For our penultimate Book Club selection of the year, we looked to the occupations of memory and philosophy to find Burhan Sönmez’s masterful novel, Labyrinth. Brought into English from Turkish with every bit of its poeticism intact by the author’s long-time partner in literature, Ümit Hussein, the work tellingly arrives at a time when we as readers are questioning the integrity of our collective memories more than ever. In the following interview, Asymptote’s Assistant Blog Editor Sarah Moore speaks to Hussein on her relationship with Sönmez, the necessity of knowing where a novel “comes from”, and the lonely profession of translation.
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Sarah Moore (SM): You’ve translated several other books by Burhan Sönmez. How has his work evolved over the years in terms of content or style? Can you point to some longstanding themes? What stood out to you about this particular novel?
Ümit Hussein (UH): Burhan and I first met when we were both starting out. I have translated all his novels to date, including his first, North—the only one yet to be published in English. I don’t want to misquote the number of books he told me he read in preparation for it, but I believe it was over a hundred. Because the novel was still in manuscript form when I translated it (it hadn’t yet found a Turkish publisher), he kept revising it. I must say, that’s something that hasn’t changed over time! He’s incredibly meticulous. Every word he writes has been carefully considered and rethought and rewritten. I know because I work very closely with my authors; I think it’s important to establish a rapport during the translation process, and consequently I’m one of those tiresome translators who is constantly in touch with questions and comments and requests for explanations.
While each of Burhan’s novels bears his unmistakeable stamp, they are all very different and have evolved over time. Istanbul Istanbul may be his most mature in terms of craftsmanship and poeticism, but my personal favourite is Sins and Innocents. Both revolve largely around storytelling, as does Burhan’s work at large. In Istanbul Istanbul, four prisoners sharing a tiny underground cell distract each other with stories. Similarly, half of Sins and Innocents is set in Burhan’s native village in Central Anatolia, and each chapter in the Anatolian half is devoted to the often dramatic story of a real life village character. These chapters could, if developed, comprise novels in themselves: there are tales of young girls being buried alive, a student mistakenly shot dead by his brother who is embroiled in a blood feud, a beautiful woman scarred for life when she is attacked by a she-bear maddened with grief after the death of her cubs. Burhan is a born storyteller, because he comes from a culture where the oral tradition is very prominent.
Another characteristic of his writing is its sombre nature, which often verges on the bleak. His novels abound with death, torture, and tragedy. At the same time, there is a vein of optimism and humanity running throughout, coupled with Burhan’s particular form of dry, subtle humour… although this is entirely absent in Labyrinth! Boratin, for instance, doesn’t so much as smile once. I sometimes jokingly tell Burhan that the more his personal life improves, the bleaker his novels become.
SM: Sönmez’s previous novel, Istanbul Istanbul, is very overtly about its titular city, which happens to play an important role in Labyrinth as well. Did you resort to any special “tactics” in order to convey the author’s portrayal of this Middle Eastern icon to English-speaking, primarily Western audiences?
UH: Istanbul Istanbul contains one of the most evocative descriptions of the city I have ever read. It personifies and sexualises it, depicting it as capricious and ruthless yet compelling. It talks of the Istanbul that exists underground and the Istanbul that exists overground, and at times the distinction between the two becomes blurred. The streets are alive, the sea is prone to moods, the reader can practically smell the fish, taste the rakı, and hear the squawking of the seagulls. As you point out, Istanbul is also a very strong presence in Labyrinth, but in a very different way: it is the unknown, potentially hostile world outside Boratin’s window, the city he knew intimately in his past life but where he now feels lost and threatened, rather like the inside of his mind.
One of my favourite “tactics”, as you express it, is to leave words in Turkish and include a glossary on the back. I’m not a fan of footnotes (I find them intrusive) but a glossary gives the reader the choice of consulting them or not, and therefore doesn’t interrupt the flow of the narrative. Leaving a few words in the original language—particularly for food, terms of address, and exclamations—makes the reader aware that this is a translation. You may wonder why I would want to do that, given that the translator’s mission is to make the transition from the source to the target language as smooth as possible; it’s because my aim as a translator is to promote the literature written in my other mother tongue. I want the reader to be aware of where this novel comes from, to remind her that it wasn’t originally written in English, and that she is in fact traveling to another place.
SM: The way in which the past is interpreted or experienced in the present is an integral theme in the novel. Its value is questioned many times throughout, and no clear answer is provided. What is the importance of the past in your view, specifically with regards to identity?
UH: In Labyrinth, Burhan opens up a very interesting debate about the extent to which our past shapes us. By losing his memory, Boratin has been cleansed of his past but is doubtful about being able to escape it, fearing he will discover that he has done something terrible in his previous life. Boratin has no past, yet he’s constantly preoccupied with its non-existence.
Although most of us do have a past, we evolve continuously: we go to university, move to different countries, change our social class, associate with a wider range of people, learn new skills… so much so, that we are arguably no longer the same person as that child or adolescent that grew up in our hometown. At the same time, we have a tendency to define ourselves in terms of what we learned during our formative years.
I’ve just finished reading the autobiography of a very famous and very wealthy rock star, who archetypically grew up in very humble circumstances. Despite the subsequent mansions, expensive cars, and lavish lifestyle, he claims to have retained the working class values he was brought up with. Should his identity be defined by his modest past or by his many years of extravagance and worldwide fame? Obviously, the two are inextricably linked: he wouldn’t be the person he is today if it weren’t for those early beginnings, but his identity is clearly that of a rock star. The multimillionaire, flamboyant version of himself has existed for far longer than that of the young boy living above a news agency in North London.
Another example that springs to mind is Nabokov’s Humbert Humbert. His obsession with nymphets stems from an unfulfilled sexual encounter with his first love in his very early youth. When the object of that love suddenly dies, before they have a chance to consummate their passion, Humbert’s sexual tastes are defined for life. That bygone, irremediable frustration permanently determines his present and future behaviour. If Humbert Humbert lost his memory, would he still be exclusively aroused by girls below the age of consent? It’s difficult to say.
Speaking for myself, my past has played a very important role in shaping my identity. I am a British citizen of Turkish Cypriot origin who lives in Spain. Undeniably, I have evolved over the years, but some aspects of my past remain indelible. For example, despite having spent many years living in a city where temperatures soar to over forty degrees Celsius, I still have the very British compulsion to rush outside on sunny days and “make the most of the sunshine before it rains”… no matter that most people complain about the heat most of the time!
SM: As well as being a literary translator, you work as an interpreter. How do these two practices complement each other?
UH: I feel very privileged to be able to combine the two. They say translating is the loneliest profession in the world; you can spend days without going out or speaking to anyone. That’s necessary, of course, but I do find that human interaction at large is gradually being eroded in this digital age. That’s where my other job steps in: interpreting provides an ideal break from the silent, isolated task of translation. I come from a Mediterranean family of six women, and there was rarely a silent moment at home. My love of talking is probably why I learned several languages (in addition to Turkish and Spanish, I speak French and Italian).
I do most of my interpreting over the telephone. I’m available 24/7 for public and emergency services, which means I sometimes get woken up at 4 A.M. by callers who have just come home to a tragedy or crime scene. It’s not all as dramatic as that, of course; I also get calls from insurance companies about burst pipes and rain damage during storms, or from organisations like The Red Cross for long interviews with asylum seekers. In addition, I interpret at conferences and volunteer for organisations such as La Vía Campesina, which defends peasants’ rights.
This volunteer work has given me the chance to travel to exotic destinations like South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Tanzania, and whenever I go on one of these missions, I return with a newfound perspective on life. It’s very sobering to meet and talk about people whose land (and hence, livelihood) has been snatched by multinationals; who can’t send their children to school because they can’t pay the fees; who can’t afford transportation to a hospital or walk there in time for labor, being forced to deliver unaided in the middle of a field and subsequently losing their baby. But it’s also very refreshing to learn, for example, about ancestral methods for scaring away elephants so they don’t trample on your crops!
SM: You’ve translated work in genres other than literary fiction, such as a series of cookbooks by Nevin Halici. What are some of the particular challenges of translating literary fiction as opposed to other genres?
UH: As far as nonfiction goes, I have translated cookbooks and a book of real-life accounts of honour killings in Turkey, both of which were fascinating and extremely satisfying. I also do commercial translations for agencies, which can be less fascinating than that but sometimes more. There was, for instance, a love letter from a Turkish man to his estranged English girlfriend, or another man’s twenty-six page collection of letters complaining to the city council in minute detail (complete with dates and times) about his neighbour’s outrages, including her turning against him when he refused to marry her sister so she could obtain a British passport.
All translation has its challenges. In the case of literary fiction, you must capture the writer’s voice or transmit cultural references to a different audience in an unobtrusive way; a fable or popular hero that everyone in Turkey is familiar with, for example, may need explaining in English. Titles, too, are a challenge: one that works really well in the original language may be meaningless or flat in English. These are, however, exciting challenges. As you delve into a translation, you start to get a feel for its voice, and I’m so accustomed to Burhan’s that translating it comes almost naturally by now.
Ultimately, I believe the main challenge of literary fiction is that it’s a labour of love. Translating a novel is satisfying and creative, but I can’t think of it as a livelihood: it is such a long, painstaking process, and it certainly isn’t lucrative. I always go through at least three (and sometimes four) versions of my manuscript before submitting it. Then come revisions with the author, and finally corrections with the editor. If I were to calculate my hourly rate based on all that, it would come down to something very depressing indeed. That’s why it’s very important to insist on a contract that foresees royalties for the translator; they are almost never due, because sales rarely exceed the fee paid as an advance, but one should make provisions just in case.
Translators have traditionally lived in the shadows, but it’s time to lift them out and make them more visible, which is why I’m grateful for this interview. Thank you.
Ümit Hussein was born in Bethnal Green and raised in Tottenham, North London. Her parents are Turkish Cypriot and she grew up speaking both Turkish and English. She taught English as a second language for several years, during which time she lived in Spain, Japan, Portugal, and France. She studied Italian and European Literature at university and has an MA in Literary Translation. Ümit has translated novels by prominent authors such as Mehmet Yashin, Ahmet Altan, Burhan Sönmez, Nermin Yıldırım, and Yavuz Ekinci, amongst others. In 2018, her translation of Burhan Sönmez’s Istanbul Istanbul won the inaugural EBRD prize. She now lives in Seville, where she combines translation with interpreting.
Sarah Moore is a bookseller and editor from Cambridge, UK. She currently lives in Paris and is an Assistant Blog Editor for Asymptote.