![]() But what makes his book – of only average length – feel so high and treacherous?įor a start, Madame Bovary is perhaps the most carefully written book in literary history. "We love what tortures us," said its author. Flaubert's unexotic story of boredom and adultery in the flatlands of 19th-century Normandy is the Everest of translation, and the slopes are crowded with foolhardy expeditions. It is, admittedly, harder to justify a 20th stab. Having several good translations is no bad thing – they are autonomous creations, yielding different aspects of the original text. What is lost – imagine DH Lawrence's very English pulse rendered into the far fainter beats of French – can be partially made up for by the qualities gained in the host language. ![]() A good translation holds faith with the original's aura, and then it should soar. ![]() For most of us this is the only way we receive non-English literature, so a poor translation is a serious issue. For a start, although no translation is perfect, some are poor. So I find myself on the back foot, explaining why great foreign classics need more than a single rendering into English. ![]() When I tell people this, there are two reactions: the first is a sympathetic groan, the second a question: "What's the point? It's already been done." Yes, about 19 times – and the latest was just a year ago, by the American short-story writer Lydia Davis. ![]() I have spent the last three years translating Flaubert's Madame Bovary into English. ![]()
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