Escafarlata d'Empordà

by Adrià Pujol Cruells

Aquest llibre és el miratge d’unes memòries, el retrat d’una generació nascuda amb l'anomenada democràcia, i també a l’empara d’un món que mirava endavant amb la promesa d’un futur tan esperançador com probablement utòpic. Escrites amb intel·ligència, ironia, valentia i tendresa, aquestes pàgines enllacen a la perfecció tradició i modernitat, i traspuen a voltes ressentiment, a voltes nostàlgia per un país mitificat i per aquella part del riu on “ja no nedarà mai més”.

Adrià Pujol ens convida a trepitjar l’Empordà, conscient que és matèria molt suada, trillada, enaltida i batuda. Per això ho fa fugint de convencionalismes, de tòpics i amb la sinceritat de qui escriu sobre un món que estima i que per això mateix no simplifica. Serveix el joc des de les dues bandes de la barrera, perquè al capdavall és un empordanès de Barcelona o un barceloní de l’Empordà, en qualsevol cas “un neuròtic del seu passat”.

Amatent als tòtems que l'han precedit, però ignorant-los el punt just, l'autor ens descriu paisatges, esdeveniments i persones amb una llengua vivaç, rica, potent, i sovint al llindar del joc de paraules. “L'endemà de morir-se'm la mare, de nit me'n vaig anar de festa, pel poble, flanquejat pels amics de sempre que, en aquest cas, se'ns veia realment desorientats, perquè érem joves...”.

182 pages, Paperback

Published January 1, 2011

About the author

Adrià Pujol i Cruells (Begur, 20 de desembre de 1974) és un antropòleg, escriptor prolífic i traductor català. Va ser professor de l'escola ELISAVA (2005-2015) i impulsor de l'Observatori de la Vida Quotidiana.
Ha publicat llibres d'assaig, biografies, ficció i no-ficció. Col·labora habitualment amb el Diari de Girona, La Llança (diari d'oci i cultura d'El Nacional), L'Avenç i la Revista de Girona. Durant un viatge a Mèxic va publicar la biografia de Joseph Pujol, conegut com «Le Pétomane». El 2014 va publicar la novel·la autobiogràfica Picadura de Barcelona, motiu pel qual va ser nomenat Palafrugellenc de l'Any. Ha realitzat habitualment treballs de museografia, destacant la seva col·laboració amb el Museu Etnològic de Barcelona.

Reviews

[Matthias Friedrich · Rating 4 out of 5]

The most difficult Catalan book I've read so far.

[Matthias Friedrich · Rating 1 out of 5]

PROVIDING ACCESS TO THE ARCH-UNDERSTANDING
On Douglas Suttle’s catastrophic translation of Adrià Pujol’s ESCAFARLATA D’EMPORDÀ

As the German translator of Adrià Pujol, I was hyped to see how Douglas Suttle would render this little beast of a book into English. I’ve been following his press, Fum d’Estampa, for years. They’ve published some incredible stuff, such as Tiago Miller’s version of Jordi Cussà’s WILD HORSES. But in Pujol’s case, I soon realized that my expectations were not met. To say I am disappointed is an understatement. Suttle’s translation is beyond the pale.

First of all, the title. Why didn’t he even try to find an equivalent for the fantastic ESCAFARLATA D’EMPORDÀ? The Catalan just rolls over your tongue. Yes, “escafarlata” is a kind of loose tobacco and might not be translatable, but there must be plenty of other possible solutions? Who’s going to buy such a book? This alone is bad, but for whatever reason, Suttle also didn't include the book's subtitle ("Paria d'un pària", or "Papers of a pariah"). I know that Pujol challenges his translators. I’ve translated his PICADURA DE BARCELONA into German, a language that is as elegant as an elephant waltzing through a lingerie boutique.

Opening the book at any page, you’ll see that every little vignette begins with a quote taken from Catalan poems, extracts from novels, stories etc. These quotes are often interwoven with the texts. Suttle leaves them untranslated, even those that are clearly NOT Catalan (quotes from ALIEN, GILGAMESH, Frank Zappa, Fernando Pessoa, 12 MONKEYS, Marinetti, Hesiod, Malinowski, Montaigne, Rabelais). Copy-pasted? Well… not quite. Compared against the source text, it becomes evident that sometimes words are left out for no apparent reason (like in the Pere Calders quote “Aleshores, jo era feliç, però me n’adonava” instead of “Aleshores, jo era feliç, però no me n’adonava”: “During that time, I was happy, but (did not) realize it”). Other than that, a Gabriel Ferrater quote (115) is missing, and a longish extract from one of Àngel Ferran's works (171) has been reduced to one or two sentences (nevertheless, the first paragraph of the vignette states that "the excerpt above shows (Ferran) bullshitting with an unrivalled mastery" - a claim English-language readers cannot prove because they've only seen a snippet of the quote). Did the translator give up before he even started? And, more important, why does he abandon his readers by leaving a significant chunk of the book untranslated?

I could live with a strange or botched title, maybe also with quotes left untouched or incomplete. But the innumerable mistakes, the flat prose and the translator’s poor grasp of the author’s highly idiosyncratic style are unforgivable. At best, Suttle’s version is literal, even acceptable, take for example to palindrome (36) or the monosyllabic chapter (127-130). At worst, it’s gibberish. “And as a result, in the book, in the bread produced and melody that sounds, the grub is random”, Pujol describes his method (xv: “De resultes, en el llibre, en el pa que s’hi dóna, en la melodia que s’hi bressola, la teca és aleatòria, és un tast”). To put this into context: This collection of snippets from the author’s life is as wilfully disordered as an all-you-can-eat buffet. The metaphors (bread, grub) are wisely chosen, but it doesn’t make any sense to write “the bread produced” here. The literal meaning of the set expression “saber el pa que s’hi dóna” is “to know what a situation is like”. Again, difficult to just translate it for its sheer meaning, but it should be possible to find a solution that aligns well with the metaphors the Catalan text establishes.

This might still count as a minor criticism, but other translations are just awe-inspiringly fucked. “Sovint hi ha picades d’ullet a la mestria planiana”, Pujol writes, bragging about the qualities of his own style. Suttle: “Often there are doffs of the cap to the workmanship of the plains”. Pardon? “Mestria” means “skill, expertise”, and “pla” does sound like “plain”, yes. But in fact, Pujol is speaking about his idol number one, the writer and journalist Josep Pla, using an adjective (“planià”, as in “Shakespearean”). To put it plain (sic) and simple: He wants to spell out that Pla’s excellent books provide him with the ideas he needs. It’s a mystery to me how Suttle came up with this absolute dumpster fire of a solution. Other than that, the repeated construction (“of the … of the”) does sound quite a bit clunky.

More examples. “De petit ja vaig decidir que no volia ni ser famós ni tenir massa terra a l’Havana”, Pujol writes: “When I was a child, I decided that I didn’t want to be famous or own any land in Havana” (86). The problem here is that “tenir massa terra a l’Havana” refers to someone who claims they have made a fortune abroad, when, in fact, they have not. Suttle’s translation is incomprehensible to those who don’t know anything about the expression’s origin. Before that, Pujol witnesses how his temporary step dad (supposedly) scolds his little sister very aggressively (“renyava amb una actitud virulent”). Suttle: He was “stroking my little sister’s face”. The exact opposite of what the Catalan text is saying! Although just as creepy. Later, he offers a poem that can be read – and sung – as a “sardana”. “Us podeu acompanyar d’un tamborí i d’un flabiol que us doni l’entrada arxiconeguda”, Pujol writes. Suttle: “You might wish to accompany it with a tambourine or flageolet, which would provide access to the arch-understanding” (77). What the hell does that mean? Joan Amades’ CATALAN SONGBOOK provides us with the answer that “entrada” is a “flageolet serenade” that serves as an introduction to the Catalan national dance known as sardana, and “arxiconegut” simply means “superfamous”. Yes, “entrada” also can be understood as “access”, but not in this particular context, and how Suttle came up with “arch-understanding”, is a total mystery to me. Another chapter, "Motius de Begur", covers the nicknames of the inhabitants of Pujol's hometown. But how does Suttle translate the title? You guessed it: "Begurian Reasoning" (156). This makes no sense at all. Not only that, Suttle doesn't even try to look for English equivalents of these colorful nicknames, and annotates only one of them, chosen at random. "Senyora Reparada, the owner of the bakery, was known as Bocoi" (ibid.). Did you know that "bocoi" means "hogshead"? Neither did I. But Suttle doesn't even try to provide a translation. "Motius de Palafrugell", on p. 105, however, has been translated correctly as "Palafrugell nicknames". Apparently, there was no proofreading at all, or this kind of inconsistencies would have caught somebody's eye. In another vignette (39), the boughs of a school’s mulberry tree are a “communion of interests, a good riddance to bad rubbish” (“comunió d’interesos …, l’excomunió de mals endreços”), meaning that the tree is a kind of safe space for little ruffians. The translation not only doesn’t catch the antithesis here (comunió/excomunió), it also misses the transition to the next vignette that is titled “Comença la temporada de mal endreç”, a rhymed poem about noise pollution. In the preface, Pujol writes: “... at the end of each and every section you will find a clue that leads on to and categorizes the next” (xvii). How does he achieve that? By using same (or similar) words, sounds, palindromes… “Endreç” is “order”, “mals endreços” means “lumber, junk, rubbish”. Suttle could have easily played with order/disorder. But instead, he comes up with “bad rubbish”, a literal (and tautological) translation of the Catalan expression.

Speaking of poems, they’re finicky. Not (only) because they’re supposedly impossible to work with, but also because the translator doesn’t seem to be trusting in his own abilities to transcend formal constraints, at least most of the time. Now and then, Suttle does try to find a translation that works in English (see the "bawdy" poem, 36), however, he often produces halting, helplessly rhymed prose. That alone would be no crime, but now and then, the result is completely out of control:

Ara hi caic: escapem-nos ja
pels corriols del bosquetà avall,
avall de la Gavarra
rumb al mar blau
per fer un clau
amb barca.

And so here I fall: let us escape afar
along shaded woodland paths
down, down to la Gavarre
to the blue sea baths
to sail away
by boat. (91)

This is an extract from a poem about an erotic daydream involving “gojes”, water nymphs. “Ara hi caic” is a set expression for “I’ve got it”. Meaning: The narrator suddenly comes up with the plan that he’d like to “sail away” (with the nymph, I suppose). Well… only in the English version. “Fer un clau” means “to slip one in”. In other words: Our hero wants to embark on a sexy adventure with the nymph. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find an expression that recreates the comic linebreak of “fer un clau/amb la barca” – or a maritime term that achieves a similar effect.

Some of Suttle’s renderings are so crass that I can’t say what exactly was going on. Like… how? Take this extract from a poem about military service:

No sóc pas dels vostres.
Feu a l’envelat,
sàtrapes torrats,
comiat de calostres
amb crits i garlar:
servei militar!
No us faig parenostres,
que sóc l’insubmís.
Aneu a fer postres,
jo em quedo al palpís

The structure of the poem itself is difficult to reproduce: ten verses with five to six syllables each, and crossed rhymes, with the narrator speaking to a (phantasmal?) audience, supposedly the authorities conscripting him to military service. He’s imagining some sort of ceremony (“comiat”) in a tent camp (“envelat”), with “beestings” (“calostres”) as a beverage, and announces that he won’t let himself be subdued by said authority.

I’m not one of those
that’s made in your tents
against all your foes,
goodbye to all sense
when nobody chose:
the military, hence!
No Lord’s Prayer, to close
as ‘conchie’ defence.
Dessert, you compose
I keep the bones thence
with yours as it goes. (64)

“I’m not one of those”: The Catalan text says “I’m not one of you”, i.e. the military.
“that’s made in your tents/against all foes”: to make against? Whom or what exactly? Inextricable. “Sàtrapes torrats” means something like “drunken kings”. “Foes” makes absolutely no sense.
“goodbye to all sense/when nobody chose”: The prospective soldiers are celebrating, drinking milk, chattering. (Although the milk might have a metaphorical meaning as well.) This translation just ignores the Catalan text.
“No Lord’s prayer, to close/as ‘conchie’ defence”: This captures quite well what the author is trying to convey, but it reads incredibly clunky.
“Dessert, you compose/I keep the bones thence/with yours as it goes”: This, again, makes very little sense. The Catalan text says: Please continue with the dessert, I’ll leave it at the “piece of meat without bone” (“palpís”).

If you don’t know how to recreate something in your target language, invent something new. It’s as easy as that.

I could go on and on forever with this poem, but I think you get the gist.

I’ve already given numerous examples of how flawed this translation is. Not only that, Suttle seems incapable of grasping the author’s style. It’s much more artful, tongue-in-cheek in Catalan. Pujol uses colorful insults and rhythmizes his prose with rhymes and homeoteleuta. For example, he uses the word “arrencaqueixals” (63), a “person ripping out molars”. Suttle’s translation – “dentist” – is not as pejorative as its Catalan equivalent. What’s more, he brushes aside said homeoteleuta, a constitutive element of many of Pujol’s books. “Ara tinc segona residència al meu país de naixement, sempre amb la seva aquiescència, i amb l’anar fent”, Pujol writes. Suttle: “I’ve got a holiday home in the land of my birth, though ever with its acquiescence.” (67) Take a look at the Catalan word endings and you’ll see it right away (-ència, -ment/-ent). This is, by the way, not the most extreme example of this stylistic feature, our author often goes on like this for several paragraphs in a row. But our translator doesn’t, he prefers the simplest solution. Nothing wrong about that, but in light of all the avoidable mistakes I’ve mentioned, this comes across as sheer laziness.

The big question, of course, is: WHY? I don’t know exactly, but I guess it’s a combination of several factors. First, a translation that is undercooked; second, lack of time (although it’s overdue – the book’s date of publication had been set for Nov ‘23); and, third, an approach to translation that is conservative at best and counterproductive at worst.

Some say that every culture has its own untranslatable words. That’s bullshit. Suttle’s version of Pujol is littered with words left in Catalan, many of them related to local customs, foods, and beverages. (Would you, without consulting the footnote, know what "In the Principate, we cagar tions" means? If you do, you're likely Catalan!) What’s more, Suttle explains these cultural facts in innumerable footnotes (and, at the same time, translates none of Pujol’s own footnotes, because, guess what, they’re untranslatable; elsewhere, he doesn't explain anything, for example in the chapter about nicknames, where the ugliest guy in Tamariu (105) earns the name "Hermós", which means "pretty boy"). Some also say that you shouldn’t translate quotes from literature that haven’t been translated before. The problem is that not even 80% of the sources Pujol quotes from exist in English which creates a problem for readers unacquainted with Catalan. This is ironic because this book is addressed to those who don’t understand the language. In other words, this translation sabotages itself. The fact that Suttle even leaves an entire chapter untranslated (with a funny footnote that readers should contact Pujol for further questions) only adds insult to injury.

We’ve been knowing for quite a while that Fum d’Estampa has acquired the rights for several of Pujol’s books. Let’s hope that Suttle delegates the translation to someone who has the time and the capacities to render this author into decent English. In the meantime: Keep away from EMPORDAN SCAFARLATA.

My arch of understanding ends here.

[Paul · Rating 3 out of 5]

Normally memoirs follow a timeline of events in a person’s life, with some flashbacks to add context. However, this memoir is unlike any other memoir that I have read before. Instead, it is a collection of figments and fragments of memories written in short essays, poems and snippets of prose.

He recalls the memories from his childhood when his mother separated from his father. He moved in with his new stepdad and hated being there to begin with, but slowly he got used to it. There are stories of love lost and gained as he heads off with an on / off girlfriend to the place where every young couple is making out; the beach. He soon discovers that sand gets everywhere…

Forest fires are a common occurrence in the region. He notes that people either stop and stare at the flames in fear or are captivated by them. There are those that are moved to warn others and pass buckets of water in the vain hope of extinguishing the flames. I didn’t know this, but it is an ancient country; there are dolmens in the hills from thousands of years ago. They are near pine forests where men occasionally go to kill themselves.

There are some real gems in here. I particularly like what he did when taking photos of tourists who were full of self-entitlement. However, as much as this book is about him and his experiences, he manages to capture the essence of Catalonia in this short book. It is a region of Europe that isn’t quite Spain and isn’t quite France but has its own strong identity in the region that crosses the border. I liked the mix of pieces in here, the longer essays work well with the shorter prose. I did feel that I didn’t get to know the author that well in this book, I only got to see glimpses of him in this kaleidoscope of his life. Well worth reading though