Denise Newman is a poet and translator based in San Francisco. She has published four collections of poetry, and translated two novels by Inger Christensen from the Danish—The Painted Room and Azorno—as well as the short story collection, Baboon, by Naja Marie Aidt, which won the 2015 PEN Translation Prize, and most recently, Aidt’s memoir, When Death Takes Something From You Give It Back: Carl’s Book. The memoir, a semi-finalist for the National Book Awards and a finalist for the 2019 Kirkus Prize, is saturated with the trauma experienced by a mother grieving her son. Nataliya Deleva recently spoke with Newman about her approach to translating this deeply personal narrative across various cultural contexts, her proximity to the text and its author, and the role of rhythm in conveying silence on the page.
Nataliya Deleva (ND): Translating is often co-creating, as it is not only the words and sentences of a text being translated, but also their meaning in a different cultural context. How did you find this process, considering this book is so painfully personal? Is grief universal?
Denise Newman (DN): Yes, the translation process touches on the mystery of language. I’ve often marveled at how translations of Bashō’s haikus seem to connect me directly to the moment of his observation. It doesn’t matter that the poem has traveled centuries, oceans, and languages. Maybe this is mostly possible when something is experienced and communicated directly, without any interference—then the original energy, which is outside the conditions of ordinary time and space, stays vital. I think this is what makes translating compelling; you have to go so deeply into a text that you depart from linear time and space. Working on Aidt’s book was hard, though, because of my own interference. She’s my friend, and my sorrow and concern for her sometimes got in the way, particularly while working on the passages that describe the last hours of Carl’s life. Her writing in this part is so direct, I felt as though I were actually present in the nightmare, and often needed to take breaks to clear my head. To get back to your question, I think all emotions are universal; we sense this when they are expressed directly, without any interference, as Aidt is able to do. Translating requires the ability to access those original emotions; they are what electrifies the language.
ND: You touch upon the difficulties you’ve encountered while translating Aidt’s book due to knowing her. I think it’s difficult not to empathize with her grief, especially knowing this is a memoir; I almost felt guilty for reading it and entering such a personal space. In translating the text, it feels like you’ve not only been allowed to enter that space (and become part of the grieving group, as Aidt calls the family and friends going through the healing process together), but you’ve also been given a very important task: of freeing it from the restrictions of language and culture and transporting it to a wider audience. This also appears part of the healing process. Have you ever thought about your role as a translator that way?
DN: I know what you mean about feeling guilty for entering such a private space. I felt that way at times. This was not a regular translation job. I was aware of the extra layer of responsibility to get it right. (Thankfully, Aidt is fluent in English, and I knew she’d be reviewing my draft.) I was grateful that I could support her in this tangible way. It’s an interesting question, though, how much the writing, how much the sharing, is part of healing.
Toward the end of the book, Aidt writes, “The poet, within a second, realizes that writing and language mean nothing in the face of death.” This is the paradox in which the book is written, and I believe it’s an existential one, like Beckett’s “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” Part of my job was to resist smoothing out the rough edges, but I always had faith that even the rawest passages would communicate in English. All the grief literature that Aidt quotes, from Gilgamesh to Denise Riley and Jacques Roubaud, shows points of connection across cultures and time. So you might say that literary translation is part of a larger healing process for the human family—healing the rifts caused by a lack of meaningful contact with other cultures.
ND: I’ve noticed that to be able to immerse myself in a text completely, I prefer to strip it down to its pellucid form. As Barthes says, traditional literary criticism focused too much on trying to retrace the author’s intentions and original meaning. When approaching Aidt’s memoir, I interacted with it in a very personal way—her grief became my grief (despite having very different roots), and her healing process became a way of looking at my own healing. This is not always possible, but even getting close to this approach to reading is when you connect at the deepest level, as you mention in the case of Bashō’s haikus. Do you think that such an approach is possible when translating the text, or do you think that knowing the writer is necessary for translating the meaning behind each word and sentence?
DN: I like how you contrast reading and translating. As a reader, I can relate to your personal way of immersing yourself in a text. You say this is to “strip it down,” like Barthes not retracing the historical context or the writer’s original meaning as in traditional literary criticism. Translation is for me both stripping down and holding open to possibility. At first, as I’m getting a feel for the distinct qualities of the writing, its emotional range, and logic, the text guides me, and I’m not concerned with how it sounds in English—that comes later. I follow every lead, like trying to draw a moving butterfly without looking at the page. There needs to be a complete openness to the original, or you’ll miss something, and that’ll have repercussions for the entire work. At the same time, I’m getting a feel for what Rosmarie Waldrop calls the “creative nucleus” of the text, the originating point that suffuses the entire work. I think that’s the foundation for the English words’ ability to vibrate with possibility as they do in the original.
My relationship with the two writers I’ve been primarily translating, Inger Christensen and Naja Marie Aidt, began with their work. I didn’t meet either of them until after I had finished a first draft. Having a personal relationship with the writers you translate is not essential, but connecting personally with their work is. It would be like an actor having to portray a character she doesn’t understand even if she knows the playwright. The main work is between the translator and the text. A friendship can be informative, but, as Barthes suggests for analysis, it might tempt you away from the writing itself.
ND: I’ve just finished reading Jennifer Croft’s memoir Homesick—another beautiful, albeit very different book. She mentions how, when translating a poem, “each time a Russian word meets an English word it generates a spark.” In your work of translating Aidt’s story, how were her words transformed into English? What was the chemical reaction they created for you?
DN: How can I describe the sensation? Danish and English are too similar to create sparks. When the English word tree meets the Danish word træ, for example, there’s a slight non-synchronicity, as when the sound is slightly off with a newscaster’s mouth movements. It’s uncanny. With some words, it’s as if I’m hearing an echo from English’s past. Both languages share the same West Germanic root, and many elemental words are similar, like rain (regn), egg (æg), day (dag), milk (mælk). Baboon, an earlier book of Aidt’s I also translated, pushes Danish into new registers of sound and usage, whereas Carl’s Book, for the most part, is primal. This makes it more easily suited for an English translation.
ND: Aidt’s book is heavy with grief, but it is also full of silence. She describes existing in nothingness after her devastating loss for weeks, months, and years. She was filling this empty space with memories, borrowed quotes and poems, yet the silence between the words remained. Did you feel that too when translating it, and do you think conveying this silence in the text—through rhythm, for example—was important?
DN: Silence is built into the structure of the book, which Aidt has compared to a tree, with the italicized parts that describe Carl’s last hours as the trunk; the quotations, memories, dreams, etc. are branches and leaves. The white space surrounding each part is loaded with silence. There’s also silence between sentences and fragments, which I believe comes from Aidt not filling in with explanations or transitions. The pressure of each utterance is pronounced by the space surrounding it. Maybe that’s how rhythm participates in the silence — the rhythm of strained speech.
ND: Some translators prefer that the author of the book doesn’t interfere with the translation process, but you’ve mentioned that your work on this book was very much a collaboration with Naja Marie Aidt. Do you find this collaborative process helpful for sustaining the author’s voice?
DN: Normally, I don’t consult the author until I’ve completed a solid draft, and then I limit my questions to ones only the author can answer. Carl’s Book was different. Naja became involved early in the process because there was a tight deadline to get a sample translation done. For that, we worked on the title together, in addition to a few other tricky issues. Once the sample was completed, I worked on the draft alone. Then Naja went through it closely, asking questions and making suggestions. Usually, I’m careful not to burden the author with my deliberations, but Naja made herself completely available, and her input was so valuable. I’m a big believer in collective translation with one or two people steering it. Naja was sensitive to my role and would often end her comments with “. . . but you decide.”
ND: You have previously mentioned to me that translating a book is a labor of love. How do you choose the books you translate and is this choice based on the author or the actual book? Which comes first for you?
DN: So far, I’ve chosen books based on the author. I backed into translation through a desire to better understand a sonnet series by Inger Christensen, and understanding is still my main motivation. I still have something to learn from Christensen and Aidt, and would translate any of their available books.
Denise Newman’s poetry collections are Future People, The New Make Believe, Wild Goods, and Human Forest. She is the translator of the novels Azorno and The Painted Room by the late Danish poet Inger Christensen, and Baboon, and When Death Takes Something From You Give It Back: Carl’s Book by Naja Marie Aidt, the latter a semi-finalist for the National Book Award and a finalist for the Kirkus Award. She has received a Creative Work Fund grant, the PEN Translation Award, and an NEA Fellowship in translation. She teaches in the writing programs at the California College of the Arts.
Nataliya Deleva is a Bulgarian-born writer living in London. Her debut novel Four Minutes (www.fourminutesbook.com), published in Bulgaria as Невидими (Janet45 Publishing, 2017) and in Germany as Übersehen (eta Verlag, 2018) won the Best Debut Novel Award and was shortlisted for Novel of the Year in two of the most respected literary competitions in Bulgaria. Deleva recently completed her second novel, which is part fiction, part memoir, written in English. Twitter: @nataliedelmar
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