Translating the untranslatable

Proper names are not translatable. So they say. But John is Juan, Jean, Johan, and so on. Can we say that a name is adaptable but not translatable? In my opinion, a name is a name and should remain untranslated. Would a Spanish translator dare to write La señora Bovary on the cover of the book?

Talking about Bovary, yesterday I read a very interesting article about translation and Madame Bovary by Lydia Davis. She talks about the need for new versions of works already translated, though she finally challenges this idea. I cannot say that I agree.

If a character is reading a newspaper, say The New York Times, why in the Spanish translation is he reading El País? What if El País disappears? The answer is clear: we need a new translation. We can obviously say that everything is adaptable. But are we then being faithful to the original intention of the author or are we creating (or rather attempting to create) a new work of art? This simple example is enough, I think, to believe in generational revisions of translations.

When I translated Strindberg's Fröken Julie, I did it on a revised, scanned text edited by Gunnar Ollén. The original text had been amended by the editor, Seligman, and so did not respond to Strindberg's original intention. If the original text was already altered, what can we expect from its translations? Hence the need of a new translation in Spanish of Strindberg's most performed play. Another thing I did was change the title. The previous versions of the translation read La señorita Julia and all the names had been translated into Spanish, which I did not like. So I proposed the title La señoria Julie, keeping the protagonist's name as well as the other characters' names, namely Jean and Kristin.

In conclusion, names should remain untranslated. I believe in the curiosity of the reader, spectator, etc. to go and check the connotations of names. And if not, there are always the cultural footnotes.

Bergman om Strindberg

Ingmar Bergman pratar om August Strindbergs verk och om hur han drömte om författaren. Väldigt intressant!

100 years without Strindberg

One hundred years after Strindberg's death, his writings are more alive than ever. Dealing with sex wars, identity crisis or financial problems seems to be today's news. A question that has struck me recently is why Strindberg has become the greatest woman-hater in literary history. For sure it had to be difficult to live together with him, but as can be deduced from some of his letters he really loved his wives (before love turned into hatred, that is). In a letter he wrote to Nietzsche, Strindberg felt like a bitch when reading the German author, feeling his thoughts penetrating him and filling him with sperm. Is this the kind of stuff a woman-hater says? If we are talking about more than a hundred years ago, probably the vision men had from women was very different. But definitely, yes, this is the kind of things a mad man, as Jesper Kaspers defined him, would say. But Strindberg respected women. And one of the qualities he wanted in a woman was her intellect. He wanted a wife who could make an effort to equal him in intellect. This, however, never happened in his own opinion. However, not reaching Strindberg's level of intelligence had absolutely nothing to do with being a woman. Many male friends gave up their friendship following Strindberg's megalomania. But once again, the key is in the letters. Strindberg's letters amount to several volumes. Among others, he exchanged correspondence with Nietzsche. It is very relevant to read this letter dated in December 1888:

As regards England, I really do not feel in a position to say anything whatever; for, as far as she is concerned, we have to deal with a nation of bigots that has delivered itself up into the hands of its women, and this is tantamount to hopeless decadence. You know, my dear Sir, what morality means in England: Girls High School libraries, Currer Bell, Miss Braddon and the rest; Don t soil your hands with that offal! In the French language you can pierce your way even into the uttermost depths of the negro- world, so you can safely let England s trousered women go to the deuce. Please think the matter over and consider my suggestions and let me hear from you about it as soon as possible.

After this, a woman-hater, yes or no? I would say yes, but not blaming only the writer. Was the society of the time ready for women taking power? Is our society really ready? I would like to think it is but I would also like to see more women in power. However, I believe that women in power have to stop acting like men and give a definitively feminine vision of things. A woman acting like a man is of no use for society, I believe. Maybe that is one of Fröken Julie's mistakes: wanting to take a man's role when what we really need is a woman in the same position. In conclusion, I want to see more women in power but leading as women, not making the same mistakes men make over and over again.

August Strindberg en Berlín

August Strindberg en 1893

 Parece ser que Strindberg no vivía muy a gusto en ningún sitio. Si unimos el hecho de que a los suecos en general les encanta viajar que el clima tampoco acompaña mucho, no es de extrañar que Strindberg no fuera una excepción. Sin embargo, Strindberg siempre se movió por latitudes nórdico-germánicas, con la excepción de su estancia en París entre 1894 y 1896. Y así llegó a Berlín, capital de una Alemania en la que la cultura y los genios florecían.

Strindberg llegó a Berlín en 1892, huyendo, como en muchas otras ocasiones le sucedía. Su reciente separación de Siri von Essen debió hacerle sufrir y pudo ser causa de su viaje. En Berlín, se alojó con su entonces amigo el escritor sueco Ola Hansson y su mujer Laura Marholm, autora, entre otras obras, de Das Buch der Frauen (El libro de las mujeres). Con ellos vivió en Friedrichshagen, si bien no pareció acabar muy contento ya que en alguna carta posterior se refirió al lugar como Friedrichshölle (Hölle=infierno). Con la consiguiente ruptura de la amistad con los Hansson, algo habitual en Strindberg (recordemos, por ejemplo, la enemistad con los pintores Carl Larsson o Edvard Munch tras una larga amistad), Strindberg se instala en una pensión en el centro de Berlín (Berlin-Mitte), más concretamente en Wilhelmstraße, cerca de Unter den Linden, una de las avenidas principales de Berlín.

Precisamente en la esquina de estas dos calles, se encontraba una taberna llamada Zum schwarzen Ferkel (El cerdo negro), lugar de reunión de los más célebres autores, pintores y artistas en general escandinavos. Allí discutían sus teorías, por ejemplo, Adolf Paul, Edvard Munch, Gunnar Heiberg, Axel Maurer, Gabriel Finne o Holger Drachmann.

Curiosamente, el nombre de la taberna se le atribuye a Strindberg, quien por un cuadro de un cerdo negro a la entrada siempre se refería de ese modo al lugar. Podemos leer sobre todo lo que allí aconteció de la mano del mismo Strindberg, quien narró en Klostret (El claustro) su matrimonio con Frida Uhl y su vida bohemia en Berlín.

Frida Uhl en 1893

Efectivamente, Strindberg conoció a Frida Uhl en Berlín y fue en la taberna donde tuvieron varios encuentros. La joven periodista austríaca le debió parecer un tanto ingenua a Strindberg cuando ella le invitó a su casa sin compañía alguna. Igualmente le debió de parecer ingenuo el hecho de que Frida no se cansaba de escuchar sus teorías literarias vestida con ropas un tanto provocadoras, como se desprende de lo que Strindberg escribió en Klostret:

Un vestido ceñido verde revelaba la figura de una joven de dieciocho años y su pelo, que se había cepillado suavemente, le hacía parecer una colegiala ya adulta. Él no era capaz, ante tal encanto, de esconder su estado mental; en vez de ello, la miraba de arriba abajo, como si intentara así descubrir al enemigo escondido con un reflector.

¡Eros! Estoy perdido, pensó, y a partir de ese momento lo estuvo.

Frida y August Strindberg se casaron en 1893 y su matrimonio duró 18 meses.


Leemos en las Obras Nacionales de Strindberg lo siguiente:

I den självbiografiska romanen Klostret skildrar Strindberg närgånget sitt komplicerade och kortvariga äktenskap med den unga österrikiska journalisten Frida Uhl. Den innehåller också en livfull skildring av hans bohemliv på stamlokuset »Zum schwarzen Ferkel» (Den svarta grisen) i Berlin i början av 1890-talet.
    »Jag ber Dig ej låta läsas af obehöriga!» skrev Strindberg, när han 1898 skickade romanen till Gustaf af Geijerstam på Gernandts förlag. Klostret kom heller inte att tryckas under författarens livstid. När han var i färd med att skriva novellsamlingen Fagervik och Skamsund 1902, omarbetade han i stället Klostret till novellen Karantänmästarens Andra Berättelse. Genom att förlägga handlingen till Danmark och ändra på huvudpersonernas nationalitet tonade han ned de självbiografiska inslagen.