Thursday, May 14, 2015

《翻译者说》

《翻译者说》

淡豹 2015-05-14 13:14:45
这篇报道写的好细致丰富,把大问题(翻译史、翻译的难度与衡量标准、未直接采访的翻译名家的故事、目前文学翻译面对的总体困境)和大量对他人的采访都很厉害地穿进了四个人物里。学习。
原载 http://www.nfpeople.com/story_view.php?id=5977

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稿源:南方人物周刊
作者:本刊记者 吴琦 实习记者 周甜
发自北京
日期:2014-10-17




隐形

"这个选题没什么意思,"出版人彭仑说,"翻译本身是一个幕后工作,像编辑一样,我个人认为,译者并不需要很大的公众知名度。"他是99读书人出版公司的外国文学编辑,也是一位译者,翻译过美国作家菲利普•罗斯的几部小说。

约访其他译者时,他们也会这样反问,像是突然被人在大街上叫住,或是从书房里被揪出来——表现出惊讶和不解,又略带笑意,你们是怎么想的?怎么想到采访我?

"隐形",已经成了他们职业中的一部分。

去 找译者马爱农,也是这样的情形。人民文学出版社,朝内大街166号,50年代以来,是国内译介外国文学的重要力量之一,现在还不如斜对面的朝内81号有名 ——一部国产恐怖片刚刚"席卷"了那里。建筑的外貌,和作家冯骥才三十多年前见过的景象差不多。"一座临街的长方形灰色的大楼,一排排紧闭的窗户总共五 层,一进楼门两边走廊,挂满白花花写满墨笔字的大字报。人一走过,大字报被风带得哗哗响。"现在大字报不在了,楼道里贴着各家报纸对这里所出版图书的报 道。楼下的书店,营业员和顾客的数量相等,收银员一直啪啪地拍着自己的胳膊,大概是在晨练。上到4楼,马爱农正披着一条披肩,站在办公室门口的一道阴影 中。尽管事先有约,她依然睁着大眼睛,有些疑惑地看着我——来者何人。

马爱农来自书香门第,父母都是编辑,祖父马清槐是英语翻译家。她翻译的第一本书《绿山墙的安妮》,就是爷爷亲自把关修改。二十余万字,全部手写,改过之后再抄一遍。翻译一本书,就是她的假期。

现在办公室里依然全是书,被她理得整整齐齐。译者首先是读者,许多译者都说,翻译就是更好、更细、更深的读书。诗人余光中写,"读一本书最彻底的办法,便是翻译。"电话藏在抽屉里,似乎是次要一些的东西。

"翻 译二十多年,好像成为生活里的一部分。"马最受瞩目的译著,是和妹妹马爱新合作的《哈利•波特》系列。除此之外,还有《船讯》《到灯塔去》《天使不曾涉足 的地方》《爱伦•坡短篇小说选》等等。她说自己在翻译上是两条腿走路,儿童文学轻松明快,"有治愈的效果",翻译成人文学,再把沉重背回去。

译威廉•巴勒斯的《裸体午餐》,她感到颓废,和王永年翻译《在路上》时一样,对"垮掉的一代"所持的放浪形骸的价值观难以认同。手上一本加拿大小说,译到主人公年少时最好的朋友死了,就像世界上所有的逝去,让她也失落起来。

"我更习惯和虚拟世界里的人对话,"马爱农说,"热闹的时候,反而会更孤独,还不如跟书中人物在一起。"《哈利•波特》把她推到前台,"是聚光灯照着翻译出来的",让译者也成了半个主角。

"罗琳的东西,要从批判的角度,我还是有一些微词。她有些啰嗦,而且文学深度也不够。"但她知道,译者不能和原作者对抗,翻译的标准还是要忠实原文。

"译者的质量参差不齐,读者选择时可能会看重译者的知名度,这也可以理解,但从译者本人来讲, 千
万 不要觉得自己应该要坐到和作者平起平坐的位置。"译者但汉松说,他主要翻译托马斯•品钦和桑顿•怀尔德的作品。以优美的文笔译村上春树的林少华,常面临这 样的批评,他的回应:"百分之百像照镜子似的翻译原著的作品,在世界上是不存在的,我翻译村上,当然也是在我个人理解和把握基础上的文字重现,但主观上绝 对没有添油加醋的念头。"

站在作者和读者之间,译者要有良心,马爱农说。这个群体有一些共性:安静、低调、耐得住寂寞、生活规律——不像 诗人,要聚会,要喝酒——往往也长寿。"但是,现在的环境,不养这样的译者。"1980年代,她第一本书的翻译稿酬是千字13元,译5000字就相当于一 个月的工资,现在译同样的字数,只能拿到几百块钱。"工资涨了100倍,稿费只涨了5倍,"身在出版社,她知道其中的无奈,"现在出版社自己日子也很难 过,图书市场混乱,大家都在恶性竞争。"

彭仑不认为文学翻译能构成一种职业,单从时间和金钱上看,不成正比。他也不赞同过于热爱这一行,以至影响自己的生活,不如保持一种"自主选择"、"业余的状态"。"这是一件愿打愿挨的事情。"

2013 年,马爱农挺身而出打了两场官司,媒体给的标题是——《哈利•波特》译者维权。她起诉中国妇女出版社出版的署名"周黎"所译的《绿山墙的安妮》抄袭她的译 作,起诉新世界出版社盗用"马爱侬"的名字出版了十几本书。这是出版界的大新闻,一百多位译者联名,其中不乏老先生出面。终审结果,前者赔款3万,后者赔 10万。正应了书商在上法庭前说的那句:你们不就是要一点钱吗?

坐在北京初秋的房间里,这个维权者停止了义愤填膺。外边楼道里有一面墙, 贴着许多大作家的头像——亚里士多德、屈原、莎士比亚、鲁迅、沈从文、海明威等等,上面写了一句,"每天,我们面对他们的目光。"手上的译作年内必须完 成,她笑笑说,"好在翻译的乐趣,大过这些东西。"
 


准确

"阳台是我平时看书的地方,尤其是到了春天、秋天,阳光很好。"拜访法语翻译家余中先,他先带我参观了一下家里——在何处看书,在何处译稿,空间都因阅读而组织起来。客厅反倒成了不常用的摆设。穿过一条走廊,沿途是一排长长的书架,路标一样把客人引入书房。

"一 个是青黄不接,一个是良莠不齐",这是他对文学翻译现状的总结。这次受访的十余位译者,绝大多数都任职于高校、研究机构、出版单位。只有一位姜向明——他 翻译过理查德•耶茨、菲茨杰拉德、菲利普•罗斯等人的作品,在日资企业上班。成为译者之前,他自己也在网上写作,开始翻译之后,觉得还是人家水平高,便看 看画展听听音乐会作罢。给他致电时,他正坐单位的班车回家,电话那边不时传来汽车飞驰的轰鸣。

"稿费确实还是应该上去,不然的话,斯文扫 地。"余中先现在是社科院研究生院教授、《世界文学》杂志主编,翻译领域的前辈。稿费低,稿费税又高,起征点设在800元;在高校里,翻译作品还不能作为 科研成果。这些不合理,反而积习一样成了规矩。"好在中国这么大,总是有人凭着爱好、凭着兴趣在做。"

他翻出电脑里新译的毕加索的诗,说是以前没人译过。原作不分大小写,没有标点,密密麻麻一片,类似文字里的立体派,铺张、肆意、重峦叠嶂——"在你的镜子扔到波涛中没看到闪电天空和云彩你张开嘴准备吃掉太阳鸟儿经过……"

在 这之前,他多次译过法国新小说,阿兰•罗伯-格里耶、克洛德•西蒙一类的人物,还有荒诞派剧作家贝克特,都是难读难懂的文本。这是一种挑战,也是一个译者 的虚荣心。"有的好人,会写坏的文字,有的人为人不怎么样,却写出漂亮的文章。"他说,翻译久了,还是只能把握文字,把握不了人。

这一行 的乐趣,是语言的乐趣。翻译中的具体困难,就是突破词句。遇到个别地方,时常要琢磨几天,余中先就把稿纸带在身上,或装进iPad,随时拿出来改。译者黄 灿然说,翻译最大的乐趣是校对,在厕所,在公共交通工具上,在下楼抽烟的几分钟,不断发现和纠正自己的错误,"简直成了枯燥生活中的润滑剂。"新入行的译 者索马里,以前是个记者,刚刚译完自己第一本书,她说,写报道能使小聪明,翻译却是传统的手艺活儿,恐慌而没有尽头。书评人云也退也兼做一些翻译,他译的 《加缪和萨特》最近再版,"但凡是第一版文字里面有一点地方觉得有问题,再一查,百分之百是我错。不理解的情况下,就是含混不清。"用马爱农的话,"理解 得精确,表达才能精确。"

萨克雷的名著《名利场》有一句,"A good Christian, a good parent, child wife or husband",杨必译成"虔诚的教徒,慈爱的父母,孝顺的儿女,贤良的妻子,尽职的丈夫",荣如德译成"虔诚的基督徒,一位好父亲、好母亲、好儿女、 好妻子和好丈夫"。另一位翻译家周克希认为,后者更好,又觉得"一个好儿女"这个词组"似乎有欠浑成"。郭宏安译《红与黑》,因为用了"秀足"一词,耿耿 于怀,觉得不如"好看的脚"更为稳妥。叶廷芳译卡夫卡,把Junggeselle的译法从"老光棍"换作"单身汉"——《勃卢姆菲尔德,一个上了年岁的单 身汉》,以复现卡夫卡的肃静。朱生豪译莎士比亚,把前人的"浪漫妇女"、"风流女子"改成《温莎的风流娘儿们》,都是几个字里见神韵。

"不是自己想怎么写就怎么写,"余中先说。他现在遇到的困难不在稿酬,而是记忆力下降,二三十年前学过的词,却需要一遍一遍查词典。"翻译不会浪漫的。"他跷起二郎腿,眼睛看向别处。

目力范围之内,除了书,全是鞋——从世界各地搜集来的袖珍装饰品。这个典故来自法国作家保尔•克洛岱尔的一部剧本《缎子鞋》,90年代由余中先翻译成中文。

原 作者克洛岱尔在1895至1909年间,3次出任驻华领事,很早就开始向法国人介绍中国。但他在政治上是殖民者,宗教上是天主教,剧本又是诗歌体,余中先 说,中国读者接受起来不容易。多年的译介经验证明,对海外文学的接受,是一条交叉小径。"小时候读的《约翰•克利斯朵夫》, 是一部好作品,但它在法国文学史上可能没什么地位。我们中学都读《最后一课》,认为这是爱国主义的好东西,可很多法国人都不认识都德。"

他 翻译的奈瓦尔诗选《幻象集》译出许久后,刚告出版。这位作家属于19世纪浪漫主义文学的一员,是雨果的朋友,也是大仲马写作班子的一员。"他老是傻乎乎 的,最后疯了",直到弗洛伊德理论在20世纪的出现,他才被人重视。他写梦境,写疯狂与清醒的中间状态,对《追忆似水年华》这样的意识流作品有过影响。

"还有一个例子,我译过《你好,忧愁》,要在80年代出版,肯定引不起影响。那时候中国的年轻人,跟父母之间的代沟和冲突不是特别明显,但2000年之后再版,马上就卖得出去。"

现 在,余中先不再翻译弗朗索瓦丝•萨冈,认为她此后的作品大致雷同,作家本人成为明星。他看米兰•昆德拉的新作,也"谈不上太好"。"戴着大家给他们的光 环,还在继续出版。一流作家的二流作品肯定卖得动,二流或者三流作家的一流作品反而卖不好。"在他看来,现阶段的主要矛盾,不是出什么不出什么、快出还是 慢出,而是背后的决定力量,总是经济利益。这和彭仑的意见一致,"一本书的销量归根结底并不取决于翻译质量",作者的名气、营销手段,常常更关键。极少数 人译了畅销的作品,就可以跟出版社讨价还价——图书市场不等于文学。
 


 
体面

有许多关于翻译的 比喻。风雅一点说,翻译和原作,如同旗与风、荃和鱼、原画与复刻、乐谱和乐器。严肃一点,说译者是奴隶、间谍、清道夫、反叛者、普罗米修斯的火种。另有一 类,专门用情爱来打比喻,茅盾说翻译是媒婆,董桥说坏的翻译是同床异梦,甚至强奸,西方译论称优秀的译本为"美而不忠的女人",而犹太传统中,又把它唤作 "新郎的朋友"。

大体上都把翻译作为某种居中的介质,沟通里外,连接东西。玄奘自西天取经,正是为了"译梵为唐",因此有人把《西游记》 称作我国第一部留学生文学。严复、林纾在民国,开风气之先,也是赶上一个庞大的中国向彼岸的现代过渡,那时的读者还留着辫子,穿长袍马褂,而译者稿酬优 厚,暴得大名。建国以后,傅雷安坐书斋,成为一代翻译名家,他规定,一日翻译进度不超过千字,有夫人料理家务,有姨娘料理饮食,享受千字20元的待遇。

日 本是世界上翻译外国著作最多的国家,傅高义曾把这个作为日本崛起的原因之一。文洁若的父亲,曾指着岩波书店的5册袖珍本《尤利西斯》对她说,"你看,日本 人连这么难的书都译完了……将来你译的书上,印上你的名字出版,该有多好!"五十多年后,文洁若和丈夫萧乾一起,花4年时间合译完成《尤利西斯》。

也 是时势,让赵德明成为一名翻译。1960年,由于古巴革命,北大开办西班牙语系,把他从法语系调去。这一届毕业生多数进入政府机关,而他留在北大。"文 革"时被下放,白天干活,晚上学习,牛棚里没有桌子,每人一张单人床,床上放着毛选。赵德明在下面塞了一本从智利带回的长篇小说《马丁•里瓦斯》、一本字 典、一个笔记本。也是手写,越写越来劲。"文革"之后出版的许多译著,都是在这样的环境下完成。傅惟慈译《问题的核心》,一边为干校营房造门窗,一边在木 工房里译。智量译的《奥涅金》,偷偷放进下乡的行李中,在太行山麓的山村外,写在糊墙用的报纸、烟盒和卫生纸上。
"稿费九百多,凭票,给两个儿子买了一台牡丹牌电视。"赵德明说。

1980 年代,外国现当代文学潮汐一般进入中国,包括诡谲的拉丁美洲一支。自此,加西亚•马尔克斯、巴尔加斯•略萨等作家对汉语写作产生不可估量的影响,莫言等作 家多次在公开场合对那一批译者表示感谢。经赵德明之手,就有《城市与狗》《胡利亚姨妈与作家》《加西亚•马尔克斯中短篇小说集》等等,"到现在差不多一百 部了",这就是他四十多年来的"副产品"。2003年退休后,译笔一直未停。
书桌上放着一本《新西汉字典》,他把自己对翻译的座右铭写在扉页上——不明不白不动笔,要看译文是否有道理,上上下下作对比,努力争取出新意。译书过程中,随时冒出的想法,"不愿意随便写在一张烂纸上",都悉数记在上面。

他 用一个装芝麻酱的玻璃瓶作茶杯,陷入字典的包围圈。离他近的,是英、德、法、意各个语系的词典。最近翻译完成的《2666》,用到了2333页厚的《美洲 方言用语词典》。其他的书依次排开,长长短短的书脊,沿着书架、茶几、沙发、书桌蜿蜒开去,直到两面墙上的书柜,才算尽头。
翻译《2666》,8个月译完,两个月修改,共八十余万汉字,犹如一趟西西弗之旅。

理 解一国的文学,三四十年远不足够,赵德明说,"西语世界大概有100位优秀作者,真正介绍到中国的,不过十几位。"他最近又在琢磨《百年孤独》那个著名的 开头——"许多年之后,面对行刑队,奥雷良诺•布恩地亚上校将会想起,他父亲带他去见识冰块的那个下午",觉得其中有许多深意尚未被论者提及。想法都写在 字典里,这是自1979年第一次读《百年孤独》以来,三十多年后收获的新粮。

和加速度的经贸往来相比,现在只是文化交流的初始阶段,不同 国家的人"好像才刚刚见面,聊了几句"。赵德明认为,自1492年开启的大航海时代以来,人类的交往就不可避免地越走越远。但是,"在看不清楚自己的情况 下,和别人交往是非常困难的,以其昏昏使人昭昭",手头正在译一本社科著作——《没有主心骨的西班牙》,"一百年前说的话,用在中国很灵。"

转 型时代,价值观和利益分配都在剧烈变动,不会首先惠及知识生产。书评人刘铮(他用网名乔纳森在媒体从事翻译批评)说,"译者收入低,其实是知识分子收入低 这一现象的体现,并不是惟一。社会其他领域也不能实现完全公平的分配,比如服务行业和体力劳动者,这是现实的必然性。"

"如果你对思想、道理、艺术价值看不上,只看上钱,那没办法。"赵德明说。

"还是一个求仁得仁的事儿。干这行的人,可以物伤其类一下,不是干这行的人,标准都不一样。让一个搞金融的人来谈这个事情,那不麻烦了么?它有自己的标准和需求满足体系。"云也退说。

"文学译者不是为了名利来翻,但也不要把译者清高化。我觉得一个好的译作值得一个体面的报酬。我是凭兴趣做的,但不能因为我有兴趣,就把我当作廉价劳动力,尽管我确实不靠这个活着。"赵德明的学生、重译《百年孤独》的范晔说。

"稿 费贬低不了译者的人格。这种精雕细刻慢慢做的活儿,这种踏实、负责、热爱的敬业精神,应该鼓励。真要搞一部像样的文学翻译,不静下心,做不了;不喜欢,做 不了;没有学识,做不了;不吃苦耐劳,做不了。这在当下的精神面貌,多宝贵啊。"赵德明这样的老前辈,总觉得有一种义务,为已经或尚未加入的年轻人叫屈。

近 来北京的天气掷骰子一样惊险,一会儿蓝一会儿阴,眼下又是天色惨白。窗外晾着几件白色的褂子和布,挡住了本来就不强烈的日照。聊到中午,稍稍亮起来的天 光,从外面挤进来,照在赵德明的白衬衫上。屋里没开灯,台灯和电脑显示屏上都绑着黄色的胶带。只有空气净化器的指示灯亮着,是幽微的蓝色。这表示,此时室 内的空气,还算健康。
 


 
迟缓

我在西班牙见过范晔。那次他比原定的时间晚到了十几分钟,因为在 旁边的书市逛得忘乎所以。接头之后,又带我去了一遭。书,就像是这群人的暗号密语。他写过,自己从小就爱窥探别人的书房,"每次去爷爷家,进门打过招呼就 一头奔向书架上的《封神演义》。书房往往是主人不轻易示人的一副面庞。"

这次采访之前,他做了一个梦,梦见我嘱咐他说点正面的意见,冲淡笼罩在译者周边的悲惨氛围。其实,这一趟的采访发现,文学本身让多数译者感到满足,他们用别的工作养活自己,反而显得翻译是一件"漫长而奢侈"的事。

《百 年孤独》的前几章,是他2010年在格拉纳达开始翻译的。这里是一座大学城,是西班牙诗人加西亚•洛尔卡的故乡,也是摩尔人昔日的都城,葬着征服这里、进 而统一西班牙的天主教女王伊莎贝拉和国王费尔南多。有评论者在解读《百年孤独》时,曾用此地的阿尔罕布拉宫作为比喻——两者都是繁复的迷宫结构,时间的晶 体。

范晔觉得,格拉纳达的时间流逝好像比其他地方缓慢。夏天的蓝天,冬天的雨,一切都没什么变化。"不像我们中国,每一分钟不化成金钱,就觉得浪费。"

"文化是闲出来的," 他引用刚刚读过的《南方人物周刊》里诗人余光中说过的一句。

他 把翻译表述成"相遇"——译者遇见作者,再把读者介绍过去,"可能与之心情相投,可能是他写了自己想写而不知道怎么写的东西","就像吃到一个好馆子,咱 俩挺熟,我告诉你一声。"尤其是那些不像《百年孤独》这样著名的作品,能让读者和作者故友一般重逢,是译者莫大的成绩。

马尔克斯出生的地方、结婚的教堂、上过的大学、在西班牙的住地,他一一去过。这是译者的责任,也是译者的福利。"因为他不是一个文学史上的名字,不是考试时必须要背的知识,而是和你的生命有一段重叠,你花了很多时间模仿他的语言,揣摩他的用意。"

村 上春树也是美国当代文学的译者,【缺一句过渡】,林少华说,村上的观点是,翻译最需要的是"充满偏见的爱"。但马尔克斯并非范晔最喜欢的作家,看他的文章 就知道,他更热爱阿根廷作家胡里奥•科塔萨尔,他译过后者的《克罗诺皮奥与法玛的故事》《万火归一》等作品。科塔萨尔在短篇小说《另一片天空》中写过巴黎 的拱廊街,范晔第一次去巴黎,就先去这里,感觉文字一下生动起来。去马尔克斯的故居,房子是按自传复原,他却觉得不真实,"真正的马孔多的世界既不在我去 过的故居,也不在世界上的任何一个地方,它本来就在这本书里。"

译完《百年孤独》后,他开了微博,准备收集读者意见。评论两极化,有人觉得非常好,有人觉得很差。范晔说,这背后涉及到翻译策略的问题。到底保持一些异族语言的陌生感,还是尽可能地化归为圆融的汉语?

美 国学者劳伦斯•韦努蒂在《译者的隐身》一书赞同前者,他反对流畅的译文,把它当作一种英语文化的霸权【两个分句顺序反了】,而范晔认为,这一条在中国不完 全适用。今天的中国读者,对"翻译腔"的态度褒贬不一,有人喜欢,并模仿,有人嗤之以鼻。自新文化运动以来,现代汉语就一直处于张力之中。马尔克斯的文学 也一样,他深受西方现代派的影响,"意识到有一个西方观察者在场",并非纯粹的拉丁美洲的产物。

翻译的终点,还是母语。译书时,范晔会摆 几本中文小说在手边。看一些好的中文,可以帮助他进入状态,以文字为酒,为翻译助兴。如瓦尔特•本雅明在《译者的任务》中所言,"即使最伟大的译作也注定 要成为自己语言发展的组成部分,并最终被语言的复兴所吸收。翻译已经远远地脱离了两种僵死的语言的贫瘠的等式,在所有文学形式中,只有翻译被人们赋予特殊 的使命来观察原始语言的成熟过程和翻译自身诞生的阵痛。"

此时正值新生入学,走在学生中间,范老师说,"很容易感到沧桑。"他现在北京大 学西葡语系讲翻译课,班上有些同学对文学毫无兴趣。他也并不奢望所有人都对翻译、对诗歌有兴趣。他对学生的要求是,试着读一读,哪怕不懂——"不是所有的 文字都像说明书一样好懂",以后在工作之余,偶尔能想起,当年的笔译课上,抓狂地翻译过一首诗。

"这事儿也号召不来",学校里人满为患,卖手机的商家搭台唱戏,范晔说,"文学翻译不是一个很大的群体,也没有必要。可能永远濒危,但不会灭绝,总会有一些比较'贱'的人,不做不快。"

"越 翻译越觉得,好东西有恒久的价值。不废江河万古流,不管你的褒贬,它还是在那儿。你接近它,是你自己得到丰富,它大于你,是你应该尊敬的东西。今天我读 它,之前的世代读它,之后的世代也会读它,我们都是其中的过客。它不像一个IT产品,需要人知道,人不知道它就灭亡了,因为它就这点寿命,文学的经典不是 这样。"

"我觉得这是好东西,我还不愿意轻易地像安利一样没事就跟人说呢。不是知道的人越多,才能证明我的价值。"谈起文学,他总有一些 微妙的害羞,一面担心熙来攘往的世界觉得他讨嫌,一面又希望见到同路人,期待严肃的翻译批评,期待和译者、中文作者交流。用他喜欢的说法——制造更多的相 遇。

在《诗人的迟缓》中——这是他自己的书,一本以读者、译者、学者、作者四重身份写就的读书笔记——范晔记下了加西亚•马尔克斯80岁 时的一次演讲,在"一位国王、六位总统和数千听众"面前,这位功成名就的作家说,"我要做的不过是每天早早起来,面对白纸或电脑空白的屏幕想办法把它填 满,讲一个从未有人讲过的故事,让一位尚未存在的读者感到幸福。"

范晔说,这是一种正面的焦虑感——焦虑的正面还是焦虑【仍旧是】。广博浩瀚的文学世界里,好东西太多了。他的问题是,先做哪个?怎么做?谁来做?来不来得及?
 

(参考资料:《译者的尴尬》《译书记》。感谢徐珏、索马里、云也退、何晶、范晔对本文采写提供的帮助)
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Wednesday, May 13, 2015

When Students Write About Sex

When Students Write About Sex

When Students Write About Sex 1

Mark Shaver for The Chronicle Review

By Stephanie Wilbur Ash

Recently I watched something bizarre unfold on Facebook.

An accomplished writer, teaching freshman composition for the first time — as an adjunct — complained about two "small-town rural girls" (her words) who had brought sex into a classroom assignment. One student had described her particular sex habits during an interview with the other student, who then wrote a profile using those details, which happened to deviate from vanilla. The instructor's complaint was not about the writing but about the "highly inappropriate" (her words) act of bringing your sex life to an audience of art-school peers.

There are layers of irony here. A student who shares her sexual preferences with a classroom of peers is off base, but her instructor can rant about it to 800 Facebook "friends"? Isn't art school one of those special places where you can create with any content you want? There are layers of privilege, too. Leave it to the small-town rural girl to be woefully uncouth, to be — as this instructor noted on her Facebook wall — "not a very interesting person."

And of course there is some evidence of a broken system that favors cheap, untested adjuncts over professionals devoted to the passion and pedagogy of teaching, especially of beginning writers. I vacillate between judging this instructor (whom I won't name) as an overzealous parent-­by-proxy and a slut-shamer.

But one thing I know for sure: I got lucky in my own undergraduate writing classes.

Twenty-two years ago I was an artistically inclined small-town rural girl myself, age 19, attending a Big Ten college while having complicated sex with my 30-year-old boss. He prayed for lost souls at abortion clinics on Saturday mornings and threw dollars at strippers on Saturday nights. In between he signed my time card and gave me a sexually transmitted disease. It was messy, it was harmful, it was one of the reasons I dropped out of college for a while. And it was fun to write about.

With all the grace and restraint of an injured she-wolf, I entered a classroom of seven other students and a frizzy-haired dynamo of an instructor. I'll name her because I want every young woman to bow to her the way I did: Professor Patricia Foster, teaching the personal essay and its politics to undergraduates at the University of Iowa.

Immediately I began writing what the dominant culture told me was the most interesting thing about me: my sex life. Blood. Guts. Boobs. Wombs. Wine-cooler vomit the color of a pole dancer's nipples. (I was particularly proud of that metaphor.) Content that would never pass through this publication. Content that would look pretty good in xoJane (had it existed), or a literary journal edited by Susie Bright. Content I don't care to revisit. Content I will never forget.

Prof. Foster deemed every single bit of it acceptable for our class workshop, even with multiple young men and a 60-something woman as my "audience." She treated this material as my precious and wholly owned experience, and the composition as work still emerging — a difference she made clear on Day 1, when she defined the word "composition" as the arrangement of elements into a whole distinct from the subject. Because of her leadership, my classmates and I learned to treat each other's work with the understanding that the life was not the writing. We were proud to help each other with the writing. We did not tell each other what was wrong with the content of our lives.

No one had to tell me what was wrong with my life. I was a small-town girl, barely legal (as the saying goes), having sex with her boss. The "normal" world (as defined by white, straight, middle-class, traditional American values) already did a pretty good job of informing me how wrong I was, even as it celebrated me in pornography. (Do a Google-image search of the phrase "barely legal" if you wonder what I'm talking about.)

Twenty-two years later, the message is still right there. Even more telling: Do a Google-image search of the phrase "small town girl." You'll get the cover of an album by the country-music star Kellie Pickler, wholesomely dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, smiling sweetly. You also might get an image of a woman in a half-shirt and jean shorts cut into the shape of a thong, photographed from behind, leaning over a tractor tire.

Y'all know which one is the "bad" girl. The dominant culture tells a lot of people how wrong their lives are, especially those it most fetishizes.

Prof. Foster made it clear that it was not her job, as my writing teacher, to do that.

Rather, she told me what was right with my compositions — a well-written paragraph, a fully supported assertion, a strong and vivid detail. She also told me what didn't work, which we both hoped would result in improvement. And she pointed out where my writing really sang.

No one had ever done that for me. Who goes around telling unabashedly sexual small-town rural girls how terrific their writing is? And by faithfully poring over her notes on my highly confessional, sloppily composed essays, I learned what risky writing could be. When she invited me to talk about my world, I learned that my experiences were worth exploring and understanding. When she invited me to grad-school parties, where I got drunk and once ate an entire wheel of brie, I learned that I could make mistakes on the journey to becoming myself.

I did not learn in Prof. Foster's writing classes what was right and wrong about the content of my experiences, but rather how to understand myself through the unpacking of those experiences, and how to take a reader along on that ride. I learned how to see myself with reflective distance, and to accept myself as a work in progress.

Today I am a longtime magazine writer and editor with a focus on health and families. I am also a comedy writer who created the character "Steph," who desires a Goth girl who she sometimes hopes will slap her in the face before kissing her.

Is that highly inappropriate? Thousands of my peers applauded the particular desires of Steph the character. Thanks in part to my expert writing teacher, Steph the writer was able to make it work.

Stephanie Wilbur Ash is a senior editor at Mpls.St.Paul magazine and the leader of the a cappella cover band Goth Mother. She has taught fiction, composition, and media as an adjunct at Minnesota State University at Mankato and St. Cloud State University.

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Friday, May 8, 2015

Stories We Can’t See

Stories We Can't See

Convent of San Nicolò, Treviso/Scala/Art Resource Cardinal Nicholas of Rouen, detail from Tommaso da Modena's fresco cycle of forty Dominican scholars, 1352

"What do we see when we read (other than the words on the page)?" asks Peter Mendelsund in a welcome and fascinating new book. Or more precisely, "What do we picture in our minds?"

Do we see Anna Karenina with her shining gray eyes under thick lashes, her faint smile and red lips; or Uriah Heep with his red eyes, red hair, dinted nostrils, and lank forefinger? Or Captain Ahab, who "looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them"? Certainly this sounds vivid enough. But do we see him?

Mendelsund is convinced that readers already know, or think they know, the answer to this question. "When we remember the experience of reading a book," he tells us—and throughout What We See When We Read he assumes that this experience is more or less the same for everyone—"We imagine a continuous unfolding of images." And again, "When we read it is important that we believe we are seeing everything."

Apparently we have a vested interest in supposing that we are capable of projecting a kind of continuous movie of the events in a novel, or indeed the events of our own past experience, to the point that we find it "terrifying and disorienting that we can't recapitulate the world in perfect facsimile." We must possess the world, visually, in our minds.

Art Director at Knopf and a highly respected book-cover designer, Mendelsund himself has an investment in all things visual and sometimes seems to think of visualizing as a necessary part of reading, a sort of proof of our readerly abilities: "I wonder," he says, speaking of the reader's passage from illustrated children's books to adult novels, "if we … need, over time, to learn how to picture narratives unassisted." Ironically, the least successful aspect of his book is its own obtrusive use of visual "support." When Mendelsund talks about the timing involved in literary description, the fact that a novelist might withhold one feature of a character's appearance for many pages—something a film can't easily do and that readers will instantly recognize—he gives us a photo of a digital wristwatch. It is more a distraction, exhibitionism even, than an "illustration."

The problem is that upon close examination the reading experience is far more complex and far less visual than is commonly supposed, or than Mendelsund supposes is commonly supposed. One of the pleasures of his book is his honesty and perplexity at the discovery that every account he offers of the process of visualization very quickly falls apart under pressure. We do not really "see" characters such as Anna Karenina or Captain Ahab, he concludes, or indeed the places described in novels, and insofar as we do perhaps see or glimpse them, what we are seeing is something we have imagined, not what the author saw. Even when there are illustrations, as in many nineteenth-century novels, they only impose their view of the characters very briefly. A couple of pages later they have become as fluid and vague as so much of visual memory. At one point Mendelsund posits the idea that perhaps we read in order not to be oppressed by the visual, in order not to see.

So what do we see when we read? First the page, of course, and the words printed on it. No "image" we have of the characters or settings will ever be as concrete, as indisputably and continuously present, as the solid book, or e-reader, itself. Meantime, characters and places are given to us in discontinuous fragments—this kind of nose, that kind of hair, a scar, a limp, a grimace—and in a process that Mendelsund recognizes as having a lot to do with memory we come to have the impression that we know this sort of person, this sort of place. "A man of about forty-five," says Orwell of Big Brother, "with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features," and we are satisfied we could pick out the man in a police lineup. Just find the guy who looks like Stalin.

So the faculty of recognition is important. The novelist says "wry smile" and we are satisfied we know what a wry smile is because we have attached those words to someone's smile in the past. But do we visualize, or picture this smile? Mendelsund never really puts any pressure on these words—visualize, picture—which curiously do not have parallels for the other senses. There is no word for our deliberately recreating sounds or smells or touch or taste in our heads, as if it was generally accepted that memories of these other sensory experiences are more passive, while visually we can actively reconstruct an experience.

But can we? If I think of people I know, even those closest to me, the shadowy impression I have of their faces, bodies, gaits, has nothing of the intensity, immediacy, and solidity of their real presence. They may "flash upon that inward eye," as daffodils did for Wordsworth, at the most unexpected moments, in a kind of echo of their presence, but this is not something I can control and it doesn't last, it can't be sustained. Often our visual memory is a sort of liminal waiting for the known person to appear: we stand at the airport arrival's gate thinking of the son or daughter who is returning home. They are vaguely there, in our minds, waiting to be recognized, to become real. But we don't see them yet.

More banally we may stand at the luggage collection carousel watching endless bags tumble onto the belt. We hold in our minds a shadowy idea of our own bag. Then suddenly it is there and the effort of "visualizing" ceases. Perhaps we realize that the bag is not quite as we remembered it. There are three zips not two. Or at least this is my experience. And when I read, I do not so much see the characters and the places as feel satisfied that if they were to appear to me I would recognize them. Hence our discomfort when we see the film of the book and the actors look nothing like the people we supposed we knew.

In general, as Mendelsund points out, the act of visualizing, struggling to see something that isn't there, depends largely on semantics, on words. It is verbal as much as visual. If I'm sitting in a park by a river, close my eyes, and try to visualize the scene, I say to myself, river, trees, benches, and I seek to place them in relation to each other, though no idea I build up in my mind will compare with the intense presence of the scene when I open my eyes again. Quite simply, we do not possess the world, visually, in our minds. And if there is no word corresponding to visualize for the other senses—it may be because the other sensory experiences are verbally more difficult to reconstruct: of a smell we could say it was sweet, it was sour, or we could say the name we have given it, musk, lavender, but we cannot piece it together bit by bit, as we might a tree, thinking trunk, bark, branches, leaves, etc. An old half-forgotten smell may flash upon us with great intensity, but it is difficult to evoke at will, difficult even to trick ourselves into believing we can evoke it.

"The practice of reading," Mendelsund says, "feels like and is like consciousness itself: imperfect; partial; hazy; co-creative." This seems astonishing to me. My consciousness of the environment about me has nothing hazy or partial about it at all. As I type now, screen, fingers, keyboard, and the room around are all very present and wonderfully real, at least so long as I keep my eyes open. Perhaps Mendelsund means that our experience while reading, or on remembering what we have read, feels like our normal apprehension of all that is not immediately present to us, the places and people we try to imagine when we are far away from them. The reading process reactivates patterns of past experience to create new stories, pseudo-memories, in our minds.

But if we are not actually visualizing the people and places we read about in novels, what is the function of literary description? Quoting Nabokov on Dickens and his "intensely sensuous imagery," Mendelsund gives these lines from Bleak House: "When the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in the dark sea…" and Nabokov's enthusiastic response: "these silvery pools in the dark sea offer something that Dickens noted for the very first time with the innocent and sensuous eye of the true artist, saw and immediately put into words."

Mendelsund is unconvinced. The specificity of an image sparks our recognition and convinces us the author is attentive to a world we know and share. But it doesn't really make us see. What neither man mentions is that Dickens always gives us lead characters—David Copperfield, Pip in Great Expectations—whose moods oscillate between gloomy depression and bright cheerfulness— and that these states are frequently evoked with references to weather and landscape. The description is part of an emotional pattern, what Mendelsund calls a "play of elements." Its meaning is other than its visual content.

More generally, descriptions are exercises in voice and part of the overall verbal enchantment—literally, "entering into chant"—that Mendelsund never really discusses in his book and which remains, for me at least, the central experience when we read good fiction. Here is a passage he quotes from Huckleberry Finn. The phrases in square brackets show a few words that Mendelsund omits:

The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line—that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; [you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks—rafts]; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river

Mendelsund remarks that the accumulation of detail in the passage doesn't help one "see it all": "I saw the dull, line, and then the spreading paleness, and then I heard a screaking, and then voices, and then I saw the current…" The passage has a rhetorical power, he says, not a combinatory visual power. He is right about the rhetoric, but it is strange that he presents this as somehow a disappointment. To me it seems a triumph. What we have is a description of drifting down a river where things do come at you one after another, not all at once (the section he omits clinches that). As we read it we enter into Huck's distinctive voice, his earnest wakefulness, his constant concern that the river will throw up some unhappy surprise. A powerful suspense is generated (the passage continues for a couple of pages) in a manner that reminds us that fiction began in the oral tradition of the spellbinding voice, the voice that allows us to entertain the illusion that we have seen things we have not seen and heard things we have not heard, and in general participated in the experience of someone we never met except through this dazzle of words on the page, which are the only things we ever truly see when we read.


Peter Mendelsund's What We See When We Read is published by Vintage.

May 5, 2015, 12:42 p.m. 
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