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336 pages, Paperback
First published July 28, 2022
‘For my fellow mutts: be a proud mongrel, break the mould, perform your outsideness and let our non-fluent non-native suboptimal voices soar—decolonise hearts and we will thrive. No more muzzles.’
‘(James) Baldwin’s words direct us towards the two poles within a man: one who wishes to capture and rule nature and hence destroys it eventually (injustice), but another who has already established harmony with nature and lives in peace with it (justice). I must turn my dream into fertiliser and water/ and I must bury myself/ for my suppressed people.The very sound of this poem, as soon as I translated it into English, felt to my mind like the sound of my own life, which I had never felt before while reading poems written in English.’
‘Translation can be an intimate act—diasporic and indigenous writers who speak (or partly speak) an ancestral language at home might find the discourse of mastery fraught, especially when access to a language has been lost through historical violence and dislocation.And some of us experience translation all the time in our bodies, names, homes, movements and daily lives even if we are not translating from one text to another.’
‘In a normative monolingual society, to speak more than one language is also a form of rebellion. Mongrel, Mutt, Suboptimal, Multilingual, Monolingual, Postcolonial, World Literature. Inundated by terminology, lost in the rainforest of words to define our practice, I propose yet another one: Exophony.’
‘The exophonic subject resists definition—like the mongrel street dog, reminds us that the domesticating system fails us again and again. The solution is to be a reminder of this active performative self which defies binarisms and definitions. To not protect the reader from diversity. That’s when we are truest to our mongrel core. We each have a voice, and we are going to use it. To show you how uncomfortable and imperfect it can be, and how lack of perfection causes change, brings out beauty, and starts dialogues.’
‘In Brazil, where I come from, and in fact in many of the countries represented at that international conference, a translator is a translator is a translator is a translator. Some might need help in certain areas, but trained translators are able to translate in both (or more) directions. Such an essentialist idea of a translator’s linguistic abilities also ignores the fact that language is not fixed, and a person’s linguistic repertoire, especially in regard to a second language, is bound to change through the course of their life.’
‘If literature is no tourist guidebook, why cling to the narrative of the white-saviour literary scholar who does all of us a favour and reads us, translates us, interprets us? They speak for us. In a language that they either forced upon us, to make us suboptimal, variants of the norm, or they charged us very high fees for Cambridge to tell us we can speak it. But don’t let me, the angry mongrel street dog, scare you.’
‘—I focused on ensuring that the aural qualities of the languages I used could provide some deeper, internal coherence as to what they were to mean. Using an invented register of Singlish meant that I was no longer bound to use it to only reflect the conversational texture—I could instead surprise the reader at the level of both sound and form, whilst using the languages I knew well, and the ones I didn’t. It allowed me to take advantage of Singlish’s extraordinary effectiveness within a rudimentary syntax to make the poem ‘I traffic rule hantam color color wheel’, in which words could simply be added onto the end of the pronoun ‘I’ to become a pseudo compound-noun.’
‘I unintentionally released myself from a sanitised, lofty use of Malay and Chinese too. Similarly, the English I used was no longer bound to ensuring that it could speak for the Singlish. It could behave elliptically, gesturing at what the Singlish meant—A simple example of this would be the poem ‘if say red:’ in ‘tree’. In this poem, each word that in Singlish might have conjured up other connotations appropriate to—socio-political context was destabilised by phrases that sapped it of such meaning—After I read my poems, the students spoke of their own experiences of the languages they knew, and the tug of balancing the languages they could command for the different parts of themselves. There was no compulsion to force these parts to cohere. Languages were allowed to live in bodies without needing to speak for their other inhabitants.’
‘I wrote my first English poem and published it on that page. My first Singlish poems too. People warmed towards the English poems but loved the Singlish ones even more. I loved that people loved them. In the heart of the Empire, I saw the outline of an escape hatch out of Anglomania—So, I pushed. Code-switching is not an alien concept; daily acts of translation take place. For a country that would almost certainly rely on translation to galvanise its multilingual society, there are, strangely, no pronouncements on what translation should mean.What is available instead is the simplest desire—to speak at least two languages: English, for commerce, and a vernacular language—for the transmission of cultural values. A buoy in a sea of internationalism tying untethered citizens to their respective parent cultures.’
‘If you’re a person of colour reading this essay in English right now, chances are you grew up under the pervasive and ubiquitous gaze of the Mythical English Reader and understand it very well. I didn’t grow up like that, or at least, not to any meaningful extent—I grew up mostly in Korea—and even when I wasn’t living in Korea, I was mostly living in Asia. Throughout my life I couldn’t care less what white people thought because white people had nothing to do with the grades I got in school, what my clients paid me, the men I dated, or what I thought of myself. Then I fell into this ‘literary translator’ job and suddenly I had to figure out exactly what white people thought—and fast.’
‘In recent years, I have come to the realisation that if we want to change the way our translations are published, the way to do it is not only through individual action but through changing the entire landscape of publishing.The best way to help yourself is to change the system for everyone, instead of aiming to become another token for the perpetuation of whiteness.We all have limited time and energy, but there are still many ways to identify the cracks in the system that we can shove a wedge into or the points of leverage we can place a fulcrum upon, and it’s going to take all of these little efforts and opportunities combined into a movement to make changes that will truly benefit individuals.’
‘Point being, we need a movement to make real changes in the landscape, and movements mean collective action, the sum of all of our individual efforts coalescing into a single, anticolonial direction. I never feel alone when I translate, and by the end of the book I feel as if the author and I have been sitting and working together for a long time. It is always a shock to meet the author in person because I feel extremely close to them but they haven’t spent nearly as much time with me. It’s really the author whom I’m thinking of when I translate, and it’s really me for whom I’m translating—I am the true English reader. So, the next time someone tries to gaslight you by asserting the authority of a mythical being over your own reading, call it out. This is your time now. You have entered the landscape.You’re the realest thing in it.’
‘Thinking of translation as a service for the Third World poet, as an ‘easing’ into the colonial language, as a championing, a celebration, or an unearthing, should simply not be tolerated.Translation into English today reflects a general mentality shared by Western writers themselves—that they know it all, have seen it all, and the only thing left for them to do is to take us under their wings. They do not see us as their counterparts, as their comrades; their savior-complex is clothed with polished words and self-described radical poetics.’
‘The Third World poet too, fascinated with the West, with the wondrous machinery of Western publishing, sometimes surrenders to whatever the mud might make of their work. I am not arguing that a poetry translation might win you the Nobel or welcome you into the canon, but I am saying the textual violence disturbs my peace and pleasure alike.’
‘It is only in translation that people who share the same histories with different languages expand their understanding of each other. Translation is the bridge between two worlds which have been separated by historical processes of alienation. Language puts an end to our alienation, which was created through distorted histories and stories written by the oppressor. Language has to change, and if it does not, it dies a silent death. Language is not romanticised—rather it is made into a tool—to decolonise their lives.’
‘The process of translating these poems has demonstrated for me the potential of translation to humanise the language. Translation re-humanises languages. I no longer perceive English as a foreign language. By translating my world into English, I feel closer to it—A single poem can transform our views about the entire world. And the translation of such a poem into the dominant language (English), can re-humanise the language itself. ‘
‘There is a similar need to address structural inequalities and historical myopia in the publishing and translation worlds because business as usual is no longer possible.We hope this anthology will contribute to that conversation. Colonialism is violence, and it is difficult to see how decolonising could be anything other than a violent disruption.’