Attack of the Zombie Translator

Photo credit: Chris Chabot

The other day I was talking to a friend who works as a building contractor. He was telling me how even though he’s not the cheapest guy around he never lacks for work because of his meticulousness and commitment to quality. I told him that it was exactly the same for me, and we went on to bemoan the general lack of quality in our respective professions. 

Little did I know that I would come across a glaring example a few days later. I was translating some voice-overs for a film on diving in the Caribbean that will be released in both French and English versions. Many of the people in the film spoke English, which had been transcribed for translation into French. As I was translating the French voice-overs, I noticed that there had been several errors in the English transcription, which had in turn created some very serious errors in the French translation. 

For instance, a dive tour operator with a South African accent was explaining how “the island relies on dive tours.” This had been transcribed as “the island relies on doctors” and translated as “l’île dépend des médecins”—completely ridiculous in the context.

Another huge error occurred when a speaker was explaining his role in the establishment of a botanic park. In this case, “botanic” had been transcribed as “platonic” and translated as “platonique.” Seriously, how do you write “parc platonique” without a huge red flag going up?

Some of the fault clearly lies with the transcriber. In the case of the South African saying “dive tours” I had to listen to it twice myself before I understood. But if the transcriber had been more attentive, the context should at least have made it clear that the word “doctor” was not right.

To me, however, the French translator made the more egregious error. It is a translator’s job to grasp the context and write a coherent translation. This clearly didn’t happen on several occasions here. Whenever I translate subtitles or voice-overs for a film, I always ask for access to the film itself. It invariably provides visual cues that often help me select a tense or decide how much I can leave out in adapting a subtitle. I’m not sure what happened with this translator, but they didn’t do their job. It might as well have been a zombie doing the translation.

Partly because I began to double check the English transcription and the subsequent French translation as I went through the film (at no charge to my client), it took me about two hours to translate just over 600 words. Pretty slow going for an experienced translator. On the other hand, I feel that this kind of service—going the extra mile, going above and beyond the call of duty, to trot out a couple of tired aphorisms—is why my clients trust me and appreciate my work. They know that I care about their product at least as much as they do.

It seems to me that in an age where machine translation is making ever more alarming encroachments into the territory of human translators, we non-zombies must strive more than ever to demonstrate our superiority to our stiff-jointed competitors. Clearly, my anonymous zombie-colleague did not live up to that standard today. I can only hope that my own efforts made up for it in some way.

Now where did I put that shotgun?

A new sonnet

A few weeks ago I gave a presentation to my literary translation class on the parallels between musical performance and translation (which I hope to write up as a blog post one of these days). I specifically focussed on the translation of poetry because, of all literary genres (other than theatre, I suppose), poetry is distinctive in that it really needs to be spoken aloud; in other words, performed.

I concluded my presentation by mentioning that writing poetry is a great way for translators (all writers, in fact) to hone their craft. The prof, not a poetry buff at all but eager to learn more about it, took up my call to arms (the pen, in this case) and "suggested" to the class that they all write a sonnet. There were many groans, and I think I may have made a few enemies, but I was happy for the excuse to put my poetry hat on again. Here's my effort, a first draft, really. It's a tribute to the wonderful musicians, and good friends, of Apollo's Fire, with whom I had the great pleasure of touring the Monteverdi Vespers last fall.

Evening Prayer on Green Mountain

We scale the green mountain this perfect day,
stand awestruck at its peak in black tailcoats,
long dresses. Like so many golden motes
adrift in the sky-vault, red echoes stray
in a sea of psalms. We sing to Mary, pray
that we can grasp the world—or just one note—
in our hands. To our children we devote
our lives, but they must always sail away.
Amidst all this, one person’s ecstasy:
I catch your eye across the altar—why speak
when words can only mean something when sung?
This is how we fabricate our legacy:
A tear for what we lost, for what we seek;
a smile for sharing music, nature’s tongue.

Tomb of the Kings

I think I've posted a version of this before, but I went through and made some fairly major changes. You can read the French original here.

I love this dream poem, with its almost cinematic imagery, by one of Quebec's truly great writers. It's so dark, so filled with sadness and bewilderment, yet, by the end, bears witness to the heart's miraculous optimism.

Tomb of the Kings
-Anne Hébert (Translation, Peter Garner)

My heart is at my fist.
Like a blind falcon.

The taciturn bird grips my fingers,
Lamp swollen with wine and blood,
I descend
Toward the tomb of the kings,
Astonished,
Only just born.

What thread of Ariadne leads me
Through soundless labyrinths,
Each step’s echo consumed as it sounds?

(In what dream
Was this child tied by the ankle
Like a spellbound slave?)

The dream maker
Grasps the thread,
And bare footsteps come

One by one
Like the first raindrops
At a well bottom.

Already, the odour moves in swollen storms
Oozes under doorsteps
To secret, round chambers
Where box beds lie.

Drawn by the reclining figures’ static desire,
I look with astonishment
Set into the black bones
Gleam encrusted blue stones.

A few tragedies patiently worked
Upon the breasts of recumbent kings
In the form of jewels
Are offered to me
With neither tears nor regrets.

Arranged in a line:
Smoke of incense, rice cake
And my trembling flesh:
Ritual, submissive offering.

The gold mask on my absent face
violets for pupils
Love’s shadow disguises me with meticulous strokes

And this bird I hold
Breathes
And laments strangely

A long shiver,
Like a wind that catches from tree to tree,
Stirs seven great ebony pharaohs,
In their solemn, ornate sheaths.

But it is only the depths of death lingering,
Playing out the last torment
Seeking appeasement
And eternity
In a light rattling of bracelets
Vain circlets playthings of another place
Around the sacrificed flesh.

Eager for the brotherly source of evil within me
They lay me down and drink of me;
Seven times I know the vise of bones
The dry hand that seeks to rend the heart.

Pale and filled with the awful dream
Limbs untangled
And the dead gone from me, murdered,
What glimmer of dawn could stray here?
Yet how, then, does this bird tremble
And turn its sightless eyes
Toward morning?

Harraps Online

Great news for translators of French and English: the Harrap's French-English dictionary--the best French-English dictionary in print, IMO--is now available on-line. I've been waiting for this for years. No more flipping through pages, poring over tiny text to find the translation for that elusive idiom. A quick search and it's right there on the screen. Hallelujah!

There's a free 30-day trial (an incredibly no-hassle process) and the subscription costs are actually pretty reasonable (£20 per year). I've only used it for a day, but I'm impressed thus far.

Did I say Hallelujah already?