Daisy Rockwell makes a case for translation as a ‘three-legged race’ and ‘a huge goddamn wedding’

Translation is a three-legged race

Translation is a three-legged race The author and translator attached at the hip hopping awkwardly along or competitively attempting to move forward jostling one another running into other author–translator pairs along the course crumpling in an awkward heap at the finish line Are they bound together with a rope? Or is it more of a sack-race scenario? In which case do they each put a leg in the sack and hop along or is the translator a sack-racer and the sack is the original text and the translator must hop the text along the course reach the finish line again collapsing in an undignified heap Did I win? she gasps, looking around The other translators all lie panting on the grass swathed in burlap If you made it to the finish line that means you finished the book It was published The problem with the three-legged race metaphor is that whilst the translator is always tethered to the author The author is free to compete in all manner of track and field events on their own They only need the translator if they wish to be known outside their language Of course this creates greater dependence on the monocrop translators The translators and the authors compete in three-legged races among the rippling fields of wheat They trample over the soybeans get tangled in the stalks of corn Perhaps translation into English is a three- legged race through a corn maze Whoever hops their way through the labyrinth of cornstalks will be published But some of the translators may tire of the process Shake off their attachments Run for the exit, with which they are more familiar with since this is their cornfield, after all The poor authors emerge hours later exhausted, parched, disoriented They find the translators yukking it up by the cider press eating corndogs Oh, there you are, they say dismissively We were wondering if you’d make it out of that monocrop maze

Illustrations from the book by Daisy Rockwell. Translation is like hosting a huge goddamn wedding

So, she says I’m going to host a wedding, she says Why? he asks You have no children, he points out You’re not even the legal guardian of any potential bride and groom Hush up, she says I’m working on a metaphor, she explains This is a metaphor for maximalism, you see Okay, he says I’m listening, he adds So I’m going to host a wedding It’s going to be the biggest goddamn wedding you’ve ever seen Language, he says Stop riding me, she remonstrates This is a work in progress, she explains Okay, he says You do you I’m all ears Go for it Lay it on me, he extemporizes So the bride and the groom Or the bride and the bride Or the groom and the groom Or whatever Okay, he says I’m still talking, she snaps Sorry, he adds It doesn’t really matter – the genders, she explains Because what matters is that they come from hugely different backgrounds Different cultures maybe Different languages Different castes Different religions But the wedding must be huge Two hundred fifty people from each side A buffet of massive proportions Suitable for every taste and dietary restriction Veg non-veg Gluten-free nut allergies paleo vegan spicy bland I get it, he intervenes Everyone must be happy Okay, he says The buffet in this metaphor is the translation, she explains Okay, he says The wedding guests are the readers, she submits You can’t please everyone, he ventures But I will try, she asserts The huge goddamn wedding party represents the maximalist approach to imagining audience Good luck with that, he allows For me, I prefer an intimate dinner party after a visit to the courthouse What is that a metaphor for, she asks Minimalism, he explains My audience can take it or leave it Once my job is done

Excerpted with permission from Mixed Metaphors: The Art of Translation , Daisy Rockwell, Bloomsbury India.