Translators aren’t given the
recognition they deserve. It’s a thought that strikes home repeatedly whilst I
am glued to beautifully translated books.
There are times that I read a book
just to know what happens next. Ken Follet’s “Ten Pillars of the Earth” is one
such book. Reminds me of when I used to watch Desperate Housewives. Yeah, we all know there was no deep thought-provoking
plot to that TV show.
Yet, each time the writers ended
with a cliffhanger, I was hooked. That was it.
Not knowing what happened next was sheer torture, no matter how idiotic
it eventually turned out to be.
Anyway, when it came to “The Garlic
Ballads” and “My Name is Red” of which I’ve been reading on-and-off, I stay
glue to them for different reasons.
That garlic book is pungent!
(Sorry, couldn’t resist it.) Am not a great fan of anything that makes me tear
up, but “The Garlic Ballad” is so beautifully written that it gives poetry to a
simple farmer’s dreadful troubles. On the other hand, I wonder what someone who
read Mo Yan’s book in Chinese would have to say about both versions. How much
did Howard Goldblatt, the translator add to (or to be fair, subtract from) its
beauty?
“My Name is Red” is another
page-turner. The words are sheer magic, the narration superb. Yet, my restless
mind darts around, wondering what the Turkish version is like. I doubt it’s
possible to have an exact mirror image no matter how hard translator Erdaq M.
Guknar would have tried.
I’m sure this is a topic that has
been debated to death somewhere in the virtual world. Am not going to look it
up just yet or else my mischievous mind will be focused on how it was done
rather than enjoy the book itself. Future translated books would be just ruined
for me.
Now, after having declared that I
won’t pick up any more books till I’ve read all that’s scattered over my space,
I’m pondering on which translated gem I should feast on next.
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