In Defense of the Literal II
Hubris and Humility in Translation
So, a while back, I published a substack on translation in which I articulated, with no small amount of self-consciousness, a defense of the literal translation of scripture in the Jewish prayerbook. I was self-conscious not only because I have only a rudimentary understanding of Hebrew but also because I’d been informed over the years that literal translations are "slavish," simple-minded, and impractical. Slavish, because, I suppose, why should you subject your own genius to that of the author or to some abstract—and foolish—notion of the purity of language? Simple-minded because to believe literal translations are even possible, you would have to have a naive belief in the clarity of language1 combined with an ignorance of the impossibility of literal translations. Impractical because the translation will sound "stilted," "Biblical," or"old fashioned," which will turn off readers and deform the meaning/ reception (since the language was, presumably, not old-fashioned to those who first spoke it).
But last week, I read Allan Bloom’s translation of The Republic, and what is the first sentence of his Preface?
“This is intended to be a literal translation” (xxv).
Bloom, whose knowledge of Greek is more than adequate to the task, whose intellect is unquestionable, and whose knowledge of the art of translation is as strong as any, takes the very line I was suggesting but articulates his reasoning with more clarity and confidence. He actually endorses the “slavish” approach to translation as one that “emancipates [the reader] from the tyranny of the translator.”
It’s not the author with his vile “intentions” or the aged and stony language that tyrannizes, but rather the translator, who, in his arrogance, believes “he has adequately grasped the teaching of the author.” The translator lords it over the reader by imposing/substituting his or her interpretations for an understanding the reader himself might gain on their own. How’s that for turnabout?
But as Bloom points out, who is the translator to assume he or she has such mastery over the subject such that they can “clarify” anything? From where do they draw “the assurance they have a sufficient understanding of Plato’s meaning. . . ?”
The arrogance of authority, Bloom explains, derives from three or more, at times contradictory, positions. On the one hand, the translator claims the privilege of authority based on expertise. He or she has studied the texts, compared translations, knows the history, knows the language, and knows the cultural context far better than any lay reader. On the other hand, the translator, being a modern scholar, knows not only better than the lay reader but also better than the author, who was limited by his comparatively primitive understanding of the universe. And, on the third hand, there is postmodern skepticism with regard to the truth of any intention or interpretation. Since there is no “text”—in the Stanley Fish sense of their being a stable, unchanging meaning—there can be no idea or even language to translate literally. It’s literally impossible. (The last is more my point than Bloom’s, who doesn’t address the deconstructionist view directly).
Bloom quotes one scholar as opining,
The translator must go behind what Plato said and discover what he means, and if, for example, [Plato] says “examining the beautiful and the good” must not hesitate to render this as “discussing moral values if that is the way in which the same thought would be expressed today.”
Bloom makes a quick hash of this argument, pointing out not only that “it might be more prudent to let the reader decide whether ‘the beautiful and the good’ are simply equivalent to ‘moral values’” but demonstrating decisively that they are not.
Interestingly, Bloom’s is a profoundly populist view, essentially admonishing the scholarly elite “to do your job and step back” and let the common reader2 figure things out for themselves. In his Preface, he exposes the small-mindedness and snobbery of an entire generation (or three) of academics who set themselves above both the artists they studied and the students they taught.3
All of which is to say, “See, I was right”—at least according to one scholar with better creds than I have.
And, with regard to Scripture, I would argue that all of this basically still applies.
I’ve been told, for example, that the translator of the siddur (prayer-book) I use doubtlessly had interpretation in mind when he strayed from the literal for purposes other than making the language contemporary. Thus, to take a small example, when he translates a line from the Amidah, ci el tov, as “for you are a generous God” instead of the literal “for you are a good God,” he may have in mind a homiletic point about what constitutes God’s goodness. And I guess he knows best because he’s the rabbi with all the knowledge of Hebrew and Torah (written and oral), and I’m just some guy struggling to get by in the pews, but still . . . .
I once suggested to the editor of this prayer book, who happened to be sitting across from me one shalosh seudah,4 that they might try an interlinear version of the prayerbook to make it easier for the reader to translate. He said something like, “Prayer books are for davening, not translating,” which says a lot about a common Orthodox attitude toward davening. Say the words and don’t bother too much about what they mean.
But for me, translating is davening. I get much more out of the Hebrew when I figure out what it says, for myself. Of course, that’s also why I never get to half the prayers in a given service. Of course, communal prayer may require a certain pace and uniformity; if everyone were translating every prayer word for word and figuring out for themselves what the words signified, we wouldn’t have a prayer service but a study hall.
So, I’m not calling for any reforms of the prayer service, but I am reiterating my thoughts about translation, which is to say to the translator, your job is to provide a clear window onto the work, and if you think you can do better than the author, be deeper, more beautiful, more nuanced, even more contemporary, maybe you’re in the wrong business. Maybe you’re meant to be a poet and not a scholar.
Go write your epic or your play and see if, maybe, in a thousand years, some humble scholar will do their best to communicate your vision to a new world without inserting themselves between you and posterity.
“Oh, you believe in the clarity of language,” one of my fellow grad students once said to me with not a little disdain in her tone. She is now a professor at a prestigious university, of course.
Well, as common a reader as is likely to pick up and read Plato.
I encountered a great deal of this idea, BTW, in grad school where it undoubtedly still reigns supreme, i.e. the idea that the scholar is infinitely better equipped to interpret than the poet who has talent but no intellect and the student who may or may not have intellect but lacks skills, methodology, and knowledge. Though, in fairness, this is also what Plato seems to believe, having Socrates say of the Poets in The Republic that they “are among the worst interpreters of their own works: they create without understanding.” Then again, if Plato considered himself a poet, maybe he was being ironic?
Literally, “third meal,” an afternoon snack on Shabbat in which Jewish folks gather to eat, sing, and discuss Torah.
Of course, if the author approves it’s hard to complain. But I still might say there’s no reason to translate, say, a cricket analogy for an American audience. Why not maintain some strangeness for the audience? Allow them to experience the otherness of the author’s culture instead of erasing it? But I agree it’s context dependent. I guess I’m reacting to the unquestioned assumption I’ve mostly come across that literal translation is both unworkable and undesirable, the product of small minds.
I think, really, much of this question depends on the gravitas of the original. My beloved D was, for a while, the translator into German for The Dresden Files series. He had to change several idioms and metaphors—particularly baseball ones—so that a German audience could parse them. Jim Butcher, the author, aporoved this move. I also think intent matters, and should be transparent. I love Headly's Beowulf, but I also understand when reading it what its project is and have read the original. Maybe we need not so much a rule, but a continuum of possibilities and a certain transparency?