Loosed in Translation discussion

Thank you Ryan for this comparison... I'm pasting this from another thread...

Here's a comparison of the opening of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Jay Rubin:

"When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.

"I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax."

Alfred Birnbaum:

"I'm in the kitchen cooking spaghetti when the woman calls. Another moment until the spaghetti is done; there I am, whistling the prelude to Rossini's La Gazza Ladra along with the FM radio. Perfect spaghetti-cooking music.

"I hear the telephone ring but tell myself, Ignore it. Let the spaghetti finish cooking. It's almost done, and besides, Claudio Abbado and the London Symphony Orchestra are coming to a crescendo."

Hmm. I'd have to say Birnbaum's is better. It's hardly a brilliant passage to begin with. Rubin's is a little awkward, especially the second para, whereas Birnbaum's captures the character's voice more naturally.

So is there actually a complete Birnbaum translation of the whole novel, or did he just do the original story-version of the first chapter? Didn't Murakami himslef re-edit the text between those?

Just the first chapter. Not sure if Birnbaum and Rubin used the same text. Birnbaum's story is called "The Wind-Up Bird and Tuesday's Women", the first story in The Elephant Vanishes.

Here's another comparison, from the opening of Norwegian Wood, which came out in two versions.


Rubin translation:

I was thirty-seven then, strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to the Hamburg airport. Cold November rains drenched the earth and lent everything the gloomy air of a Flemish landscape: the ground crew in rain gear, a flag atop a squat airport building, a BMW billboard. So—Germany again.

Once the plane was on the ground, soft music began to flow from the ceiling speakers: a sweet orchestral cover version of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood." The melody never failed to send a shudder through me, but this time it hit me harder than ever.

I bent forward in my seat, face in hands to keep my skull from splitting open. Before long one of the German stewardesses approached and asked in English if I were sick. "No," I said, "just dizzy."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Thanks."

She smiled and left, and the music changed to a Billy Joel tune. I straightened up and looked out the plane window at the dark clouds hanging over the North Sea, thinking of what I had lost in the course of my life: times gone forever, friends who had died or disappeared, feelings I would never know again.

The plane reached the gate. People began unlatching their seatbelts and pulling baggage from the storage bins, and all the while I was in the meadow. I could smell the grass, feel the wind on my face, hear the cries of the birds. Autumn 1969, and soon I would be twenty.


Birnbaum translation:

Here I am, thirty-seven years old, seated in a Boeing 747. The giant plane is diving into a thick cover of clouds, about to land at Hamburg Airport. A chill November rain darkens the land, turning the scene into a gloomy Flemish painting. The airport workers in their rain gear, the flags atop the faceless airport buildings, the BMW billboards, everything. Just great, I'm thinking, Germany again.

The plane completes its landing procedures, the NO SMOKING sign goes off, and soft background music issues from the ceiling speakers. Some orchestra's muzak rendition of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood." And sure enough, the melody gets to me, same as always. No, this time it's worse than ever before. I get it real bad. I swear my head is going to burst.

I crouch forward and cover my face with my hands, and I just stay like that. Eventually a German stewardess comes by to ask if I'm feeling ill. I'm fine, I answer, just a little dizzy.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Really, I'm fine. Thanks," I say. The stewardess smiles and heads off. Meanwhile the music changes to a Billy Joel number. I look up at the dark clouds over the North Sea and think of how many things I've lost up to now in the course of living. Lost time, people dead or gone, feelings never to return.

As the plane comes to a complete stop, all the while until people unfasten their seat belts and start taking down bags and jackets from the overhead compartments, I'm in the middle of a meadow. I can smell the grass, feel the breeze on my skin, hear the birds singing. It's the autumn of 1969. I'm about to turn twenty.

This is why I am so apprehensive of reading Murakami. I am afraid translating from Japanese would lose quite lot, or just be fundamentally different. Can anyone support or deny this?

William Herschel wrote: "This is why I am so apprehensive of reading Murakami. I am afraid translating from Japanese would lose quite lot, or just be fundamentally different. Can anyone support or deny this?"

Murakami himself is a translator from English to Japanese and was clearly influenced by the Western writers he translated. His own translators believe that he sometimes "thinks" words and phrases in English and write them in Japanese.