Deutscher & Schleiermacher Readings - Sydnee

 I thought the Deutscher article was an interesting read having read some of Whorf’s writing on the influence of language on people’s realities, and was especially amused to find the note included at the end. My understanding of Whorf’s actual interest and hypothesis leaned toward the ‘weak form’ of linguistic determinism or linguistic relativism, which is more or less what Deutscher supported and gave examples of in his piece. One example I recall from Whorf was from an Native American language in which there were different tenses than English’s past, present, and future, but that was not extended to imply that time was fundamentally experienced in a different way by different groups of people. Rather, it was just the idea that this difference in grammatical structure could indicate something about how people think about time, similarly to the example in our reading about the egocentric versus geographic directions. Speakers of languages that exclusively use geographic directions don’t literally have innate compasses that tell them which way is north, but rather learn and incorporate directions and positioning into their lives in different ways. 

In the Schleiermacher reading, much of the discussion comparing foreignizing and domesticating approaches to translation were useful and overlapped with what we have discussed in class. However, I thought it also seemed to imply that a translation should commit wholly to one approach or the other, and that some mix of the two approaches could not end but in failure and confusion. I’m sure it wasn’t a truly binary statement, but it made me wonder if there is any sort of consensus on that idea among translators. Are there texts that possibly could benefit from partial domestication and partial foreignization? I think so, and assuming that this text is not brand new, it seems to me that readers who are interested in translated literature are more culturally informed than before, especially with the rise in popularity of Japanese culture, for example. The amount of ‘global’ cultural knowledge that the average person has ought to have increased since the internet and such, but I suppose that exposes that I kind of subscribe to the idea that domestication inherently assumes an abysmal amount of prior knowledge, when really it can be a useful approach for many other reasons. 

Deutscher & Schleiermacher Readings --- Sloane

 Schleiermacher's assertion that a good translator must resist smoothing over or normalizing foreign elements was a bit surprising to me. I feel like other voices we've heard from have often suggested that if something comes across as not particularly remarkable in the original language, it should not catch the foreign reader's attention in the translation. This seems to be in contradiction to this advice, if I am interpreting it correctly. I can't say I generally agree with deviating from this tradition, but I suppose that there might be times when what Schleiermacher is positing has its use. For instance, certain literary elements which are commonplace in Japanese but nearly nonexistent in English could be replicated without fully Anglicizing them for the educational purpose of exposing English-speaking readers to said aspects of Japanese literature. 

To connect to the Deutscher reading, I suppose Schleiermacher's principle of keeping the foreignness could be extremely beneficial in the case of translating a story originally written in Guugu Yimithirr in order to introduce a foreign audience to its geographic language system. However, this would only be desirable if such an education is the purpose of your translation. Such a focus on the cardinal directions would be extremely distracting and confusing for readers simply trying to gain knowledge of a historic account or a story that has some other more important central focus (which might be detracted from if the reader gets too caught up in the technicalities of the language). 

All in all, I can't say that Schleiermacher's approach to keeping a sense of foreignness would always work.  Discernment is always necessary when considering the best translation approach. The method you choose should be informed by the languages you are working with, the original style of the writing, and the purpose behind your translation.

Deutscher & Schleiermacher Readings – Aaron

I have heard the theory that languages dictate the way we think a number of times throughout my life, and I have always been extremely skeptical. Language is a way of communicating our thoughts; it is nonsensical to say that our thoughts are a way to inform language. After all, it is nonsensical to say that without language, we would have no thoughts.

Thankfully, I have also heard this theory discredited a few times before, and I am glad that Deutscher discredits it too. Of course, it is not hard to believe that language does have some influence on the way we view the world, and Deutscher shows that this is indeed the case. But I do think it is too simplistic to say that some of these characteristics, such as gendering objects, or viewing the world through absolute cardinal directions versus relative directions, are influenced solely by language itself. I think it is equally valid to say that these habits are simply ingrained in the culture to begin with, and the language simply reflects those traits.

Personally, I think the truth is somewhere in between, that both language and culture are intertwined, and not separate. These traits are as much part of the culture of its speakers as much as it is part of their language, and these traits both reinforce each other and evolve with each other. For example, a speaker of Guugu Yimithirr uses cardinal directions not just because it is enforced by their language, but because it is a part of their culture to do so, and it is reflected in their language. Of course, learning that language is how that way of thinking gets engrained in the speaker's mind.

Perhaps that's a pedantic nuance, but it seems to me significant enough to mention.

Schleiermacher & Deutscher - Dawson

 I actually vaguely remember reading the Deutscher article back in high school.  The analogy of the Guugu Yimithirr seeing the world through cardinal directions has lived with me ever since.  Interestingly, this article really reminds me of what we have been learning in LJ 410 - The History of the Japanese Language.  Most likely, it was first the culture that changed to see the world in this way, for some cultural evolution or practical purpose.  Due to this, the language then slowly followed suit over generations, each change in the language reinforcing that way of thinking as opposed to other ways of thinking, much like a feedback loop.  Of course, that is just conjecture based on what we have learned in LJ410 about language change, and what I learned studying the changes in first person pronoun use in terms of class and gender over time for LJ410.  It really is fascinating though.  It is just as he said - the main difference in the way we see the world from different languages is based in what our language obliges us to think.  Although I do believe that the obligation likely comes first, and then the language change follows, locking in the obligation.  For example, the Japanese language started out almost entirely neutral in both gender and status (we see only fragments of Keigo having developed by the Nara Period, mostly used only for the highest elites and gods), but as Japanese society became more stratified, the language shifted to become more stratified as well, locking in stark differences via politeness and class based dialects.  And as gender roles became more defined, particularly in the Edo Period, gender based differences appeared where they did not exist previously.  Then, these get locked in, and reinforced by the language itself, since now people are obliged to think in that way.  Although, they can always change back.  As we are seeing now, hierarchical based differences died out during and post-Meiji period as the feudal society was abolished, and now even gender based differences are dying out, as equality becomes a societal value.  So our language does shape the way we think about our world, but the reverse is also true.  If we change the way we think about our world, our language follows suit - and this is really quite intuitive when you think about it!

The second reading is such a large burst of knowledge wrapped in hard to read 19th century prose that it is a bit hard to digest it all.  The biggest thing I really latched onto was his notion that trying too hard to make the translation of the foreign language sound natural can 'damage' the native language, and that there are 'bad' and 'good' language changes, and being sloppy can make the 'bad' changes occur.  I suppose he means that by translating these foreign sentence structures and phrasings in certain ways to make them work while not necessarily being fully correct in the native language, these can be absorbed and change the language itself.  This is also something we discussed in LJ 410.  Japanese has changed dramatically in many ways over the past 100 years due to the influence of direct English translations entering the nation.  But I actually strongly disagree with Schleiermacher here, in that this is not a bad thing!  At all!  Language change is natural.  Languages will borrow and change from the influence of other languages.  As any historical linguist will tell you, this is a perfectly natural process that is neither good nor bad, and thus is not something the translator should necessarily concern themselves with. This notion of 'purity' in languages is a foolish, outdated notion, and strongly reflects the fact that he lived and wrote this 200 years ago.  Schleiermacher’s worry makes sense within his nationalist-romantic framework, where language is seen as a cultural treasure requiring protection, but there is a reason that view no longer holds any water in modern linguistics.  There is absolutely no 'pure' or 'correct' form of any language.  And any language can handle these changes, regardless of how 'flexible' the language is, no matter if Schleiermacher claims otherwise.  Languages evolve in complex, advanced ways.  If a language cannot 'handle' a change, then either that change won't be adopted, or the language will adapt in the ways necessary to adopt it.  This was basically the ABC 101s of historical linguistics in that it was the very first thing we learned in LJ 410.  I believe that you can represent the foreignness of the language and of the original author's worldview and themes and imagery and way of thinking without worrying about this.  You can do that and still make it an enjoyable, natural enough sounding read in the native language.  

Once society is open to foreign ideas, like he said, readers will be able to appreciate the foreignness via word choice, sentence structures, and cultural ideas present in the translated text.  There is no additional need to avoid certain sentence structures and word choices and cultural ideas for need of avoiding this 'poisoning' of the original language.  In fact, it seems like he wants his cake and to eat it too, in that he emphasizes very heavily the need to keep this foreignness, yet in the same exact section fearmongers about this 'poisoning!'  I think it's perfectly fine to express some of the foreignness in the way that you structure sentences or paragraphs.  I think many readers will appreciate that, depending on the medium, if they are sufficiently open to foreign ideas to enjoy translations, which Schleiermacher deems necessary for translations to be successful in the first place.  And if that ends up changing the native language, I do not think that is a bad thing, whatsoever.  I would say that the translator does have the right to toy with the native language if it suits the needs of making a better translation that gives a feeling closer to the original - as long as the result remains readable and stylistically acceptable for the medium.  But yes, it is obviously impossible to do this 'perfectly,' and no matter what, especially for people who know the foreign language as a second language, they will tend towards their native language, thus losing nuance.  That is an inevitability.  There are language barriers even between people who speak the same language!  Also, while things involving more culture might be harder to translate, I do not think that immediately equals impossible.  They are absolutely still translatable.  It is just that the resulting translation would require its audience to be very open to foreign ideas, and would inevitably have a lower ceiling of quality (loss of nuance drastically increases) than other pieces of work.  None of this is to say I disagree with Schleiermacher's other points.  He brings up a lot of very valuable theory relevant to translation, and I have to say that I do agree with everything else.  I just very firmly disagree with him on this particular point, and felt compelled to point out how his view on that merely stems from an outdated view of language.  In short, Schleiermacher’s fear of linguistic damage reflects outdated ideas of linguistic purity, whereas modern linguistics sees change as natural. His broader translation theory remains valuable, but this particular concern does not hold up under contemporary linguistic understanding.

I do apologize for writing such a long post...  I got a little carried away...

Dawson Maska

Thoughts on readings - Elaine

Reading Guy Deutscher’s “You Are What You Speak” and Friedrich Schleiermacher’s “On the Different Methods of Translating” made me reflect on how language not only describes the world but quietly builds it. In Deutscher’s essay, I was fascinated by his argument that our mother tongue does not limit what we can think, but rather what we must constantly pay attention to. His examples—like how some Aboriginal languages use cardinal directions instead of left or right—made me realize how language trains perception. It reminded me that speaking a language is not just communication; it is living inside a certain worldview.

Schleiermacher’s essay connected this idea to translation. His distinction between moving the reader toward the writer (foreignization) and the writer toward the reader (domestication) helped me see translation as a form of negotiation between minds shaped by different linguistic habits. I was particularly struck by how Gregory Rabassa’s translation of One Hundred Years of Solitude embodies Schleiermacher’s ideal: he lets English readers feel the rhythm and strangeness of the writer's world instead of smoothing it into something familiar. Reading the two texts together made me see that understanding across languages is always partial, but that partiality is what makes it human. Language both separates and connects us, shaping how we see, translate, and imagine one another.

Schleiermacher & Deutscher - Oscar

I found Schleiermacher's descriptions of his two purported methods of translation - the idea of the translator as a middleman, either pulling the reader closer to the author or placing the author closer to the reader - to be a nice encapsulation of the various concerns, obstacles, and techniques discussed in many readings beforehand. Plenty of agonizing over impossible choices, struggles over the expression of something that simply isn't possible in another language, and even fighting with the reading public over what is considered a valid or accessible translation. However, one thing I hadn't seen as much in our readings was the discussion over personal bias: "not letting himself slip, even unconsciously, into a pertinacious one-sidedness because his inclinations bid him favor one artistic element above all the others!"

Considering this with Deutscher's articles over the influence of language over our personal way of thought, it seems that it might be impossible to ever accurately convey an author's primary image without fraying edges or off-centering - Deutscher's examples of differing gendered views and perceptions of space through geographic vs. egocentric systems tell us that while speakers of these languages are not bereft of other concepts, they are predisposed to consider the world around them in those terms. Therefore, for example, when translating a Spanish text into English, the Spanish speaker would need to go against that inherent method of thought and replace all inanimate object genders with "it" - however, that removes an entire plane of how the author perceives the world, and how that perception affects the work itself. Even if all inanimate objects kept their respective gender markers, would it even be able to convey the same expression experienced by Spanish speakers to English speakers, considering how native English speakers would never have developed those tinted glasses to perceive the world through?

Schleiermacher and Deutscher -- Alex

 Schleiermacher claims there are only two ways of translation: bringing the reader to the author by preserving the "foreignness" of the text at the cost of an "smoothness" in the target language, or bringing the author to the reader by rewriting the text in the target language. He claims the latter option is only suitable for "light" texts, and "real" translation must "reveal the foreign" -- doing the second approach for "serious" texts only undermines the integrity of both languages. 

However, I think the Deutscher article suggests that both approaches have major limitations due to the different structures of languages. He gives an example with Matses, which requires the speaker to specify how the learned the information they are conveying. If someone were translating from Matses to English, it would be easy: the translation would read "I heard that..." or "I saw...", etc. based on the original. Going the other way, however, is hard. If I said "the chicken crossed the road", how would a Matses translator know how I acquired that information? They must know, otherwise they risk misrepresenting information, a.k.a. lying. This isn't a question of bringing who to who or writing in who's voice -- it is a problem of integrity and . If Matses is too "niche" of language, Turkish has the same language structure, therefore the problem is "real". 

Nonetheless, I think Schleiermacher's first approach does do "better" at handling these differences than the second approach because it takes in and "allows" these differences to make the translation unnatural. For example, the way how gendered pronouns shape their descriptors -- a strong bridge VS. a beautiful bridge -- this may sound unnatural in another language, but it makes grammatical sense -- there's nothing "fundamentally wrong", if you will. It's like allowing errors to exist and claiming it's "part of the strategy". However, in situations like the Matses example, perhaps the translator must take some liberty themselves to infer information from the text and make their translation grammatically and integrally correct.

Hibbett Reading – Aaron

In these readings, I love when translators talk about errors in translation that they have made or come across. It makes them look more human in relation to their craft, and helps remind me that it's okay to make mistakes, or not know certain things, in my own translations.

(On that topic, I found his description of his "painful" error quite interesting, about how he didn't understand how a sozu worked, which led him to incorrectly describe this function. I feel that most people today know about this device, even if they don't know what it's called.)

I thought his talk about how he translated the manji symbol to also be quite interesting. It's interesting how sometimes a translator has to concern themself with something that is completely normal in one culture but might approach some problematic lines in another. In this case, however, it makes complete sense. Although making changes in a scenario like this might seem like it's compromising the faithfulness of the original, I would argue that it makes the translation more faithful than a more literal one, since it avoids the negative connotations that the original isn't designed to have in the first place.

HIbbet Reading-Allen

 What I found most interesting was choosing between naturalizing and estrangement when translating Tanizaki’s works. Furthermore, Tanizaki’s books often involve themes of masochism and themes connected to traditional works like Genji Monogatari, which further complicates interpretation. Hibbett debated how to approach translating Tanizaki’s stories and pointed out two paths. One way is to make the translation natural for the intended audience, but this may lose some authenticity from the original. The second way is to try to preserve the strange essence, but it may feel awkward if not translated well. Take, for example, translating The Key—how can one convey the difference between katakana (masculine) and hiragana (feminine)? Personally, I would change the tone of the sentences with more masculine or feminine words, but I liked how the author tries to create a “waspish and wicked undertone.”

Hibbett Reading - Oscar

There's a common saying that goes "Don't get married to your job" - a warning to not get too attached to the work you do in return for payment, for if you invest your entire identity into something that may not always work out in your favor, you'll never be successful. The same saying is present in creative circles ("don't get married to your song/writing etc.), a warning to not obsess over minute details lest the larger work falls to the wayside. 

I think the foremost thing I took away from Hibbett's words was his advice that "finding some affinity with the work that you translate is essential." It seems that in the case of translation one should at least try to become intimate with their work, if not marrying it - he compares it to method acting, finding some kind of connection between yourself and your target to develop a mental attitude that allows for more authentic output. You should be obsessing over minute details, because that is the nature of translation: trying to convey those details across language, choosing between the most appropriate way to do so, or even to omit it. Hibbett seems to say that at the very least, you should enjoy the act itself and the opportunity for immersion that it presents you. If you can get intimate with and enjoy the original text for what it is, translating it just means you get to enjoy it twice over.

Something else of interest to me was the question about "naturalization or assimilation of the text to the target language", especially the 第三の文学 theory. I confess that I also held this view at the start - surely the readers would be aware that this is a translated work, and it's only natural that it would sound stilted or unnatural in English, right? And if so, what's stopping us from doing the most literal, most faithful translation we can, and letting the readers puzzle it out? I'm curious as to what limits everyone else has for something that would be too unnatural/unacceptable to call a 'translation'.

Hibbett Reading - Sydnee

 One of the things I enjoyed in this reading was hearing about Hibbett’s references and connections outside of Japanese and Japanese literature, like the texts he drew inspiration from when translating Kagi. I’m always interested in learning about these behind-the-scenes connections because how they manifest in the final product can be so varied. While I don’t think it’s strictly necessary in order to read something ‘well’ or ‘thoroughly,’ I do wonder that it doesn’t always come up in discussions about literature and translation (but of course, not all writers and translators want to openly discuss it).

Related to that idea, I continue to believe that it is necessary to read diversely even if you have particular interests. Working between two languages is not only about those two cultures, but also the way that each is situated globally and how the rich history of different places can inform a single translation. An example of this from Hibbett was in choosing the English title of Manji. It was essential to understand the name and symbol not only in a Japanese/Buddhist or even broadly Asian context, but to look into as many of its iterations and names as possible to find something appropriate to the work and for the Western audience.

Another discussion I thought water interesting was that of aestheticism and exoticism, and that Tanizaki would come under Western criticism for those things, when as Hibbett states, those are clearly qualities desired by American publishers and consumers. Depending on when this was written and when the criticism was at its peak, I assume it was related to some mistrust of Japan after WWII, which primarily occurred in the military/political realm but cannot be separated from culture and literature, which can also be seen in the politics of the Nobel prize that Hibbett mentions but doesn’t get into too much. 

Thoughts on Readings - Elaine

Howard Hibbett’s reflections on translating Tanizaki Jun’ichirō reveal how translation can itself become an act of authorship. He views language not as a transparent tool but as something physical, textured, rhythmic, and alive. His discussion of rendering The Key and Diary of a Mad Old Man into English shows that translation is not about transferring meaning but recreating sensation: the sound, weight, and hesitation of the original. Hibbett’s belief that “every word has touch” made me think about translation as an aesthetic process that requires sensitivity to rhythm and silence as much as to grammar.

Although I have only read excerpts of Tanizaki’s works, even fragments convey the challenges Hibbett describes. The shifting tones of The Tattooer or Naomi, the delicate restraint in The Makioka Sisters, all reveal a writer whose world depends on nuance and shadow. To translate Tanizaki is to translate mood and atmosphere and make visible what is hidden in darkness.

Through Hibbett’s talk, I came to see translation as a kind of performance that recreates not only words but the emotional pulse behind them. Engaging with Tanizaki, even through partial readings, reminded me that true translation lives in the spaces between light and shade, precision and mystery.

Tanizaki - Alex

I really liked the Q&A section at the end of the speech and seeing how Hibbett deals with the intricacies between Japanese and English. I especially liked the question on Edo fiction and how Hibbett would translate Edo humor into English. Hibbett says that "in Edo I think there is a strong temptation just to explain it in all those footnotes...", which is something I quite understand. Edo humor is something I feel even Japanese people may find difficult to find "funny", which makes it hard to even find a starting point to translate. "How would you translate something that might not even be funny?"

I say this because last semester in Japan I took a class called "Japanese Traditional Art of Humor", where we looked extensively at Edo "humor": Ukiyo-e, comics such as The Monster Takes a Bride , and stories such as Through Bearing an Umbrella, He Was Rained Upon (Saikaku). As the professor discussed these works with us in class, he constantly had to explain why a particular aspect of a work was "funny" to the Edo people. For example, apparently themes of homosexuality (as in the theme in the Saikaku story) was "laughing material" to the Edo people -- this was something even the Japanese students didn't know, and certainly something that did not age well. This suggests to a translator that in addition to the intricacies between the Japanese and English language, there also exists a "time" dimension when translating these Edo works -- a dimension that isn't quite passed on to modern Japan, let alone countries on the other side of the world, 300 years later. 

Perhaps it is true that in these situations, all a translator could do is explain and recreate the original, and ask the reader to convince themselves that this is "funny" "humor" -- just as we had to do in that class. 

Hibbett Reading - Dawson

All roads lead back to Seidensticker.  It's incredible how often he comes up in the readings.  I get the impression that he was likely the most influential Japanese -> English translator of all time.  Anyways, Hibbett mentions how the "Triumvirate" of authors were criticized for "aestheticizing" Japan in their written works.  This made me curious over whether or not that contributed heavily to the Western view of Japan up until recently, as a land of samurai and geisha.  I looked into it, and it seems like they were at least partially responsible for it.  But it mostly came to that view about Japan being what sold in the West at the time.  So of course, if people only buy and consume things that give that impression, then that is the impression they will hold.

I did notice that Hibbett was the second source we've read that has mentioned the contrast of the light and dark of kanji and kana characters -- I believe the first was the Seidensticker speech.  I find that especially interesting, as I've never noticed it myself when reading Japanese.  Is it really used as a literary technique?  Maybe I just don't have enough exposure to it to recognize it in action?  Or perhaps, further still, do modern writers not utilize it in the same way the writers of their age did?  I was actually really curious, so I did some research, and it seems my last guess was correct.  When Japanese was physically written, the flow of kanji and kana characters played a very important role in determining the visual rhythm of the text, which is what Seidensticker and Hibbett noticed.  But nowadays, with everything being typed and printed with modern printing technology, you don't get that same effect to anywhere near the same degree, and as such, both authors and readers don't pay much attention to it anymore.  

I think it's also very funny that Futabatei Shimei was mentioned in this reading, as we were *just* talking in LJ410, History of the Japanese Language, about how he helped revolutionize written Japanese by converging it with the spoken form via his translation of the Russian work this piece mentions.

Finally, I quite sympathize with the translation conundrum he brought up.  It remains such a fine line between making the text natural sounding in English vs. over translating and losing the original nuance.  But going too far in the other direction is equally as bad, if not worse.  There is a fine line in the middle you must walk in order to stay true to the author's original intentions while at the same time creating an enjoyable experience for the reader.

Dawson Maska

Howard Hibbett Reading on Tanizaki -- Sloane

 Though it wasn't the focus of Hibbett's remarks, the section at the end during the Q&A when an audience member asked about how to translate humor made me pause. His reply was that one possibility is explaining the joke in a footnote at the back of the book, just leaving it in its literal wording, I suppose. But he stressed the importance of understanding that because humor is often so language-reliant in order for the punchline to work, we should accept that some bodies of work which are littered with puns will lose at least some of their substance when we try to translate them. 

I found it kind of funny that a good portion of his answer seemed to center around strategically avoiding the need to translate comedy by picking texts with more universal humor (although I see his point). This made me think back on all the shows/movies in other languages that I've watched with English subtitles, because in this format you can neither provide footnotes nor cut out the humorous scene entirely (at least, if people are visibly laughing on screen). Translators have to address the issue of humor head-on in this case. Sometimes what ends up happening is the joke is literally translated, even if it completely falls flat in English. I can at least tell it's a joke from context, but as a member of the audience I greatly prefer when the translator attempts to substitute a joke that does make sense. I guess this might not always be possible, but I feel like there is usually some preferable alternative to just leaving the audience in confusion.

I think that while translating humor in a book is difficult, it is much easier than translating a film in this regard! You have the ability to re-write, rearrange text, and add your own details in if you wish to alter a joke so that it makes sense. This is why I somewhat disagree with Hibbett's advice about using a footnote. I'm sure there are times where it's necessary, but I don't know if it should be the go-to solution.

Howard Hibbett on Tanizaki Jun'ichirō - Danielle

I have never read any Tanizaki before, but the article painted an interesting image of him in my head. The article said that Tanizaki "remarked that he didn't really like Genji at all, but he meant the novel's hero, the character Genji. He liked the women in Genji, and he translated with them in mind." Anyone who has read the tale of Genji should certainly be able to understand why Tanizaki like the novel but not the character. In LJ250, as we discuss the Genji, most people have quite a bit to say about his promiscuous and manipulative behavior; however, as Tanizaki said, the real stars of the Genji are the women, not Genji himself. Tanizaki gained a point in my book for focusing his translation around the women in the Genji. 

Aside from his Tanizaki commentary, Hibbett also makes quite a few notable claims. One thing he says, almost as a throw away comment, that stood out to me was, "I always mention the author when I talk about such a work. I don't know why I am so sensitive on that point." This class has made it especially clear how hard translators work to produce a translation that lives up to the original work.  Hibbett claims not to understand his sensitivity but I find it perfectly understandable. Especially after seeing those book in class the other day with absolutely zero attribution to the translator, I find that it would be an extreme disservice to leave the translator out of the picture seeing as how it was their creativity and hard work that brought the story to life in a whole different language. Without the translator we wouldn't be reading the translated book with an author to credit anyway. 

I also wanted to bring up Hibbett's belief that "as a general rule, you should translate into your native language." I am curious to know what other people think about this belief. From my limited experience I of course think it is easier to translate in to one's native language, but I also feel that the reverse could be true for someone emerged enough in their non-native language. Is this a common opinion? Does anyone else believe it best to translate this way. Further, how do people feel about translating between two languages neither of which are your native language? 

Tanizaki Reading - Marcus

The accusation that Mishima, Tanizaki, and Kawabata “aestheticized” Japan as a land of geisha and beautiful landscapes feels rather absurd to me. These writers were simply creating literature to express their inner worlds and artistic visions. If they had to constantly worry about political implications or how foreigners might perceive Japan through their work, it would place an unhealthy constraint on future authors as well.

That said, as Hibbett briefly implies, translators and publishers inevitably carry this political burden — something I had never considered before, but which makes complete sense. Most foreign readers can only access Japanese literature through translation, meaning their image of Japan is shaped by what gets selected and how it is rendered. Still, I also think it’s unreasonable for foreign readers to let literature define their entire perception of Japan.

That said, as someone who once imagined the United States as a clean, glamorous place—an image formed mostly from watching Hollywood films—I also understand how media, let it be films, literary works, or news can shape one's perception of foreign countries (which they cannot easily travel to).
So, it brings me back to Hibbett's and my point: translators and publishers hold real responsibility, as they mediate not just words, but entire cultural imaginations.

Marcus

Thoughts on Readings - Elaine

 Both approach the relationship between design and storytelling from different angles but converge on the same idea that the book is not merely a vessel for text but a physical extension of the narrative itself. Kidd speaks with the intimacy of a craftsman who believes that design is a form of authorship. Whether the stark fossil silhouette of Jurassic Park or the layered translucence of 1Q84, his covers translate a story’s mood into shape, texture, and rhythm. Bosman, observing from the publishing world, reveals how this artistry has become a survival instinct in the digital age. The examples of Murakami’s vellum jacket, Jay-Z’s metallic Decoded, the deckled edges of The Iliad show that publishers are now treating beauty as strategy, making the physical book desirable through craftsmanship and sensory appeal.

 After reading these pieces, I became deeply interested in the visual language of book design and found an article on Haruki Murakami’s book covers, which offered a fascinating expansion of what Kidd and Bosman describe. It traced the evolution of Murakami’s visual identity from John Gall’s Pop Art-inspired paperbacks to Kidd’s sculptural, illusion-driven hardcovers. Gall’s collages of faded Japanese photographs and bright Western colors evoke Murakami’s blend of nostalgia and surrealism, while Kidd’s translucent overlays and textured surfaces perform the author’s parallel realities through material form. Reading this made me realize that cover design, much like translation, is a form of interpretation and an art of transforming tone, atmosphere, and rhythm into something the reader can see and touch before even turning the first page.

Cover Design - Alex

 They say "never judge a book by its cover", but that's assuming you already have a copy in your hands and ready to read. If you're in a library or bookstore looking for books, then the cover is the first thing you see and may make or break the deal: as the NYT article says, if the cover is interesting then you might pick it up and give it a read; if not then you might just walk away. No one has time to read every single book ever, therefore a good cover is essential to gaining readers' attention.

Kidd gave a lot of examples in his talk regarding designing covers. My favorite was the design for Naked, where the dust jacket was made nearly the height of the book and had the image of a pair of shorts. When you take the jacket off, it's like taking the shorts off and revealing something more naked than the naked body -- an x-ray of the groin area. I haven't read the book, so I don't know if this has any meaning in regard to the contents, but this clever cover design and its clear relation with the title is enough to spark my interests and give it a read. 

This kind of hands-on interaction is also something you wouldn't get with an e-book. I've tried reading e-books before, and I always found it hard to focus while using a kindle, etc. Perhaps that feeling of holding a book in your hands and flipping the pages is really that important. These creative covers offer something that e-books cannot: you cannot "take someone's pants off" with an e-book, nor can you appreciate the clever double-image translucent design done Murakami's 1Q84, and I think this creativity will continue to keep paperback books alive. 

The Art of Book Covers - Danielle

For most of my life I have seen a decline in physical books and an increase in e-reading. Both forms of reading have their benefits, and reading on an e-reader is usually more convenient than carrying around a physical book. Despite this, people like Chip Kidd have helped keep physical books on the shelves and make them more appealing to consumers. As Kidd demonstrated with his cover design for Haruki Murakami's 1Q84, a good deal of a book's artistic appeal is lost on an e-reader. Only physical books can have 3D effects, multi-layer covers, or other such designs which add to a physical books appeal. I agree with Kidd on the idea that a cover designer works much like a translator, as both must consider how to best appeal to both the audience and the publisher while staying true to the author's intent. Now as people have started to lean more towards e-readers and online translators it has become especially important to make physical books worth buying. 

In Julie Bosman's "Selling Books by Their Gilded Covers" I noticed that publishers seem especially hard to please. As has been discussed in class and in a few other readings, publisher's get the final say on how the book is presented regardless of the translator's -- or in this case the cover designer's -- input. It can sometimes be just as, if not more, difficult to please a publisher than it is to appeal to a foreign audience or e-reader loyalist. Based on what we have read and discussed so far, it seems like the publisher is the biggest hurdle to get over for any creative contributor, from the author to the translator to the cover artist. 

Book Covers – Aaron

Personally, I strongly agree with the idea that in the current day, the artistic presentation of a physical copy of a book is important. In an age where reading no longer has to be digital, reading a physical copy is no longer simply about reading but about the physical copy itself. I am personally attracted to a beautifully-designed book, and it gives me a desire to own physical copies.

I liked Kidd's analogy comparing book covers to a "haiku" summarizing the story. The cover itself should be a reflection of the book's contents. In general, a book should be designed in a way that is physically appealing and also relevant to its contents.

This reminds me of last week's readings in which we were presented with some changes that overseas editors made to Japanese book's covers. I disagree with those editors' decisions to change some of the designs drastically, not because making book covers appealing is a bad thing, but because I don't agree with their arguments that overseas audiences have significantly different interests than the native audiences. The original book cover is designed to highlight the themes of the book; if editors feel that a translated book will appeal to international audiences, they should also assume that the themes highlighted by the cover should stay the same.

That being said, I'm still fine with editors changing book covers for other audiences, so long as the new cover still highlights the themes of the book. It's the ones that appeal to misleading expectations that I have a problem with.

Book Design - Evan

Book covers play the same role as movie titles, trailers, catch-phrases, thumbnails, and any brief introduction to a much larger story. A good book cover can entice a reader to either buy or read a book, but a great book cover can do all of that while still portraying an enticing, accurate glimpse of the story yet to unfold.

Sometimes, I look at a book cover and I get interested... so I search the book online to read for free. Sometimes, I am interested enough to buy the book flat out. I think these are the two key functions of a book cover: to convince the audience to read the book, and to convince the audience to buy the book. Oftentimes, these go hand in hand, but just as often, these goals can be accomplished disjoint of each other. 

I believe both to be a form of captivation and art, but I don't see how these connect to translation, except for an abstract version of translation called art. Translation emphasizes both accuracy AND expression, whereas book covers lean further into expression, and can afford to lose or not include details of the story, since readers will read the story themselves if they choose to.

The Decline of Physical Books and the Rise of Pretty Covers – Cheryl

As someone who has physical books stashed all over the world but who has also been coaxed into using an eReader for its cost-efficiency (if you were someone who read 20-30 books a year and had to buy every one at $20+ this could stack up quickly) and convenience (it's hard to move with boxes and boxes full of books worth their weight in postage prices), I wonder how book designers might embrace rather than resist the move to digital books. 

I fully understand the appeal of a book as a physical object: I thought it was ingenious the way Chip Kidd's designs played with the 3-dimensionality of a physical object to not only catch the eye but also capture the essence of the stories the books contain. I'm the last person in the world who would champion a complete move from brick and mortar bookshops to the cold impersonal un-tactile realm of the internet, but it seems like these book cover designers largely see the move to digital as a threat and I wonder if there's more they could be doing to bring these ideas and interactivity to digital books since even when I'm picking out books to read on Libby, I'm still most certainly judging them by their little thumbnail covers. 

Meanwhile, I'm selfishly pleased that current readership trends point to compulsive book-buyers like me having more beautiful objects to line our shelves with. One motivation that pushes me towards digital is actually the environmental consideration of mass-produced hard-copy books: is it responsible to be churning them out year-upon-year just because they boast a better profit margin for publishers when the same text could be read much more sustainably digitally? Having physical books that are more expensive but also more durable would justify their production—to my conscience anyway—and could be a way for them to continue to exist as a collectible/relic of the past even as physical books seem to be moving towards obsoletion.

(I've also just realised these two pieces were published over 10 years ago now—I wonder what the situation is like right now?)

Book Design - Dawson

First of all, I just wanted to comment on the fact that the video and article both feel like true creatures of the early 2010's.  It was the peak of the e-book craze, where many feared physical books were on the brink of extinction.  It's no wonder publishers would be more set than ever on creating something special with their cover art in order to offer an experience that digital publishers cannot.  I think they both offer a fascinating perspective on it that I had never really considered before.  You never think about how much goes into designing a book's cover and design like that, and how hard they work to translate the author's intent through to the imagery of the cover.  And those are definitely the books you want to buy physical copies of.  For example, there's this horror novel "House of Leaves" that not only uses the same principles in its cover design, but it tells the story through the page design and formatting of every single one of its pages.  A truly unique experience that can only be had with a physical copy of the book.  

I really agree with his point that it is like translation.  The only difference is the medium of translation.  Rather than translation between languages, it is translating the language of the text to imagery.  That's a really fascinating perspective.  While publishers often make these decisions for marketability, it’s still an art form, as he said.  I don't know if this is the same for everyone, but when I am reading a physical book, the cover lays in the back of my mind the entire time.  Everything else happens in the context of the cover.  A good cover amplifies the reading experience.  It deepens your understanding of and connection with the story as you begin to realize why it was designed that way.  A bad cover might not necessarily make the experience worse, per se, but a good cover will enhance it.  The cover really conveys the author's intent.  As translators, we have to do the same thing with our translations.  We have to ensure that our writing conveys the author’s intent through language, just as a good cover conveys it through imagery.

Dawson Maska

Thoughts on Book Design - Allen

 In the article by Bosman, the author discusses the growing e-book market offered by providers like Amazon compared to physical stores. From my experience, I  rarely buy books from physical shelves because it is more costly and inconvenient compared to online options. However, the times I do purchase a book in a physical store are usually when I find a book’s cover or visual design appearing. I get the feeling that I want to bring it home. It’s hard not to judge a book by its cover, but that is hard to do because we are naturally drawn to visuals. At least, that is the case with me. 

In the Ted Talk about Chip Kidd, he goes in depth about what makes a book cover appealing. Regarding the Jurassic Park book cover, personally, I didn’t find the design to be outstanding, but maybe it is appealing to the general audience. However, the 1Q84 design I thought was quite unique. The contrast between the strange title “1Q84” and the melancholic expression of the character does make me wonder what the book is about. 

Book Design - Marcus

 After watching the TEDx video on the art of book design and reading Julie Bosman’s “Selling Books by Their Gilded Covers,” I got intrigued with how both highlighted that book design is more than decoration, and in fact it is an art of translation. Designers interpret a book’s themes and emotions visually, helping readers feel the story even before they start reading. In the TEDx talk, one example that stayed with me was the memoir Dry, about a recovering alcoholic. Its typography resembled soaked ink, visually echoing the author’s denial and emotional turbulence - a design/style choice and a creative way of story telling only through cover design. That idea of translating meaning through design reminded me of Bosman’s point that publishers are now reimagining print books as beautiful, collectible objects to keep them meaningful in the age of e-books.

While digital formats like Kindle offer convenience, I agree that they lose the sensory and emotional depth that comes with holding a physical book. Personally, I’ve found that reading in hardcover makes the experience much more immersive. When I read Murakami’s 1Q84, in Japanese, it didn’t have the same cover design Bosman mentioned, but the weight, texture, and physical presence of the book still amplified the surreal and layered atmosphere of the story. A novel as strange and dreamlike as 1Q84 almost demands to be read in physical form (may be a hot take), where the act of opening up the book and turning each page feels like part of entering its parallel world.

Book Design Thoughts - Lane

The vast majority of readers indeed judge books by their covers, and perhaps there has to be some kind of psychological aspect to eye-catching design. I certainly like to think of myself as utilitarian (or maybe I'm just stingy) in that I tend to always read summaries and the first few pages of a book before I buy it, but I do admit that I have sometimes passed over a book or investigated it further because of its cover design. So I cannot entirely absolve myself of the sin of, literally, judging books by their covers. On the topic of buying and owning books physically, I tend to buy physical books mostly when I have read and enjoyed them and want to have the privilege of thumbing through them, or when there is no digital version available. And even then, unless I have no other option, I always buy paperbacks (usually used--I'm definitely just stingy). I do think that the push to make physical books as attractive as possible is contributing to their increase in price--why am I paying $20 for a paperback?--so I don't feel entirely convinced. I love beautiful things, and I love physical books, but I don't think the physical appearance of a book needs to knock the wind out of me for me to be interested in it. 

It does make me consider aspects of the publishing industry that stand contrary to my views, as I have been doing lately in my translation work. I don't mind footnotes; publishers mind them plenty. I don't need an over-the-top cover that risks misrepresenting the contents inside; publishers do. It calls to mind (aptly) the discussion of Grotesque last week. To catch the eye of the American reader, the publisher went with a cover that potentially misrepresents the contents of the book; it is not contemplative, and it plays into the very forces that the main character struggles against by emphasizing the face of a beautiful woman. Ultimately, this was done for profit--a cover that appeals to a large reader base brings in the dough.