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.
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