-
Letteratura
- David
Gibbons
-
- GAINED
IN THE TRANSLATION?
- THE
INFERNO OF DANTE ALIGHIERI BY CIARAN
CARSON
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- One major issue in the now
largely neglected discipline of stylistics is how to
define individual style. The difficulties encountered
in so doing derive partly from the nature of
definition itself, which requires limits to be imposed
artificially on phenomena whose boundaries are at best
often fuzzy. More specifically in this case, however,
the problems arise from the fact that there is no
suitable opposing category against which to measure
style. If to have style is to be "thus, and not
otherwise", what exactly is "otherwise"? This nebulous
non-entity was at one stage referred to as
"non-style", and later, under structuralism, as
"rhetoric degree zero", but such labels fail to
disguise the fact that it is an idealized concept,
existing only in impure form1.
- Another issue which has
proved just as crucial to the more recent and
fashionable discipline of translation studies is that
of loss, i.e. whatever it is that so mysteriously
disappears when a text is translated from one language
to another. Often this similarly nebulous category has
been equated with some form of style, and the
relationship between the two has received thorough
treatment recently from Tim Parks, in his aptly-titled
Translating Style (Parks: 1997). Parks' thesis,
stated simply, is that the translating process has as
much to tell us about the style of the original as it
does about that of the new version; the kind of
conservative literary language which invariably
characterizes translations can, he suggests, function
as a useful example of "non-style" or "rhetoric degree
zero", against which to evaluate the peculiarities
and/or felicities of the source text2.
- It is not hard to see how
such a thesis could be applied to translations of
Dante's Commedia. The sacro poema
contains a series of features whose absence from, and
in some cases presence in, foreign-language versions
could easily yield further insights into the style of
the original. Some of these are quite straightforward,
such as dittologie sinonimiche, periphrases or
consecutive clauses. These are often included in the
Commedia as a result of the rhyme scheme that
Dante adopts, and their semantic import may hence be
relatively less than some literal translations, which
do not attempt to reproduce the same metrical pattern
but maintain these features on the grounds of fidelity
nonetheless, would seem to suggest. Other features are
more complex, such as the extreme lexical variety
within individual semantic categories that Dante
employs, offset by an equal and constant tendency to
repetition through a range of duplicative structures
(Gibbons: 2002, 58-98; cf. Kundera: 1988, 191-193,
201-202). Both these trends could emerge more clearly
if the various attempts to render them into other
languages were duly studied.
- Ciaran Carson's recent
translation of the Inferno is largely motivated
by considerations of style3.
It is his dissatisfaction with existing translations'
failure to capture the vitality of Dante's language,
and the breadth, or perhaps depth, of his stylistic
range, that seems to have inspired him to add yet
another version to what is already, as reviewers often
point out (Glover: 2002; B. Reynolds: 2000, 469), a
saturated market ("Introduction", xix):
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- When I came to
translate the Inferno, I found it sometimes
difficult to unravel even the English prose of a
"literal" translation; and I began to discover that
some "literal" translations did not agree in some
important aspects of interpretation. And many
translations seemed to forget that Dante wrote
vernacular. "Dante, small gutter-snipe, or small
boy hearing the talk in his father's kitchen", says
Ezra Pound.
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- The translations Carson
complains of here are "foreignizing", according to
Venuti's definition, in that in attempting to capture
the otherness of Dante, they produce an English which
is at times stilted to the point of incoherence
(Venuti: 1999). However, in another sense they are
also "domesticating" translations, for they paper over
the stylistic diversity of the source text in favour
of the kind of conservative literary
koiné that Parks was
bemoaning.
- Carson's response to this
impasse is a translational "third way": to seek
to recover the lost elements of the Dantean text by
using a native Irish poetic tradition, the oral
narrative ballad, as his model. In other words, what
looks like a stylistically motivated strategy soon
comes to have implications reaching far beyond the
narrowly formalist. In this instance the dimensions
thus encompassed are both social and political:
social, in that the model Carson adopts is popular, as
opposed to learned; political, in that the choice of a
native Irish, as opposed to English, fluency strategy
marks his Inferno out from the standard domesticating
approach described by Venuti, acquiring for it the
kind of resistance value seen in what are sometimes
referred to as "cannibalistic" approaches to
translation (France: 2000a, 10; Bassnett:
2001).
- To begin with the social
implications, there is certainly justification for the
model Carson selects to guide him in his translation.
It was to the epic tradition that Dante turned when he
began composing the Commedia, doubtless
inspired by his readings of Virgil, Ovid, Lucan and
Statius, and the origins of this tradition were quite
possibly popular, irrespective of how literary it was
by the time Dante began to work within it. Other
popular traditions also informed the writing of the
poem (Morgan: 1990), and such concerns continued to
vie with more learned pursuits in Dante's imagination,
as the metaphorical references to both throughout the
poem indicate (Gibbons: 2002, 40, 55). The
Commedia has also inspired its own tradition of
popular responses, ranging from public recitals by
cantastorie to dialectal translations by poets
of the calibre of Carlo Porta (Jones: 2000). Indeed,
despite Carson's apparent distrust of scholarly
approaches to Dante4,
recent scholarship seems, curiously enough, to confirm
the legitimacy of the model he has chosen. The current
critical bias in Dante studies seems to be towards
revising our understanding of the poet's intellectual
history away from the ivory tower, in favour of
something more consonant with his actual material
living conditions. One of the results of this trend
has been a new emphasis on scatological and obscene
elements in the Inferno (Baranski:
forthcoming), elements which, as one reviewer at least
has pointed out (Thomson: 2002), Carson's translation
also endeavours to restore in good
measure.
- There are grounds to suggest,
then, that if Carson's choice of model is not
absolutely precise, as indeed it never could be, it is
nonetheless felicitous, at least in terms of the
social implications it raises. The political dimension
of Carson's strategy is perhaps even more significant,
for this is not simply a case of transposing a text
tel quel into a different cultural setting, if
indeed such a process ever were simple. On this
occasion the very notion of a target language is
complicated by the Anglo-Irish dialectic at work
within it, and the political implications of such
antagonism are not hard to surmise5.
Within the terms of Michael Cronin's distinctions,
Carson's Inferno would be an example of the
third type of recent Irish translational practice
whereby the Ango-Irish conflict is addressed
indirectly (Cronin 1996: 181), in this case via the
vehicle of language. As Carson himself says
("Introduction", p. xx):
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- Translating
ostensibly from the Italian, Tuscan or Florentine,
I found myself translating as much from English, or
various Englishes. Translation became a form of
reading, a way of making the poetry of Dante
intelligible to myself. An exercise in
comprehension: "Now tell the story in your own
words". What are my own words? I found myself
pondering the curious and delightful grammar of
English, and was reminded that I spoke Irish (with
its different, curious and delightful grammar)
before I spoke English.
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- This situation is similar to
the sense of loss felt by many English-speaking
natives of Northern Ireland which Seamus Heaney
describes in the introduction to his translation of
Beowulf6.
But just as the linguistic histories of the two
poet-translators are different, Heaney having been
brought up in and through English, Carson in and
through Irish, so too are their responses to the
situation. Whereas Heaney yearns for and strives after
a kind of linguistic unity7,
limiting the Irish element in his translation of the
Anglo-Saxon epic to the insertion of individual
lexical items such as "thole", "graith", "hoked", and
"bawn", Carson brings about a dispersion or
dissemination of language, which nuances rather than
attempts to solve the linguistic, and presumably also
political, conflict he witnesses. Carson's poetry, in
the Inferno and elsewhere, contains, in
addition to the Irish influence, elements of Latin
(especially ecclesiastical), French, occasional items
of Scots or Yorkshire dialect, and even Italian,
although as Matthew Reynolds points out, the Italian
words Carson employs in the Inferno are
generally not present in the original, and can work to
create a sense of distance where source and target
might in theory be closest (M. Reynolds: 2003). Here
again, Carson's approach is justified in the sense
that Dante too was highly eclectic in his choice of
vocabulary, having in particular a predilection for
Latinisms and Gallicisms (Gibbons: 2002, 68-9). Carson
is one of the few English-speaking poets who could
attempt to emulate what Contini described as the
expressive violence of Dante, and his translation
effectively reminds the reader that, in language as in
politics, there is no easy unity, just a more or less
peaceful co-existence between competing aims and
claims (Contini: 1970, 172).
- One area in which this is
especially apparent is that of rhyme. While Carson
does not match Dante's terza rima with absolute
precision, inter alia in the sense that he
often employs rhymes that are imperfect, his Irish
ballad model does make ample provision for the kind of
rhyming effect that he finds in the poetry of Dante
("Introduction", xx):
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- When I began
looking into the Inferno, it occurred to me
that the measures and assonances of the
Hiberno-English ballad might provide a model for
translation. It would allow for sometimes
extravagant alliteration, for periphrasis and
inversion to accommodate the rhyme, and for
occasional assonance instead of rhyme; it could
accommodate rapid shifts of register. So I tried to
write a terza rima crossed with
ballad.
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- A strategy such as this gives
much greater emphasis to the Irish question than does
Heaney's approach in Beowulf. Indeed, the issue
of rhyme and what to do with it involves Carson,
perhaps unwittingly, in a debate in Dante studes that
has occasionally assumed nationalistic overtones.
Take, for example, the following comments by a native
of Carson's Belfast, C. S. Lewis (Lewis: 1966,
80):
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- It is true that
Italian is a language rich in rhymes and Italian
poets are less likely than English to be driven to
an otherwise unsuitable word for the sake of its
sound. It is true that facility in rhyming, far
from requiring the genius of Dante, is something
which mere practice must infallibly bestow on
anyone whatever who has made as many rhyming verses
as Dante had before he wrote the
Paradiso.
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- Of the same opinion was
Barbara Reynolds, at least until her involvement with
Dorothy L. Sayers in the translation of the
Commedia for Penguin Classics, which seems to
have occasioned in her some sort of conversion and led
her to correct the supposed pre-eminence of Italian
over English in the area of rhyme (B. Reynolds: 1987,
131):
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- It is often said
that English is a language poor in rhyme compared
to Italian. Consequently it is held that any
attempt to translate terza rima into triple
rhyme or ottava rima into rhymed octaves
must end in failure. But what English lacks is not
rhyming words but pure vowel sounds. It is
remarkably rich in diphthongs, which produce
perfectly legitimate impure rhymes, of a far
greater range and variety than Italian can command.
Dorothy L. Sayers pointed this out in the
introduction to her translation of Inferno,
but so powerful is the voice of received wisdom
which echoes down the centuries that the myth is
perpetrated. I am guilty myself of having added to
it, unthinkingly, in a foreword to my translation
of La vita nuova, where I said, "English is
less rich in rhyme than Italian". I was hiding
behind a time-honoured excuse for not having done
better. When I came to translate Ariosto, I was
obliged to eat my words and I ate them with
relish.
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- For the native of Albion the
idea that Italian could be superior to her own
language even in this one limited respect is clearly
unbearable, and in the article as a whole Reynolds
seems bent on vindicating the apparently threatened
status of her own tongue8.
Carson's decision to adopt the Hiberno-English model
for his translation puts an end to such bilateral
Anglo-Italian thinking by adding another element into
the equation, and his polyglot approach complicates
yet further the Anglo-Irish opposition which his
translation appears to address. But what effect does
all this have in practical terms?
- At a very simple level,
Carson's strategy can lead to a preference for certain
structures in the emphatic rhyme position, sometimes
engineered by marked enjambments, use of genitive
constructions, or inversions in normal patterns of
word order. One such structure involves the use of
latinate terms and phrases, as the following examples
make clear: "He rules as supreme Potentate" (I. 126);
"he took me by a road of aliquot" (IV. 149); "had been
seized by death's protectorate" (III. 57); "when comes
the Potentate" (VI. 95); "despicable expatriates | of
Heaven!" (VIII. 91-2); "of the deepest dye inveterate"
(XII. 106). Such uses of language disturb normal
rhythms and patterns, as the following comments by
Matthew Reynolds with regard to a comparable instance,
Virgil's exclamation "This egomaniac | is Nimrod, who
built Babel: he's the cause | of all our tribulations
linguistic" (XXXI. 76-8), suggest (M. Reynolds: 2003,
online):
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- Apart from the
two last words, this speech is straightforwardly
idiomatic, an instance of the kind of translation
that pretends to repair the effects of Babel by
conjuring out of the foreign text a recognizable
English voice. But what of "tribulations
linguistic"? Who would ever say that? The illusion
of easy communication disintegrates, the curse of
Babel reasserts itself. English collapses into
translationese. As often in the translation, the
failing here is orchestrated so as to exemplify the
difficulties to which Virgil refers. Carson does
not attempt to overcome our tribulations
linguistic, but works imaginatively within
them.
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- Reynolds' comments here can
again be extended to encompass a more political
dimension, given the fact that prescriptive accounts
of how to write English since at least Fowler have
openly decried the use of latinate terms (France:
2000a, 9). Romance phraseology clearly has greater
dignity for Carson, as the following lines from his
earlier poem "Second Language" illustrate:
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- The dim bronze
noise of midnight-noon and Angelus then
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boomed and clinked in Latin
- Conjugations;
statues wore their shrouds of amaranth; the
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thurible clined out its smoky
patina.
- I inhaled
amo, amas, amat in quids of pros and
versus and
-
Introibos
- Ad altare
Dei; incomprehensibly to others, spoke in
Irish. I
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slept through the Introit.
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- This same dignity is
attributed to the French terms Carson uses, such as
pavé (XII. 7), flambés
(XIX. 26), seigneurs (XXIII. 55),
voyageurs (VIII. 18), entrée
(XXXII. 134), frisson (XXVII. 121),
enfilade (XXIII. 13), touché
(XXII. 56) and passe-partout (XXI. 90). The
fact that Carson places such terms in and around the
rhyme position, and alters normal patterns of syntax
and usage to accommodate them, highlights their
centrality for him as for Dante. However, in Carson's
case it also serves to push back the English imperial
drive for linguistic purity, and makes no bones about
so doing; in this regard, it is worth remembering that
Carson translated Ovid, Baudelaire and Rimbaud before
he translated Dante.
- Another consequence of
Carson's decision to attempt a translation with rhyme
is a striking use of metaphor based on and around the
rhyme position. Here again the Belfast poet picks up
on a stylistic feature which is significantly present
in the source text (Gibbons: 2002, 99-116), and which
invariably gets waylaid in the translation. Dante's
desire for a word to rhyme with another already
selected is one of the main reasons for him choosing
certain terms in preference to others, and the result
is that the semantics of the sentence must adapt to
accommodate this metrical and phonetic constraint.
However, Carson's translation features metaphors that
are even more marked than Dante's, and on occasions
some that are completely new, as the following example
from the first canto shows (lines 13-18):
It
seems I'd reached the foot of a steep
hill; here, the valley formed a
cul-de-sac;
and there, I fell into depression
deep.
Then I looked up. Clouds were riding
pickaback
on the high-shouldered peaks, as bursting
through,
the sun pursued its single-minded
track.
|
Ma
poi ch'i' fui al piè d'un colle
giunto,
là dove terminava quella valle
che m'avea di paura il cor compunto,
guardai in alto e vidi le sue spalle
vestite già de' raggi del
pianeta
che mena dritto altrui per ogne
calle.
|
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- "Cul-de-sac" is an
interesting choice for "là dove terminava
quella valle", representing as it does a set phrase to
match the "straight and narrow" used two lines
previously, the one with its associations of
bourgeoisie and closure, the other with its moral
connotations of post-imprisonment reform. However, its
presence in rhyme position means that two further
words are needed to rhyme with it, the first of which
shows both the challenges posed and creative potential
offered by the choice Carson has made. The lovely
image of clouds riding "pickaback" is in fact
completely extraneous to the original, which admits
only of the sun, and its presence here transposes the
landscape of this first canto of the Commedia,
which its most recent commentator has described as
being clearly Tuscan (Chiavacci Leonardi: 1991-7, I.
5), into a rural Irish setting to match the suburban
Belfast connotations of its earlier rhyming
pair.
- Descriptions of town and
country indeed represent some of the most interesting
instances of how Carson transposes the medieval
Italian poem into an Irish context. For example, there
is a perhaps disproportionate number of references to
"bogs" in Carson's Inferno compared with that
of Dante (see VI. 12, VII. 107, 128, IX. 31, XI. 70,
and especially XXXI. 32, "as if in some Irish bog"),
in translation of the term "palude" certainly, but
equally of "terra" and "pozza". Meanwhile, the
"cittadini de la città partita" whom
Dante-protagonist mentions in his dialogue with Ciacco
are referred to by Carson as "sectarians", which makes
more concrete an association between Dante's Florence
and his own Belfast he had noted in his introduction
(xi-xii):
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- I see a map of
North Belfast, its no-go zones and tattered flags,
the blackened side-streets, cul-de-sacs and bits of
wasteland stitched together by dividing walls and
fences. For all the blank abandoned spaces it feels
claustrophobic, cramped and medieval. Not as
beautiful as Florence, perhaps, but then Florence
is "the most damned of Italian cities, wherein
there is place neither to sit, stand, or walk",
according to Ezra Pound.
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- Here too, however, the
Italy-Ireland equation is nuanced: the rural landscape
of the Inferno also passes via Scotland (XII.
55, "the bottom of the glen") and Yorkshire (XII. 96,
"escort him through this dale"), and the divided city
of Florence takes in Baudelaire's Paris (X. 30, 39,
"arrondissements") as well as Washington D.C. (X. 12,
49, XI. 22, "precinct") before it reaches the Falls
Road.
- So the addition of an Irish
element at the expense of an Italian focus is one
consequence of the word in rhyme being used as a
metaphor. But Carson's translation of Dante's sun
image in canto I also sacrifices another important
aspect of the original. As is so often the case with
Dante, mention of the sun is by way of periphrasis, it
being referred to as the "planet whose rays lead men
everywhere back onto the straight road". This version,
clearly more literal than Carson's and with no
pretensions whatsoever to poetic merit, highlights the
fact that the sun is not just a feature of landscape
description as far as Dante is concerned, but a symbol
which has ethical and spiritual significance. It is,
in other words, a metaphor for God himself, which
doubtless explains Dante's reluctance to refer to it
directly. Carson's additional cloud metaphor thus
literally obscures the allegorical dimension to the
first canto, and further leads him into mistranslation
in line 18, where the object of "menare" is "altrui",
the generic pronoun reinforcing the notion of Dante as
Everyman which is especially important at this stage
in his progress.
- To return to Parks' statement
with which we began, then, it would seem that it is
not style on this occasion which gets lost in the
translation. The opportunity cost of presenting a
Dante who is relevant to the Irish situational context
at the dawn of the twenty-first century, or rather of
representing such a Dante to the broader
English-speaking public at such a time, seems to be
felt most keenly at what we might call the allegorical
or theological level. Translation is among other
things a form of reception; every reader perceives and
receives Dante differently, and one of the ways in
which he has been so understood is as "poet of the
secular world", to use Auerbach's celebrated phrase.
This would appear to be how Carson too responded to
Dante, and if so, he is clearly in good
company9.
- If Carson's translational
strategy involves some kind of loss at the metrical
and/or syntactic level, and if it further requires
sacrifice in terms of some of the source text's more
obviously Italian elements, as well as, paradoxically
enough, certain allegorical aspects which ought to be
more generally applicable, another issue requiring
discussion in this regard is anachronism, for Carson's
act of cultural transposition is as time-specific as
it is place-specific. Carson's solutions to the
problems raised by translating Dante refer once again
to the stylistic conservatism that has typified
English-language translations to date, most of which
feature the kind of literary archaicism that George
Steiner describes as follows (Steiner: 1992,
359-60):
-
-
- The translation
of a foreign classic, of the "classics" properly
speaking, of scriptural and liturgical writings, of
historians in other languages, of philosophic
works, avoids the current idiom (or certainly did
so until the modernist school). Explicitly or by
unexamined habit, with stated intent or almost
subconsciously, he [the translator] will
write in a vocabulary and grammar which predate
those of his own day. The parameters of linguistic
"distancing", of historical stylization are
endlessly variable. Translators may opt for forms
of expression centuries older than current speech.
They may choose an idiom present only a generation
back. Most infrequently, the bias to the archaic
produces a hybrid: the translator combines, more or
less knowingly, turns taken from the past history
of the language, from the repertoire of its own
masters, from preceding translators or from antique
conventions which modern parlance inherits and uses
still for ceremony. The translation is given a
patina.
-
-
- Here again Carson's approach
is different, and one inevitable result of his policy
of avoiding archaicism is anachronism. Anachronisms
can range from the broadly cultural, such as Virgil's
reference to Fortune being translated in terms
reminiscent of recent Anglican theological debate
(VII. 78, "He did a female minister provide"),
speaking of Aristotelian natural science in such a way
as to conjure up the lower end of British journalistic
output (XI. 101-3, "and if you read | your Physics
book, you'll find this paradigm, | about Page
Three"), or one particular injunction issued in
respect of a new mode of transport (XVII. 97, "Now,
Geryon, let's aviate!"), to the more politically
charged, such as the "sectarian" reference discussed
earlier, or Farinata's description of the Black Guelfs
pronouncing "their diktat | to raze Florence to the
ground" (X. 91-2), or the poet's description of his
arrival in the circle of the gluttonous as awakening
to find "a different population, | and a new regime of
torture". While in the majority of instances a case
for such anachronism can be made, and while here again
Carson is imitating his model in the sense that Dante
too was blithely unconcerned with the problem of
anachronism, this last example shows that where Carson
is prepared to sacrifice most in his pursuit of a
Dante for here and now is once more at the level of
theology. To speak of a circle of Hell in terms of a
latterday totalitarian regime, reminiscent indeed of
recent rhetorical pronouncements in the "war on
terror", is to betray a mentality that is far removed
from how Dante himself considered divine judgement of
sin.
- One last effect Carson's
strategy has in practical terms on his translation is
an emphasis, indeed over-emphasis when compared with
the original, on the role and scope of poetry in
general, a feature which presumably is linked to the
popularist, anti-scholarly stance he adopts as
described above. This is made clear in the very first
line: "Halfway through the story of my life".
It is not hard, certainly, to envisage a similarity
between the narrative aspect pertaining to an
autobiographical account and the iterative process
involved in undertaking a journey. Nonetheless, to
remove the Commedia's fundamental metaphor from
its opening line can at the very least be described as
a daring statement of intent.
- Similarly, Carson translates
the famous narratorial prologue to the Ulysses episode
as follows (Inferno 26. 19-24):
I
sorrowed then; that sorrow I repeat,
when I remember what I saw, and rein
my artistry, lest I be indiscreet
and lose the course that Virtue has
ordained;
so should some kindly star, or higher
guide
have given me this gift, 'twere not in
vain.
|
Allora
mi dolsi, e ora mi ridoglio
quando drizzo la mente a ciò ch'io
vidi,
e più lo 'ngegno affreno ch'i' non
soglio,
perché non corra che virtù
nol guidi;
sì che, se stella bona o miglior
cosa
m'ha dato 'l ben, ch'io stesso nol
m'invidi.
|
- There is no reason why the
gift given to Dante should not be interpreted in
poetic terms (after all, there are enough references
in the Commedia to the divine origin of Dante's
talent in this regard), but to translate
ingegno as "artistry" in this, perhaps Dante's
most celebrated statement of all concerning the
attractions and perils of the life of the mind, is
surely provocative. Ingenium was one of the
characteristics which Ovid, for example, attributed to
Ulysses, and it means here quite simply "mental
faculties" (Boyde: 2000, 240). The same is true of
another instance of ingegno which again Carson
translates in more poetic terms (X.
58-60):
-
"If
by sheer poetry
you infiltrate this murky zone,
where is my son? Why is he not with
thee?"
|
"Se
per questo cieco
arcere vai per altezza d'ingegno,
mio figlio ov'è? e perché
non è teco?"
|
- These words are uttered by
Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, and they institute a
comparison between Dante and Cavalcante's
aristocratically intellectual son Guido, a troubled
relationship which is amply if hermetically documented
in the pages of the Vita nuova. Their
friendship was born out of poetry, certainly, but as
the libello makes clear, the ingegno
which in many ways drove a wedge between them was
hermeneutic more than it was poetic, and Cavalcanti's
appeal to it here as a possible basis for salvation, a
hypothesis which the newly-converted Dante-pilgrim
duly corrects, refers more to the intellectual acumen
for which Guido was so notorious than it does to his
undisputed talent in the perfecting of lyric
verse.
- Carson's tendency to
reinterpret intellectual matters in poetic terms is
matched by the extra prominence he attributes to the
role of the poet. In canto IV, for example, Virgil,
who elsewhere Dante refers to as the "famed
hexametrist" (X. 123) and is enjoined by Beatrice to
"weave the magic verbal spells you wove | of yore"
(II. 68-9: "Or movi, e con la tua parola ornata"),
describes Homer as "the one with sword in hand | who
fronts the three behind him like a magus" (IV. 86-7:
"sire"). These examples suggest that Carson's
conception of the poet is akin to that exemplified by
the mythical figure of Orpheus, one which was not
wholly alien to the Dantean way of thinking certainly,
but is perhaps closer to Renaissance Neoplatonic
concerns than to a medieval Aristotelian
understanding, and which at any rate is not in the
source text, at least not at this point. The same can
be said of the numerous metaphors of grammar and
punctuation in this Inferno, which are much
more Carson than they are Dante, as a glance at, say,
"Belfast Confetti" would show: for instance, the noble
castle in canto IV is "encircled by a periphrastic
creek" (IV. 108, "difesa intorno d'un bel
fiumicello"); and the heads of state in relation to
Fortune are said to be "following the syntax of her
sentence" (VII. 83, "seguendo lo giudicio di costei").
The translation also features repeated recourse to
certain favourite words and phrases not necessarily
present in the original, such as "outlandish" (II.
142, IX. 63), or "portal" (VIII. 124, X. 108, XVIII.
13, XXXII. 123).
- In short, much of what drives
Carson's Inferno is a desire to advance his
credentials to be taken seriously as a poet in his own
right, to be, like Dante himself, "numbered as a poet
knight" among a "very honourable choir" (IV. 101, 93)
of poets that would include at least Ted Hughes for
his Tales from Ovid and, perhaps more
significantly, Seamus Heaney for his Beowulf,
not to mention his various renditions of parts of the
Commedia. In refusing the traditional role of
the translator's invisibility, Carson also makes a
case for the dignity of poetry vis-à-vis
scholarship, as well as an important statement about
resisting English hegemony in linguistic and also
political terms. In so doing, he has probably achieved
as much as anyone in recent years to extend Dante's
appeal to a broader, non-Italian-speaking public.
However, as I trust this article has made clear, this
act of cultural transfer has not been achieved without
cost. The terms with which the source-target
relationship has been figured are borrowed of course
from the world of finance, suggesting, as has George
Steiner, that translation can be seen as a kind of
attempt to balance the books (Steiner: 1992, 319).
Many are the metaphors by which the act of translation
may be figured, and a translation which involves such
a prominent role for the translator, whether or not at
the expense of the author, is bound to raise for some
the question of the extent to which this can
legitimately be described as translation sensu
stricto (Steiner: 1992; Robinson: 2000; Eco:
2003). But perhaps the best way of characterizing
Carson's enterprise is to borrow a phrase from the
language of translation studies itself: his
Inferno may be described as an extended
"dynamic equivalence", rather than a "formal
correspondence". What remains to be seen is whether
his version of Dante will have a longer shelf-life
than any of its predecessors.
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