Lost in Translation

I was curious about different translations of Heidi, so I decided to acquire a few more copies of the book and compare them. Below are the first two paragraphs from each of the four different translations that I looked at.

Translation #1

The pretty little Swiss town of Mayenfeld lies at the foot of a mountain range, whose grim rugged peaks tower high above the valley below. Behind the town a footpath winds gently up to the heights. The grass on the lower slopes is poor, but the air is fragrant with the scent of mountain flowers from the rich pasture land higher up.

One sunny June morning, a tall sturdy young woman was climbing up the path. She had a bundle in one hand and held a little girl about five years old by the other. The child’s sunburnt cheeks were flushed, which was not surprising, for though the sun was hot she was wrapped up as though it was mid-winter. It was difficult to see what she was like for she was wearing two frocks, one on top of the other, and had a large red scarf wound round and round her as well. She looked like some shapeless bundle of clothing trudging uphill on a pair of hobnailed boots.

Puffin Classics, translated by Eileen Hall

Translation #2

From the old and pleasantly situated village of Mayenfeld, a footpath winds through green and shady meadows to the foot of the mountains, which on this side look down from their stern and lofty heights upon the valley below. The land grows gradually wilder as the path ascends, and the climber has not gone far before he begins to inhale the fragrance of the short grass and sturdy mountain-plants, for the way is steep and leads directly up to the summits above.

On a clear sunny morning in June two figures might be seen climbing the narrow mountain path; one a tall strong-looking girl, the other a child whom she was leading by the hand, and whose little cheeks were so aglow with heat that the crimson colour could be seen even through the dark, sunburnt skin. And this was hardly to be wondered at, for in spite of the hot June sun the child was clothed as if to keep off the bitterest frost. She did not look more than five years old, if as much, but what her natural figure was like, it would have been hard to say, for she had on apparently two, if not three dresses, one above the other, and over these a thick red woollen shawl wound round about her, so that the little body presented a shapeless appearance, as, with its small feet shod in thick, nailed mountain-shoes, it slowly and laboriously plodded its way up in the heat. . . .

–Airmont Books, translator unknown

Translation #3

From the pleasant village of Mayenfeld a path leads through green fields, richly covered with trees, to the foot of the mountain, which from this side overhangs the valley with grave and solemn aspect. Where the path begins to grow steeper, begins also the heath with its short grass; and the perfume of sweet mountain plants seems to advance as if welcoming the traveller. From this spot the footpath rises almost perpendicularly to the summit.

Along this steep mountain path a stout, healthy girl was climbing, one clear, sunny morning in June, leading by the hand a child, whose cheeks were so glowing red that she looked as if an inward flame were shining through her sunburned skin. And little wonder, for the child was as much wrapped up on this sunny June morning as if to protect her from bitter frost. The little girl could be scarcely more than five years old; but her natural size could not even be guessed at, for she had on two, if not three, dresses, one over the other, and over all, wound round and round, was a great red woollen shawl; so that the little shapeless figure, with its heavy hobnailed mountain shoes, toiled hot and weary up the steep hillside.

–Childrens’ Classics, translated by Louise Brooks

Translation #4

The little old town of Mayenfeld is charmingly situated. From it a footpath leads through green, well-wooded stretches to the foot of the heights which look down imposingly on the valley. Where the footpath begins to go steeply and abruptly up the Alps, the heath, with its short grass and pungent herbage, at once sends out its soft perfume to meet the wayfarer.

One bright sunny morning in June, a tall, vigorous maiden of the mountain region climbed up the narrow path, leading a little girl by the hand. The youngster’s cheeks were in such a glow that it showed even through her sun-browned skin. Small wonder though! for in spite of the heat, the little one, who was scarcely five years old, was bundled up as if she had to face a bitter frost. Her shape was difficult to distinguish, for she wore two dresses, if not three, and around her shoulders a large red cotton shawl. With her feet encased in heavy hob-nailed boots, this hot and shapeless little person toiled up the mountain.

Simon & Brown, translator unknown

I have always been leery of translations, worrying that the author’s style would be lost. I think now, after looking through the different translations, that my concern is justified. These excerpts all tell the same story, but each has a different feel.

Based on these excerpts, which translation of Heidi would you choose?

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A Week of Spring

Monday: One of the most beautiful spring days ever. When my husband went to pick up Marshall at his bus stop, Livia and I sneaked out in our bare feet, sat upon the sun-warmed rocks, played with sticks, and admired the daffodil buds.

Marshall picked the first dandelion of the season. He asked for a vase, so I found one of my little vases for him. The dandelion looks pretty in the window, doesn’t it?

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After I finished work, Marshall and I went outside. I did some freelance work while Marshall blew bubbles. When Livia got up from her nap, we all went up to the playground area of the yard. I sat in the swing and watched the kids play in the dirt. It always amazes me how it’s the simplest things—a pile of dirt, some shovels, a toy dump truck, and a bucket—that seem to keep them busy the longest.

The kids needed a bath when they were done playing. I bathed them and then they ran around with their hoodie towels on. The towels reminded me of capes, and they made the children look like little superheroes.

After the kids went to bed, I made an Italian rice pie. This is something I had wanted to try since seeing a recipe in the newspaper. I thought a traditional rice pie would be nice to bring to my sister-in-law’s house for Easter. But she informed us that someone else was planning to bring a rice pie and asked us to bring salad instead, which we did <yawn>. Well, just because rice pie is traditional for Easter doesn’t mean you can’t make it after Easter, right? And here’s how it came out.

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You can’t tell from the picture, but this pie was already half-eaten. When the pie was all gone, my husband said, “You’re not allowed to make this again.” (translation: “It was so good that I ate almost all of it and now I will surely get fat, so you must not tempt me like this again.”)

Tuesday: The daffodils popped!

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I went for a walk in the woods and paused to watch a spider trek across a tiny garden of moss and lichen, and to listen to the wind blowing through the branches of a giant pine tree, and to watch a pair of butterflies fluttering by, and to appreciate the cool shade of Council Rock, and to admire veins of quartz in the rocks.

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Wednesday: Long, horrible day, getting reading for my trip to CT for work.

Thursday: I drove to CT and had a relatively easy day at the office, thanks to all my preparations the day before. I was able to leave early, so I didn’t have to fight traffic on the way to my mother’s house. We went out to dinner together. She offered me a basket of kitchen items which she had gotten from my aunt and which my aunt had gotten from a neighbor, who had purchased it at a church fundraiser. I knew I probably didn’t need anything in the basket, but I figured I’d look through it and donate anything I didn’t want.

I looked at the basket when I got home and immediately noticed that there was something unusual about it. There was a box inside that seemed different from the other items, and there was a tag on the basket on which someone had written “and something extra!” The extra something turned out to be two bone china teacups, both which featured roses. It’s a lucky thing that my mother had told me the history of the basket. I called her up and said, “Hey, I know my aunt likes roses. Does she happen to collect teacups?” “Yes,” my mom said. “She does.” So my aunt had given away the basket without even looking inside and consequently had given away the real gift portion of it. And so had my mother. Let that be a lesson to regifters everywhere!

And yes, in case you’re wondering, I sent the teacups back to my aunt.

Friday: Work, work, work.

Saturday: We spent several hours on Saturday at my husband’s aunt’s apartment. She had passed away a few weeks before, and now the time had come to start going through her things. It was a challenge sorting the trash from the treasure. It seems that she kept every box she’d ever had. The sheets on her bed were old and worn, but she had huge trunks filled with linens that looked as though they had never been used. She even had a big bag full of lids from plastic contains. But there were gems, too, hidden among all that worthless stuff. There was this carnival glass set, which we kept, of course.

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And we think her curio cabinets will look nice in our house once we clean them up. Here is a picture of one of them.

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It pains me to have taken these items from her place, just as I hated taking some of my grandfather’s things after he died. But I look at my grandfather’s things, which now live quite comfortably among my own, and I’m glad to have reminders of him. I didn’t know my husband’s aunt well, because she was already losing her memory by the time I first met her, but I liked her. And because we have these things in our house, we will remember her often.

Sunday: A day of rest, much needed and much enjoyed.

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It’s Lack That Gives Us Inspiration

It’s lack that gives us inspiration. It’s not fullness. Not ever having driven, I can write better about automobiles than the people who drive them. I have a distance here. . . . Space travel is another good example. I’m never going to go to Mars but I’ve helped inspire, thank goodness, the people who built the rockets and sent our photographic equipment off to Mars. So it’s always a lack that causes you to write that type of story.

Ray Bradbury

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Tricks of the Trade

Dear Marshall,

I recently wrote a post about how difficult your sister can be. Well, she’s not the only one. You don’t always want to do what you’re supposed to do either. It’s normal for a kid your age, but boy, it’s tough sometimes! How do you force a little boy to do something he really doesn’t want to do? Threats and punishments? Yeah, sometimes. But those aren’t much fun, and they can’t be used all the time. For the small, everyday issues, we’ve had to find other ways to motivate you, such as . . .

  • The Sauce Ploy: You don’t care for unfamiliar food. I’ve tried a lot of tricks for getting you to try new foods, but only a few have worked. The Sauce Ploy is one of the most successful. I still remember the first time I used it. I was eating hummus and I offered some to you. You wouldn’t touch it. But when I told you it was “sauce,” suddenly you were willing to try it. And you loved it! You kept coming back for more, dipping your baby carrot in the hummus and then running to the other room to eat it. You were so cute! Since then we’ve gotten you to eat a number of other sauce-like foods and condiments, and I consider the Sauce Ploy to be one of my best tricks.
  • The Arugula Game: Your father gets the credit for this wonderfully simple, yet effective, game. We take out a few pieces of arugula, or any other salad green, and we say, “Marshall, don’t eat that!” You grab the greens with glee and slowly move them toward your mouth. We pretend to be horrified, especially when you start chewing them. We say things like, “Oh, no! Poor arugula! I can’t believe you ate it!” You think this game is the funniest thing ever.
  • Bedtime Armor: Getting you to put on your pajamas at night used to be a chore, so we told you that alligators would bite you while you slept unless you were wearing your Alligator Armor (a.k.a. footie jammies). It might sound like a terrible thing to tell a child, but you were fascinated by alligators and loved anything to do with them. We still use this game almost every night in some variation. Once your armor is on, your dad and I pretend to be alligators. We gently bite your arm and then we act like it tastes awful. Ptooey! You love that. And we have other variations of the game for when you’re bored with alligators. There’s Skunk Armor (to keep the skunks from stinking you up while you sleep) and there’s also Invisibility Armor (which makes you invisible if you put your hands on your head, but only until the invisibility batteries wear out).
  • Alligators in the Potty: For a while you couldn’t be bothered to go to the potty. You’d wait and wait until you were dancing to hold it in. Sometimes you’d wait too long. So we started pretending that there were alligators in the potty that could only be removed by peeing on them. We’d say, “Go pee on the alligators!” And you would!

These games that we invented out of desperation are sometimes the highlights of the day. It surprises me, but it shouldn’t, because I find more and more that happiness is a state of mind. It stands to reason that fun is, too. Approach life with a sense of humor and a willingness to be amused, and you will probably have lots of fun. Remember that, because it’s probably the best trick of all.

Love,

Mom

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More Acquisitions

  • Of Cabbages and Kings and Many Other Things by Marguerite Hurrey Wolf
  • Walking the Maze by Margaret Shaw
  • Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli
  • Heidi by Johanna Spyri (translator unknown)
  • Heidi by Johanna Spyri (translator Louise Brooks)
  • Witch Week by Diana Wynne Jones
  • The Boggart and the Monster by Susan Cooper
  • Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D. Taylor
  • Number the Stars by Lois Lowry
  • The Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed by Karen Elizabeth Gordon
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Growing Older Every Day

I used to love birthdays. I remember eagerly anticipating each one. As soon as I was a few months past one birthday, I’d start upping my age toward the next. For example, a few months after turning 12, I would have given my age as “12 and a half” or “almost 13.”

Back then, birthdays meant parties and gifts, not to mention new freedoms. Thirteen made you a teenager. Sixteen made you a driver. Eighteen made you a voter. And twenty-one made you a legal drinker. But after twenty-one, the birthdays only brought age. Sure, there were other milestones to reach, but they weren’t guaranteed. In fact, the chances of achieving some of them would only decrease with each additional birthday.

Then came my first difficult birthday: 27. I decided that I didn’t like my life’s direction, so I broke up with my then boyfriend, found a new boyfriend, and quit smoking. That seemed to make me feel better for a while. While I can’t say I enjoyed the subsequent birthdays, no one of them seemed too bad.

That is, until 40. Forty was my worst birthday to date. I had been able, to an extent, to ignore certain physical changes that come with age (wrinkles, gray hair, memory problems, etc.). Hitting 40 brought it all home. I felt old. I could not ignore that I was on the downhill, that I probably had less time left to live than what I had already lived, that if I hoped to do anything to distinguish myself from the masses, I had better do it soon. The number of tomorrows was not infinite. It was diminishing. Procrastination was not just a bad habit; it was a murderer of dreams.

Hence my forays into the writing market. Honestly, writing is not the big dream for me that it once was. And it hurts to be forty and starting out as a beginner at something. I hate being inept. I know how long it can take to master an art, and I doubt I have enough time and energy to properly invest in it.

Yet it is better to chase an old dream than to do nothing at all. It is better to be inept than to be inactive. It is better to be alive than not, so I guess I’d better just accept my age and adopt a new motto: grow old or die trying! And while I’m growing older every day, there are worse things I could do than to take my ever-expanding lifetime’s worth of experiences and try to turn them into stories.

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Difficult

Dear Livia,

You are very particular about everything. It makes life difficult sometimes. For example, you hold us all up every morning as you decide which shirt and pants to wear. That is, if you’ll even wear them. It’s amazing how often you run around this house wearing only your diaper and onesie. How you can stand to wear so little, with the temperature in the low 60’s, I do not know. But while you may be difficult about choosing clothes, you take pleasure in being dressed up prettily. And for the record, you have rocked almost every outfit you’ve ever worn.

Believe it or not, you even debate over which diaper to wear. You’ll point to one diaper and say, “Dat nun!” But if we take that one and start unfolding it, you’ll point at another and say, “No! Dat nun!” You’ll go back and forth several times. If we try to put on the “wrong” one, you’ll throw a fit. Your comfort is also very important. You insist on having your pillow under your head while your diaper is changed.

Of course, you shouldn’t be in diapers anymore. You should be potty-trained, and you’re close. Really close. But there are so many unwritten, constantly-changing rules and rituals that you insist on. Every trip to the potty is difficult and time-consuming. I haven’t been pushing you (I tried that before and it didn’t work). That said, I’ll still be surprised if you’re not fully potty-trained soon. You’ve been pushing me! Plus, you’re so adamant about doing everything yourself, it’s bound to work in our favor eventually. Your favorite phrase is “My do!” (“Let me do it!”).

You like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You separate the slices of bread and lick off the jelly first. If you’re still hungry, you might eat the bread and peanut butter. Or maybe not, because you’re picky, and you’re willing to skip entire meals and hold out for something better. Meanwhile, after eating your sandwich, your face will be covered with jelly and/or peanut butter, but you don’t like to have your face cleaned. We practically have to pin you down just so we can take a couple of swipes at it.

Yup, you’re difficult. It’s normal for a two-year-old, so it’s probably just a phase. But just in case you decide to carry on this way for the rest of your life, let me share one of my favorite sayings with you.

Why be merely difficult when with a little more effort you could be totally impossible?

You’re not even close to impossible. Yet. So there’s still work to be done. Keep it up and maybe someday you’ll be as difficult as your mother.

Love,
Mom

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Writing With Purpose

Nothing is better at killing the desire to write than deciding to write with purpose.

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Book and Discussion

The Beauty of Humanity Movement by Camilla Gibb
Grade: B+

The Beauty of Humanity Movement is the 2013 Reading Across Rhode Island choice, which is probably why it was picked for this month’s book discussion at my local library. I had been meaning to join a book discussion, and this book sounded decent, so I decided to give the whole thing a go.

The Beauty of Humanity Movement is set in present-day Vietnam. An indigent pho seller, Hu’ng, and his adopted family dig into the past as they attempt to help Maggie, an expatriate, find out what happened to her father, whom she last saw during the fall of Saigon.

In grading the book, I hesitated between a B+ and an A-. It was, perhaps, the difference between considering the main character to be the pho seller or to be the pho itself.  I give Hu’ng a B+ and the pho an A-. It’s not that the story was bad, or the writing. It’s just that it somehow never really touched me. I felt sad about the bad things that happened to the characters, but not sad on their behalves, just sad because those kinds of things happen in this world. Mostly I just wanted to eat some pho.

As for the book discussion, well, that was sort of odd. The book group is composed of seven or eight women. They are, by their own account, a tight-knit group and they rarely get newcomers. They neither welcomed me with open arms nor tried to shut me out. It was slightly awkward but not awful. The next meeting will be about The Thirteenth Tale, which I wouldn’t mind rereading, so maybe I’ll go. We’ll see.

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Sweet Read

Heidi by Johanna Spyri (translated by Eileen Hall)
Grade: A-

Heidi is a wonderful story about a young girl who lives in the mountains with her grandfather and who brings cheer into the hearts of everyone she meets. It’s one of those saccharine stories, like Pollyanna, that ought to nauseate and somehow hits the spot instead.

One small problem with Heidi is that it’s a translation (German to English). With translations you never know if you’re going to get a good one or a bad one. The version I read was translated by Eileen Hall. It was enjoyable, but I wonder how other translations compare. Maybe there’s a better one?

A second small problem is that, if you are not a Christian, the emphasis on religion could be off-putting. It doesn’t bother me to read about characters with religious beliefs, but I do start to get irritated when a book gets preachy. Heidi teetered on the edge, getting close to preachy at times, but never becoming intolerable. Anyway, religion is par for the course in classic children’s literature. That’s just the way it is (or was).

All things considered, Heidi is a sweet read and I recommend it. If I am able to find more information about other English translations, I’ll append it to this post later.

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