I want this on a t-shirt

I 

On translation

I've just finished Why Translation Matters, by Edith Grossman, the renowned translator of Latin American and Spanish literature (most famously of Gabriel García Márquez, but latterly also of Cervantes). I remember when the book came out it was criticized for its lack of intellectual rigor, but I think this is a misinterpretation of how Grossman sees her role as a translator. She is a writer, not a critic, and she writes on the basis of her passion for translation. At its best the book is a full-throated screed in defense of translation:

We read translations all the time, but of all the interpretive arts, it is fascinating and puzzling to realize that only translation has to fend off the insidious, damaging question of whether or not it is, can be, or should be possible. It would never occur to anyone to ask whether it is feasible for an actor to perform a dramatic role or a musician to interpret a piece of music. Of course it is feasible, just as it is possible for a translator to rewrite a work of literature in another language.

She notes the unique reluctance of American and British publishing houses to publish translations, which is old news, but she highlights the injustice of this senseless parochialism in a world where translation into English is essential to the success of many new writers. The size of the English-reading market, the fact that English is often used as a conduit language for translations into other languages (she cites Spanish translations of Chinese works that go via the English translation), and the role English translations play in creating film adaptations and even securing the Nobel Prize all mean that

...there seems to be overwhelming evidence to the effect that if you wish to earn a living as a writer, your works must be translated into English regardless of your native language. All these considerations mean that the impact on writers around the world of the current reluctance of English-language publishers to bring out translations can be dire, especially for younger authors. And no matter how patently naïve it may sound, I believe that, regardless of what bloated international conglomerate owns them, publishing houses in the United States and United Kingdom have an ethical and a cultural responsibility to foster literature in translation.

For those of us who would kill for the chance to make a living translating foreign works into English, reading the book was by turns heartening and frustrating - heartening to hear the problem so eloquently posed, frustrating because frankly, now it seems even more hopeless than it did before.

Yesterday was my last Russian class - they don't run over the summer, disappointingly, although I may be able to work out some individual classes for June and July. On Monday we're coming in for an event celebrating Pushkin's birthday, and we're each going to recite a poem. Natalia, my teacher, had originally offered me this one, and then changed her mind as she remembered someone else was doing it. But I still think it's wonderful.

К ***

Я помню чудное мгновенье,
Передо мной явилась ты,
Как мимолётное виденье,
Как гений чистый красоты.

В томленьях грусти безнадежной,
В тревогах шумной суеты,
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
И снились милые черты.

Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежный
Рассеял прежние мечты,
И я забыл твои голос нежный,
Твои небесные черты.

В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Тянулись тихо дни мои
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Без слёз, без жизни, без любви.

Душе настало пробужденье:
И вот опять явилась ты,
Как мимолётное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.

И сердце бьётся в упоение,
И для него воскресли вновь
И божество, и вдохновенье,
И жизнь, и слёзы, и любовь.

And in English, translation into unrhymed tetrameter by Dmitri Smirnov:

To ***

I keep in mind that magic moment:
When you appeared before my eyes
Like ghost, like fleeting apparition,
Like genius of the purest grace.

In torturous hopeless melancholy,
In vanity and noisy fuss
I’ve always heard your tender voice
I saw your features in my dreams.

Years passed away, and blasts of tempests
Have scattered all my previous dreams,
And I forgot your tender voice,
And holy features of your face.

In wilderness, in gloomy capture
My lonely days were slowly drawn:
I had not faith, no inspiration,
No tears, no life, no tender love.

But time has come, my soul awakened,
And you again appeared to me
Like ghost, like fleeting apparition,
Like genius of the purest grace.

My heart again pulsates in rapture,
And everything arouse again:
My former faith, and inspiration,
And tears, and life, and tender love.