Edward Seidensticker's philosophy of the translator as a "counterfeiter" makes me think alot. It reminds me of my experience reading Arthur Waley's translation of The Tale of Genji. Waley's version preserves the work's classical Japanese essence, which doesn't read like modern English. Its syntax and cadence feel slightly alien, purposefully evoking a different time and sensibility. I believe this is also the practice of prioritizing replicating the original's atmosphere over creating a text that is effortlessly familiar to the English reader.
Seidensticker's examples from translating Snow Country were fascinating. His decision to omit the specific meaning of "国境" (the provincial border) in the famous opening line seems entirely justified for the sake of the sentence's rhythm in English. As he argues, adding an explanation would have clumsily weighed down the prose. However, I find myself disagree with his other choice in the same passage: adding "The train" as the subject. The original Japanese, "国境の長いトンネルを抜けると雪国であった," masterfully omits the subject, creating an immersive, almost cinematic perspective. The reader experiences the moment from within the train, sharing the protagonist's disembodied, immediate perception of emerging from the tunnel into the snow country. This subjective viewpoint perfectly sets the tone for the protagonist's profound sense of isolation. By specifying "the train," this delicate effect is somewhat diminished. We are suddenly observing the train from the outside, rather than seeing the world through the character's eyes as he is transported into a new emotional landscape.
This article ultimately underscores the immense complexity of the translator's task. It is a constant negotiation between two languages and two literary sensibilities, where every gain in clarity or rhythm risks a loss in ambiguity or mood—the very elements that often constitute a work's deepest beauty.
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