Left: Page 1 of Kafka's verdict manuscript
Right: German version of Kafka's biography
Huang Xueyuan
"The most difficult life is an innocuous life", Kierkegaard has such a sentence in "The Stages of the Road of Life", the first reading does not understand its meaning, and then read it seems to have some understanding. For me, if I want to grasp something in the passing days, to make myself lean on and dedicate myself to something, it is to write and translate these two things. Through words, build a keen self-defense, and preserve a small spiritual island in the mediocre river of life. However, this is also the understanding that has only existed in recent years, there are always people in the world who understand their mission early, plan well, and achieve remarkable results; there are always people who are aware of it, confused, and enter the second half of life to have some understanding. It seems to be an "epiphany", but in essence, it is the superposition and convergence of various past experiences, and at a certain moment a summons suddenly arises from the deep valley of the soul. For an instant, it was as if all the days were prepared for the day.
Although the number of translations in the past is not too small, with nearly a million words, most of the translations are "innocuous" things. Sometimes there is no choice, sometimes it is difficult to face. In short, before encountering the object of your choice, translation is nothing more than an "errand", not a "career", not to mention the soul of the soul, the belt is gradually widened. Therefore, in this sense, I regard the translation of the german scholar Reiner Stacher's book "Kafka Biography – Key Years" for the "Literary Monuments" series in cooperation with guangxi normal university press as a turning point in my personal translation path. This time, around Kafka, there was a high degree of consensus between editors and translators. This is the starting point of the ideal translation: rejoicing, leaping forward, and solemn, like walking on thin ice.
Rather than reading Kafka, translating Kafka's biography allows me to enter the life of a beloved writer, to listen to the loneliness and ecstasy, weakness and tenacity of the "German soul of Prague"; to try to understand the fears and contradictions of this famous bachelor of world literature, and even to have the courage to dissect the psychological mechanisms behind the confusing words and deeds of him and his characters. But the ultimate goal of all this is to discover in the life of the other the reality and the reality of one's state of life. I think that the ideal realm of translating literary biography is the mutual recognition and call of life and life. Occasionally, in the dead of night, translated into the depths, I will sigh in my heart, "Hey, you Franz!" "It is as if it is a neighbor brother and classmate friend who sighs." At such times, calling him "Kafka" finally sounds stiff and diaphragm. "Kafka" represents the alienated, vigilant, lonely and stubborn side. "Franz", on the other hand, is a hot-headed, sensitive guy, always writing long letters and complaining about his grievances; or wandering around with great interest, rowing and swimming, singing and climbing trees, and refusing to go home when he is tired, preferring to lie down on the couch at a friend's house and chat comfortably. I would love to be friends with this Franz.
The rhythm of Kafka's writing mirrors the rhythm of my translation. Stach summed up the characteristics of Kafka's writing: the high tide of creation always came suddenly, Kafka could write with high intensity and high productivity for several hours a day; then there was a period of low tide for several consecutive weeks, the imagination gradually faded, even if it was desperately struggling, it was difficult to sustain, and finally it could only be stopped and fell into a period of stagnation that lasted for months, which Kafka called "the shameful trough". Kafka's imagination and artistic expression seemed to be directed by some secret law, sometimes open and sometimes closed. Each time he threw himself too hard, too deeply, as if to drain the briefly open reservoir of inspiration at once. I compared my own way of working and found striking similarities. During the "high tide" of translation, the daily workload can reach 3,000 words. On days like this, my thoughts and emotions are closely aligned with the text, even eating and sleeping, words are also wandering around, in the soup, pillowside, dream; at low tide, I can only translate a few hundred words a day, my thinking is slow, the writing is sluggish, and my mood is suddenly bright and dark; there is even a long period of stagnation, and I catch a glimpse of Kafka's melancholy appearance on the book cover, and I want to pull out my legs and flee...
Even in a state of strict self-discipline, it is difficult to ensure a uniform speed. Translation is understanding, or "interpretation," a process that is paradoxical and contradictory. When I replace my understanding of Kafka as my native language, with the string of language symbols under my hand, it belongs to the unique attributes of the Chinese language, mixed with the smell and color preferred by my personal language system, the image of Kafka and the original work must show different "traits". How to properly convey Kafka's complex and profound life code to Chinese readers? How do you make the sounds in the original book reverberate as accurately as possible? To do this, I remind myself to remain moderately detached from the text, even invisible. In After the Tower of Babel: The Face of Language and Translation, Steiner refers to "transubstantial ignorance," which "contains the sadness of the translation cause, but also implies the method of repairing the tower." Therefore, I remind myself that when the translation is smooth and satisfactory, the more careful you must be of "too late". On the other hand, in the bumps and bumps, it is more "safe", because the speed is slowed down, and the heart is in awe, then the pen is more careful.
The translator is the one who gropes in a haze. As far as the experience of translating Kafka's biography is concerned, it is necessary to grope for Kafka's eccentric intentions of refusing to return the favor, the ambivalent and desperate attitude of Affection, and to explore Stach's sometimes erudite rap ambition, sometimes to be kind and meticulous and affectionate, which makes me walk like walking in a fog, looking in the mirror. As Borges wrote in his poem "Compass", "I myself do not understand life / The mysteries of insoluble mysteries, opportunities, the pain of codes / and the disagreement of the Tower of Babel." It can be seen that translation is an act of knowing that it cannot be done. However, when you reach the stage of revision and proofreading, you can taste the joy of breaking bamboo from time to time; and when a chapter is printed, you can happily sit at the table with warm paper and carry out the work of the second school: just like a cup of tea and a plate of snacks, use a red pen to remove the red words and red, correct the punctuation - just like the embroiderer completes an embroidery that has been embroidered for many years, cleans up the last fine thread, and has a tired satisfaction.
The focus of writing also comes at the expense of worldly pleasures. At the age of 29, Kafka wrote in his diary:
"It's easy for me to perceive a focus on writing in myself. When my 'organism' shows that the most likely direction of its nature is writing, everything rushes toward it, causing other aspects of ability, such as sexual pleasure, eating and drinking, philosophical thinking, and especially the ability to appreciate music, to stagnate. Capabilities in all of these areas are declining. This is also necessary, after all, the sum of my strength is too small, and I can only gather halfway and hand it all over to writing. ”
This passage reflects not so much Kafka's self-knowledge as his high degree of self-consciousness about the mission of writing. In order to write, Kafka voluntarily condensed or even gave up the needs and hobbies of life, how many people in the world can achieve such "desperate feelings"? If we talk about Kafka's fanaticism in writing, the popularity of my translation cannot be compared with it. Kafka would enter a state of total self-forgetfulness and at the same time high degree of self-control—the utopian state of writing. The short story "The Judgment" is one of the very few works that satisfied Kafka. Before that, he had been in a mood of self-pity and self-denial for a long time, saying that he wrote "rarely badly" and said that he wrote it. After experiencing the birth night of The Verdict, Kafka suddenly understood what the state and quality of writing he really wanted:
"I began to write the story of the Verdict on the night of the 22nd (September 22, 1912 – my note), writing in one breath until 6 a.m. on the 23rd. I struggled to move my legs from under my desk, which had become stiff from sitting for so long. The feeling of exhaustion, and the joy of watching the story unfold in front of your eyes, like constantly swimming forward in the water. On this night, I carried the weight of my whole body on my back many times. I prepared a fire for all, for the strangest and strangest thoughts, to witness their destruction and resurrection in the fire. ”
The magic of the ready-made work made Kafka "open" his body and mind, and this time he eagerly and confidently read "The Verdict" to a small group of friends. "At the end of the reading, my hands did not listen to the call, but I held my face, and my eyes were full of tears. The success of this story is already certain. Translating this sentence, I let out a long sigh. The state of mind of a person who writes as a life, the pain of the world is not as good as the pain brought to him by the failure of writing, and the happiness of the world cannot be compared to the happiness brought about by the success of a work. People like Kafka don't need outside recognition, and his own recognition is his only and highest literary standard. Kafka lived only 41 years, perhaps with a fierce self-burning. His extreme neurotic perfectionism is also something I only want to look at from a distance, but I dare not and cannot emulate. In my past life, I unconsciously practiced the middle way, walked the ordinary road, and was wary of everything around me that was too radical or extreme. However, through translation, I touched the texture of a special heart and felt the powerful radiation wave of his creation. In the moment of approaching Kafka, in the pressure field of writer, master and translator, I felt as if the sharpness and intensity of my life had increased. Only in this way can we withstand the "dance of power" of language.
A translation is like a long encroachment on life, and people gradually get used to the coldness of solitude and the ease of monologue. That day, after delivering the translation, I suddenly had the idea of going to Zhongshan Park near my residence, and on weekdays, it was as noisy as a market, and I always avoided it. On this day, when I entered the park, I found that the ordinary flowers and trees had a new meaning, the blowing and singing in my ears was also cute and beautiful, and the faces moving in the sun were so calm and pleasant. This reminds me of Kafka's envy of ordinary people, who were "always in the center of life, not on the margins." I am also reminded of one of Kafka's main concerns, and the central element of his novels: human gestures, movements, and expressions. The scene in front of the park is full of liveliness and vitality. I even wondered, how would Kafka react if he were here? Beneath his inaccessible, lonely shell lurks a fiery heart that craves contact with crowds and intimacy. Perhaps, he would happily sit on the grass and observe the surroundings for a long time; even he would overcome his shyness and join the chorus of folk guitarists in the corner of the meadow, as bravely as he joined the choir when he was on vacation at the "newborn" sanatorium. In the evening, he would open his diary, excitedly write down the experience of the day, and once again confirm the idea that he was born in May 1916: "Fundamentally, I am a Chinese." (From Kafka's postcard to Phyllis Bauer)
As the translator of Kafka's biography, I completed the role of "medium" that I should play, and it was time to withdraw from the stage of Kafka's life. I will continue to circle around the Tower of Babel until I meet the next writer who makes me willing to give up my time.
Source: Wen Wei Po