Subject
Re: Fiennes' Onegin (fwd)
Date
Body
Today's (31 May) London Daily Telegraph carries a piece headed "Russians
ridicule Fiennes' version of Pushkin classic". Although strictly little to do
with Nabokov's Onegin, it would seem that Fiennes' appreciation of N's
version did not prevent him from missing the odd point in his translation of
the classic to the screen. In spite of an "electrifying performance by
Fiennes himself" the film "was ridiculed for a series of historical howlers".
"At one stage the audience hooted with laughter and burst into mock applause
when a young lady of the early 19th century Russian aristocracy launched into
a song from a notorious Stalin-era propaganda song." There are apparently
several other seriously inept cuts and anachronisms.
In a message dated 30/05/99 15:56:53 GMT Daylight Time,
NABOKV-L writes:
<< From: Peter Kartsev <petr@glas.apc.org>
I have belatedly come across the comment ...... about VN's "Onegin". I
cannot hope to change Mr. Wallace's perception of the work, but I'd still
like to register my opinion that it is precisely the poetic English versions
of EO that are the joke, and a finely nuanced
one at that: at times hilarious, at times sad, always instructive for
would-be translators. The comparison of these enthusiastic efforts with
Nabokov's literal text can be a source of many a happy chuckle. .........But
seriously, and obviously, Nabokov's translation gives a non-speaker of
Russian (the one who can't be bothered to master the alphabet) his only
chance to know what Pushkin actually wrote.>>
Two, or perhaps three, points here. I am sure Peter recognizes that I was not
comparing Nabokov's translation of Onegin with the various other verse
English versions of EO, but rather with his own masterly (I assume)
translations of his own works from Russian into English. In juxtaposing Pale
Fire with EO I was only suggesting the paradox that what appears to be comic
can be found to be serious, and what appears to be serious can turn out to be
comic. Secondly, although I have read N's EO with great delight, I am still
sure that what I read did not actually convey to me what Pushkin actually
wrote: the experience cannot have even distantly approached the experience of
reading the original. In fact, my feeling was that the magic had been
murdered in the dissection, though dissection may be a necessary preliminary
to scientific enquiry. Third, I hope it is not being suggested that speaking
or understanding Russian is merely a question of mastering the alphabet?
N's famous division of translation into three kinds, lexical, literal and
paraphrastic, has proved memorably useful, to me at any rate. But what is all
interpretation, all communication in fact, if not paraphrase? The same thing,
in other words? What are the volumes of, say, Shakespeare "interpretation" if
not a form of paraphrastic translation? Some poetic works, it seems to me,
including those of Pushkin, are obdurately untranslatable. Another case in
point is that of the Swedish poet Bellman, whose 18th century lyrics uniquely
embody the soul of the language, and cannot well be reproduced in English.
There is a mystery at the bottom of this, and its solution is not in sight.
Charles Harrison Wallace
ridicule Fiennes' version of Pushkin classic". Although strictly little to do
with Nabokov's Onegin, it would seem that Fiennes' appreciation of N's
version did not prevent him from missing the odd point in his translation of
the classic to the screen. In spite of an "electrifying performance by
Fiennes himself" the film "was ridiculed for a series of historical howlers".
"At one stage the audience hooted with laughter and burst into mock applause
when a young lady of the early 19th century Russian aristocracy launched into
a song from a notorious Stalin-era propaganda song." There are apparently
several other seriously inept cuts and anachronisms.
In a message dated 30/05/99 15:56:53 GMT Daylight Time,
NABOKV-L writes:
<< From: Peter Kartsev <petr@glas.apc.org>
I have belatedly come across the comment ...... about VN's "Onegin". I
cannot hope to change Mr. Wallace's perception of the work, but I'd still
like to register my opinion that it is precisely the poetic English versions
of EO that are the joke, and a finely nuanced
one at that: at times hilarious, at times sad, always instructive for
would-be translators. The comparison of these enthusiastic efforts with
Nabokov's literal text can be a source of many a happy chuckle. .........But
seriously, and obviously, Nabokov's translation gives a non-speaker of
Russian (the one who can't be bothered to master the alphabet) his only
chance to know what Pushkin actually wrote.>>
Two, or perhaps three, points here. I am sure Peter recognizes that I was not
comparing Nabokov's translation of Onegin with the various other verse
English versions of EO, but rather with his own masterly (I assume)
translations of his own works from Russian into English. In juxtaposing Pale
Fire with EO I was only suggesting the paradox that what appears to be comic
can be found to be serious, and what appears to be serious can turn out to be
comic. Secondly, although I have read N's EO with great delight, I am still
sure that what I read did not actually convey to me what Pushkin actually
wrote: the experience cannot have even distantly approached the experience of
reading the original. In fact, my feeling was that the magic had been
murdered in the dissection, though dissection may be a necessary preliminary
to scientific enquiry. Third, I hope it is not being suggested that speaking
or understanding Russian is merely a question of mastering the alphabet?
N's famous division of translation into three kinds, lexical, literal and
paraphrastic, has proved memorably useful, to me at any rate. But what is all
interpretation, all communication in fact, if not paraphrase? The same thing,
in other words? What are the volumes of, say, Shakespeare "interpretation" if
not a form of paraphrastic translation? Some poetic works, it seems to me,
including those of Pushkin, are obdurately untranslatable. Another case in
point is that of the Swedish poet Bellman, whose 18th century lyrics uniquely
embody the soul of the language, and cannot well be reproduced in English.
There is a mystery at the bottom of this, and its solution is not in sight.
Charles Harrison Wallace