On Surrealist Translation
One of the scariest things I’ve done recently is translate Surrealist poetry. This might sound silly—and it is. They’re just words, they can’t hurt me. But translation demands total confidence in one’s knowledge and ability, and a translator must be prepared to stand behind each individual word. Translation satisfies in a way akin to solving mathematical equations; the process is methodical and intentional, and the outcome well-formed. Unfortunately, these traits are antithetical to Surrealism.
Tamara Brzostowska-Tereszkiewicz
The scholar Tamara Brzostowska-Tereszkiewicz describes “Surrealist translation” as an oxymoron, saying that “translation as a product of rational decision-making processes inevitably stumbles over the Surrealist metaphor born out of the irrational and coincidental.”* If automatism is considered the pinnacle of Surrealism, there is perhaps nothing more problematic to it than translation, a wholly manual process. Translation can never be automatic; no matter how experienced a translator is, they can never attain the same level of implicit understanding in another language as they do their native one.
How, then, to reconcile this? An easy answer would be to leave all Surrealist poetry untranslated (realists everywhere rejoice) or to leave translation up to other Surrealists. This brings up the question of entitlement, one that is often discussed in the field. Who is entitled to translate who? A concrete answer has yet to be decided upon, but similarities of identity between the translator and the translated seem to make translations more defensible, even palatable. The Polish writer Adam Ważyk claims that “it is not difficult to transfer a Surreal imagination from one European language to another,”** insinuating that perhaps the only things necessary for translating Surrealist poetry are a Surrealist mindset and European passport.
An American with an academic comprehension of Ancient Greek, my entitlement to translating modern Greek poetry is tenuous at best. I am a bit of a Surrealist, however. This is a recent discovery about myself; while my own poetry has long since reflected an obsession with the synesthetic and absurd, I had not located it within a particular aesthetic until now. But is this enough to justify translating Surrealist poetry? Am I enough of a Surrealist to authentically replicate the poetry’s Surrealism? Who even cares??
I care! Translation, to me, is an act of love and appreciation. But, this comes dangerously close to sounding like “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” and Surrealism revolts against mimesis. Translation is at its most mimetic when a translator attempts to establish as close to a 1:1 equivalency between two languages as possible, often referred to as “calquing.” Given the importance of process in Surrealist art, attempts to recreate or channel the creative process when translating would also be considered mimetic.
Before I could be disheartened completely, I came across Brzostowska-Tereszkiewicz’s analysis of what might constitute successful Surrealist translation:
“Surrealist translation” neutralizes the opposition between foreignization and domestication in the sense established in translation studies. Its main task is to develop the unpredictable influx of linguistic magma in unanticipated directions and thus keep the reader’s thoughts engaged and multiplying, rather than to recreate the semantic clashes that animate the original … It is not about recreating the oneiric aura of the original, but about endowing the original with the oneiric aura in an experimental act engendered by the translator’s imagination.***
There’s a lot to unpack here, with some crucial insight and ideas. Surrealist translation is possible! Following my reading of Brzostowska-Tereszkiewicz’s article, I began to devise a system of rules for Surrealistically translating Surrealist poetry, about which I am not entirely confident but very enthusiastic.
RULES FOR SURREALIST TRANSLATION
after Tamara Brzostowska-Tereszkiewicz
A “Surrealist” translation refers to neither the original text’s historical context nor the poetics into which it is translated, but rather the unmimetic, anti-illusionist, and aberrant relationship between the target metapoem and the original.
Surrealist translation should be a powerful stimulus for the unconstrained creative activities of the poet-translator.
Automatic translation is impossible. Adjust your expectations accordingly.
Translation should not only be cross-cultural, but cross-sensual as well.
Surrealist metaphors must be interpreted literally.
Avoid imitation of original process.
Exploit sound similarities and ambiguities.
Embrace puns, homonyms, slips of the tongue (and slips of the reason).
Preserve the original effect of defamiliarization.
Recreate unexpected semantic clashes.
You may preserve the formal, stylistic, and picturesque properties of the original.
You may import similes, metaphors, and catachresis by means of calquing.
You will often have no other choice than to take “unmimetic turns” to convey the oneiric appeal, aleatoricity and figurativeness of the originals.
“Unmimetic” does not mean challenging the translator’s efforts to situate the text in relation to a stable, recognizable reality, but rather allowing occasional deviations from literalness and the source text.
Don’t forget to have fun 😊
Okay, I made up that last one. These rules are by no means exhaustive or universal; I am, after all, a relatively green Surrealist. They’re merely intended to provide some guidance through a bewildering practice.
Andreas Embirikos
In order to put my rules to the test, I returned to the Greek Surrealist poet who inspired this deep dive: Andreas Embirikos (Ανδρέας Εμπειρίκος). A poet and psychoanalyst in the early 1900s, Embirikos was one of the first Surrealist writers of Greece. He was distinguished from other Surrealist writers of his time through his use of eroticism to question ethics and morals in Greek society. I discovered Embirikos through his prose poems, one of which, “ΧΕΙΜΕΡΙΝΑ ΣΤΑΦΥΛΙΑ” (“WINTER GRAPES”), I decided to translate. The original Greek reads as such:
ΧΕΙΜΕΡΙΝΑ ΣΤΑΦΥΛΙΑ
Της πήραν τα παιγνίδια και τον εραστή της. Έσκυψε λοιπόν το κεφάλι και παρ’ ολίγον να πεθάνη. Μα τα δεκατρία ριζικά της σαν τα δεκατέσσερά της χρόνια εσπάθισαν την φευγαλέα συμφορά. Κανείς δεν μίλησε. Κανείς δεν έτρεξε να την προστατεύση κατά των υπερποντίων καρχαριών που την είχαν ήδη ματιάξει όπως ματιάζει η μυίγα ένα διαμάντι μια χώρα μαγεμένη. Κ’ έτσι ξεχάστηκε ανηλεώς αυτή η ιστορία όπως συμβαίνει κάθε φορά που ξεχνιέται από τον δασοφύλακα το αστροπελέκι του στο δάσος.****
From here, I consulted my rules. In order to be able to defamiliarize in my translation, I (ironically) needed to familiarize myself as much as possible with the Greek. I did so through calquing, producing this literal translation:
[(OF) WINTER] [GRAPES]
[(They) took] [toys/playthings] [and] [lover] [(of) her]. [(She) bent] [so] [her] [head] [and] [nearly/almost] [died]. [But] [her] [thirteen] [fates/fortunes] [like] [her] [fourteen] [years] [speared/pierced] [the] [fleeting] [tragedy]. [Anybody/nobody] [not] [they spoke]. [Anybody/nobody] [not] [ran] [to protect] [against] [overseas] [sharks] [which] [had] [already] [given (her) the evil eye] [like] [gives the evil eye (to)] [a fly] [a diamond] [a] [land] [enchanted]. [And] [so] [was forgotten] [mercilessly] [the story] [as] [it happens] [every] [time] [(he) forgets] [the park ranger] [lightning bolt] [in] [the forest].
Which I then assembled into semantic coherency:
GRAPES OF WINTER
They took her toys and her lover. So, she bent her head and nearly died. But her thirteen fates like her fourteen years impaled the fleeting tragedy. Nobody spoke. Nobody ran to protect her from the sharks overseas which had already given her the evil eye like how a fly gives the evil eye to a diamond or an enchanted land. And so, the story was mercilessly forgotten like what happens every time a forest ranger forgets his thunderbolt in the forest.
And now I could have some fun.
WINTER GRAPES
The girl has her toys and her lover (one of her toys?) until they’re taken. The girl breaks her swan and dies (almost). But the girl’s 13 hairs of destiny like her 14 years stabbed (as with an epée à l'estoc) the tragic fairy fleeting, the fleeting tragedy, the woe. ––––––– spoke. –––––––rivered to the girl, ––––––– protected her from transatlantic sharks which had already given her the evil eye (ftou ftou ftou!) like a housefly giving a refracting, reflecting, parabolic superpositive evil eye (ftou ftou ftou!) to a diamond or a land enchanted. And so, the story was mercilessly forgotten like what happens every time a forest ranger forgets his thunderbolt in the forest.
It was only after finishing my Surrealist translation that I understood what Brzostowska-Tereszkiewic meant by “linguistic magma.” Compared to my prior experiences with translation, where words felt like puzzle pieces to fit together, translating Surrealistically made the language molten hot candy, waiting to be stretched and transformed. The satisfaction I derived felt less like I had completed a Sudoku puzzle, and more like I had created a piece of art. Who knows what Embirikos would think of my translation, but I feel like I am both a better translator and Surrealist because of it.
Featured image: Grapes, Lemons, Pears, and Apples (1887), Vincent van Gogh
* Tamara Brzostowska-Tereszkiewic, “Translating Surrealist Poetics” in Comparative Critical Studies, Volume 19 Issue 1 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2022).
** Adam Ważyk, Wybór przekładów (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1979).
*** Brzostowska-Tereszkiewic, “Translating Surrealist Poetics.”
**** Leonidas A. Embirikos, Ypsikaminos (Athens: Agra, 1935).
