Each translation speaks with two voices; that of the author and that of the translator. Yet, it is often when they have done their work well that the voices of translators go unrecognized. Their names are left off of covers, and their efforts mentioned only as brief asides in reviews.
This neglect fails to give translation its due. Walter Benjamin wrote: “Reading a translation as if it were an original work in the translation’s own language is not the highest form of praise;” it is, rather, a failure to fully considering a work in translation, with its two voices and two languages. In an essay for Astra, translator and writer Lily Meyer references Susan Sontag’s definition of style when discussing translation as an art, stating that “to make art without having or consulting your own stylistic preferences strikes me as impossible . . . [Sontag] defines style, more or less, as ‘the principle of decision in a work of art, the signature of an artist’s will.’ Surely a translator’s will can also be found inside anything they translate, animating the text and powering it to full-fledged life.”
This new column, Principle of Decision, is an effort to make the styles of translators more visible. In each installment, one translator will select a famous sentence or brief passage from the literature of a certain language, and several translators will then offer their own translations of it. The differences and similarities between the translations will, we hope, allow for a more direct look at the choices translators make—at the principle of decision they employ in their practice.
For our first edition, we are proud to feature a selection from the Armenian, chosen by Editor-at-Large Kristina Tatarian. Kristina’s word-for-word translation is accompanied by translations from three translators, whose work can also be found in the Fall 2022 issue’s Special Feature on Armenian literature. Kristina has also provided explanatory commentary on her selection, as well as on the translators’ choices.
—Meghan Racklin
One peaceful morning was one sad morning
Մի խաղաղ առավոտ էր . մի տխուր առավոտ :
Mi haghah aravot er mi tehur aravot
˘ ˘ ¯ ˘ ˘ ¯ ˘ ˘ ˘ ¯ ˘ ˘ ¯
This sentence is from the beginning of “Gikor” by Hovhaness Tumanian, one of the central figures in Armenian literature. Based on a real story that Tumanian had heard as a child, “Gikor” is a tale about the dreams and hardship of a twelve-year-old boy, the eponymous Gikor, as his father sends him away from his home in the village to “become a man” and earn a living in the big city. Unfortunately, the boy’s precocious aim to alleviate his family’s hardship eventually ends his life. This sentence marks the moment in the story when Gikor’s mother and siblings watch him leave; accompanied by his father, he moves further and further away from home. The story comes full circle as the father returns to the village—only this time, Gikor is not there anymore. The different translations of this sentence, which presages the early death of the young protagonist, highlight the theme of the Armenian Special Feature (half-lives) by presenting us the “half-life” of the protagonist, a life that prematurely ended. This poignant story may be seen as an emblem of cultural memory about the Armenian Genocide, as Tumanian himself was at the forefront of humanitarian efforts to save children. The contributing translators have each found their own way of translating this memorable sentence, which marks the day when this young and sensitive boy leaves his home, and never returns.
It was a calm morning, a sad morning.
The motivation behind this translation is to show how, as the translator herself states: “every syntactical choice forms an inextricable detail of the intricate narrative texture.” To communicate the simultaneity of emotion, the translator pays attention to the choice of adjectives enclosed in this sentence, as near-antonymous adjectives have the same meter, and appear more interchangeable. “I felt that the word ‘calm’ captured the emotional restraint of Tumanyan’s portrayal of this fundamentally devastating story,” said Ordukhanyan, adding that translating this sentence made her revisit her own translation of Narine Abgaryan’s stories, published in the Armenian Special Feature, which reinforce the themes of identity in Armenian writing. She adds: “The two adjectives, ‘խաղաղ’ and ‘տխուր,’ (literally ‘peaceful’ and ‘sad,’ respectively) stand in an interesting relationship to each other, which is neither contrasting nor complementary. I felt that ‘peaceful’ was too long next to the three-letter ‘sad,’ and somehow too positive for the tenor of the story. ‘Tranquil’ worked better semantically, but did not match the linguistic register of the story, which is told in a deliberately simple Armenian with additions of local dialect. I oscillated for a long time between ‘calm,’ ‘quiet,’ and ‘serene,’ arriving in the end at my final version.”
The morning was peaceful, the morning was sad.
tr. Lusine Kharatyan
Kharatyan has chosen to retain the rhythm of the sentence, having it gravitate toward reduction in terms of the meter (peaceful/ sad), and thereby communicating the sense of change and emptiness that permeates the tale—which is encoded in many instances of meter in this story. Kharatyan also offers another version: “It was a peaceful morning: a sad morning.” By choosing to divide two parts of the sentence with a colon, the translator manages to zoom in on the protagonist’s subjectivity, transporting the reader to the moment in time when the events unfolded. The use of a colon shows a transformation from external nature to the feelings of the protagonist (the world and the man). The description of nature as “peaceful” suggests an omnipotent and indifferent presence, heightening the sense of tension and foreshadowing the tragedy, and the colon then creates an effect whereby this tension influences the subjective feelings of the protagonist and permeates his being, leading to events that result in his death.
It was a peaceful morning; a sad morning.
Seferian’s motivation behind this translation is to stay as faithful to the original as possible. Since the original Armenian punctuation cannot be fully replicated in English, it creates room for choice in translation. Seferian proposes using a semicolon to divide the two parts of the sentence—perhaps to reinforce the sense of tension felt in the original. The semicolon more forcefully divides the sentence into two parts. Seferian’s choice of punctuation sets the story’s tragic trail of events into motion, which is an important feature for the story’s architecture, as the reader begins to recognise the sinister undertones of the sentence.
Kristina Tatarian is an emerging literary translator from Ukraine. After completing her B.A. in English literature at Durham University, she moved to Yerevan to master Armenian, her paternal language. This pursuit resulted in obtaining a M.A. in literary translation from the University of East Anglia in 2020. Kristina’s discovery of life and works by Hovhaness Tumanian culminated in her debut translation of the story “Gikor” into English and a play adaptation of the same story—as a tribute to the lives of young soldiers lost to military conflict.
Meghan Racklin is a writer in Brooklyn. She writes about books and culture. Her writing has appeared in The Baffler, Literary Hub, and elsewhere. Her work can be found at meghanracklin.com. She is an assistant editor for fiction at Asymptote.
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