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A couple of years ago I was asked by a publisher if I would be interested in producing a volume of verse translations of the poems of Hafez. I was very pleased to be asked, since Hafez (he flourished in the mid-fourteenth century) is pretty universally regarded as the greatest of Persian lyric poets, and to produce versions of his poems seemed a serious challenge worthy of serious effort. I began trying my hand at a few, but rewrite and start over as I might, I consistently came up with generally disappointing results. all the problems I had encountered when trying to translate other medieval Persian poets seemed compounded, and then, as it were, distilled and essentialized, in trying to translate Hafez's ghazals, and my frustration set me to thinking about just what those problems are. This essay is a result of those ruminations.
Two kinds of problems for the translator of a literary text are well-recognized, and these we may call, for convenience's sake: first, the linguistic and second, the cultural; naturally, the two often overlap.
The linguistic problem is the easiest to formulate. We know that exact synonyms do not exist between languages; idioms are even more challenging to the translator and a literal word-for-word translation will often convey virtually nothing of the originally intended meaning. Persian, for example, has some extremely inventive-one might almost call them Gongoristic-ways of cursing or threatening people, and a literal translation will convey very little of their intended force. One such locution means literally, "I will bring your father out," a threat that seems at once mysterious and reassuringly mild in its implications. What it actually means is, "I will give you one hell of a hard time (either because you have already done X, or if you don't in the future do Y)." Various origins for the phrase have been suggested, the most plausible perhaps being that it means "I will give you such a hard time that your father will rise up out of his grave in consternation." Clearly, to translate the phrase-for example, as part of a character's speech in a novel-one can only abandon literal translation altogether and search instead for some threat that carries equivalent force and menace in the target language. Similarly, puns can rarely be translated; only in English can one make Sidney Smith's joke on two housewives yelling at each other from opposite houses: "They will never agree, for they are arguing from different premises." Only in the Romance languages do love and death-l'amore e la morte, l'amour et la mort- seem to be on terms of such ghostly intimacy. Only in Persian will the pun in the medieval poet Mas'ud Sa'd's line "Nalam bedel chu nai man andar hesar-e nain be evocative: the pun is on the word nai, which means a reed, and by extension a reed flute, and also alludes to the name of a fortress used as a prison. Hence the line means "While I am (imprisoned) in nai (the fortress), I complain in my heart like a nai (reed flute)."
Like the use of puns, rhyme too is a device that depends on accidents of sound: that "breath" and "death" rhyme in English can seem somehow cosmically right to the unreflective English poet, but of course words for the concepts they express don't rhyme in other languages. A brief rhymed phrase can sum up a whole ethos and way of life-like the "razm o bazm" (roughly, "battles and banquets," "fighting and feasting") of the epic poet Ferdowsi, for example-and it is virtually certain that no translator will be able to reproduce the meaning as pithily and inclusively by any rhyme in another language. Paucity of rhyme can have its effect, too; because it has more vowel sounds than either Italian or Persian, English is to that extent poor in rhymes compared to either language. How many English would-be lyric poets have cursed the fact that the only rhymes available to them for "love" are the overused "dove" and "above," the irrelevant "glove," the impossible "shove," and the phonetically dubious "of? "Self" and "world," both words that can seem inevitable in lyric verse, present even more intractable problems as rhyme words. Accidents of sound-such as those found in puns and rhymes-are of course particularly important to poetry, many of the effects of which are based on repetitions or variations of sound patterns-and the difficulties of a translator of poetry are thereby increased.
The second obvious problem faced by a translator inheres in those parts of a text which have clear cultural resonance for the original audience and very little or absolutely no resonance for the linguistic community of the target language. An obvious example of this for translators from almost any Persian text from the sixteenth century on is the lore of Shi'i Islam, an intimate knowledge of the main features of which is automatically assumed by most post-fifteenth-century Persian authors, though this is of course a knowledge almost entirely lacking in the linguistic communities of the West. When we turn to Persian poetry such cultural problems can be particularly intrusive. There is the fact that after the thirteenth century virtually all Persian poetry has at least a tinge of Sufism to it, if it is not outrightly mystical in intent, and mysticism is not a subject accorded particular importance by the poetry of the major Western languages. True, Dante is a major Italian poet, but he is remembered more for the terribilità of the Inferno than for the mysticism of the Paradiso, and besides he is an anomaly, a uniquely splendid and solitary figure in Italian literature. The best mystical poet England can boast is probably Crashaw, who by any ranking is a very minor poet indeed. Dr. Johnson said he thought the notion of good religious poetry to be a contradiction in terms. When a reader who has grown up in the tradition of English verse picks up a book of poetry, he does not expect to encounter mysticism or religious dogma; he does not consider either to be the obvious subject for verse in the way that his Persian counterpart does. The language of religious or mystical devotion does not appear to him to be intrinsically poetic, as it does to a Persian reader.
A subdivision of this mystical problem is the set of ideas metaphorically expressed in Persian poetry by wine, drunkenness, the opposition of the rend (approximately "libertine") and the zahed ("ascetic"), and so forth. None of these notions have any force whatsoever in the Western literary tradition. It would never occur to a Western poet to express the forbidden intoxications of mysticism by alluding to the forbidden intoxications of wine, for the simple fact that the intoxications of wine have never (if we exclude the brief and local moment of prohibition in the United States) been forbidden in the West. The whole topos of winebibbing and the flouting of sober outward convention, so dear to Persian Sufi poetry, can seem in earlier translators' work to be little more than a kind of rowdy undergraduate hijinks, and in more recent versions it can take on the ethos of Haight-Ashbury in the late sixties. But in both cases the deeper resonances of the topos are not obvious for a Western audience: they have to be explained-and to explain a resonance is like explaining a joke; when the explanation is over, no one laughs, except out of pained politeness, and no one is moved.
On Not Translating Hafez - by: Davis, Dick
منبع:انجمن ارم