of that place; tourists, like me, would come and go, but the townspeople would remain.  Stable and firm, just like the mountain.  Literally, lives carved in rock and stone.  They learned to live with the sea and the wind.  They conformed to their environment, and not the reverse.  I thought about my life, my city of origin. Wherever I go, I am called to return home.  “Do you want cheese with that?”,the waitress waited for my response.  I nodded my head and smiled. 

Vernazza, Italy. Courtesy: D. Hromin