Postcol+Trans - Bassness and Trivedi

Postcol Trans- - Translation Studies General editors Susan Bassnett and André Lefevere St C o I O n i a I Tra n s I ati o n Theory and practice In

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Unformatted text preview: Translation Studies General editors: Susan Bassnett and André Lefevere St' C o I O n i a I Tra n s I ati o n Theory and practice In the same series: Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame André Lefevere Translation/Historleulture ' Edited by André Lefevere lted Susan Bassnett Translation, Poetics and the Stage Six French Hamlets and HariSh Trivedi Romy Hey/en Contemporary Translation Theories Edwin Gentzler The Translator’s Invisibility Lawrence Venuti Gender in Translation Cultural identity and the politics of transmission Sherry Simon R London and New York/ WW? Chapter I Post-colonial writing and literary translation Maria Tymoczko Analysis of literary texts emerging from peoples who have been colo— nized or oppressed invites metaphor: the criticism of such texts speaks, for example, of voices silenced, margin and centre, and epis- tolary exchange.l Perhaps this is so because of cognitive processes themselves. In speaking of unfamiliar or new phenomena, humans often adapt the language of similar though disparate objects and action. Figurative language is used: in English, for example, the newly invented vehicle propelled by an internal combustion engine was sometimes known as the harmless carriage.2 The penchant for metaphorical speech about post-colonial literature suggests that critics View it as a new literary phenomenon about which we do not as yet know how to speak directly, a type of writing for which we do not as yet have an adequate vocabulary. Because metaphoric speech is cognitively pervasive, a normally harmless and time- honoured linguistic practice, the approach could be extended; metaphors are to hand. Mirrors come to mind as appropriate , figures, for example: the writing of post-colonial authors or those from subaltern cultures as a house of mirrors in which the reader and writer alike risk being lost in the tangle, confusion and redun- dancy of reflections; as the mirror in St Paul’s trope, in which one as yet sees only darkly rather than face to face; or, to adapt Joyce’s aphorism about Irish art, as the cracked looking-glass of a servant. And let us not forget the mirroring in the well—used figure of Caliban’s rage. Translation might be used as such a metaphor, but this is not what I am about here. Translation as metaphor for post-colonial writing, for example, invokes the sort of activity associated with the etymological meaning of the word: translation as the activity of carving across, for instance, the transportation and relocation of the 20 Maria Tymoczko M bones and other remains of saints. In this sense post-colonial writing might be imaged as a form of translation (attended with much cere- mony and pomp, to be sure) in which venerable and holy (historical, mythic and literary) relics are moved from one sanctified spot of worship to another more central and more secure (because more powerful) location, at which the cult is intended to be preserved, to take root and find new life. There is, of course, much in this metaphor that bears reflection (mirroring again) in relation to many works emanating from former colonies, and the metaphor is sugges- tive of certain perils faced by writers in these circumstances.3 However that might be, in this enquiry I am not using trans- lation as a metaphor of transportation across (physical, cultural or linguistic) space or boundaries: instead, interlingual literary transla- tion provides an analogue for post-colonial writing. The two types of intercultural writing are essentially distinct, but they have enough points of contact that exploration of the two in tandem and compar- ison of the two —— investigation of the commonalities and the differences — results in new insights about both. Moreover, because literary translation is a phenomenon that can be charted for more than two millennia with an almost coeval critical and theoretical literature about it, many of the workings of literary translation are reasonably well understood. Thus, the comparison of literary trans- lation and post-colonial writing is particularly apt to shed light on the latter more recent literary phenomenon, an understanding of which can benefit from the body of knowledge that has been built up in translation studies. Significant differences between literary translation and post- colonial literature are obvious and should be addressed from the outset. The primary difference is that, unlike translators, post- colonial writers are not transposing a text. As background to their literary works, they are transposing a culture — to be understood as a language, a cognitive system, a literature (comprised of a system of texts, genres, tale types, and so on), a material culture, a social system and legal framework, a history, and so forth. In the case of many former colonies, there may even be more than one culture or one language that stand behind a writer’s work. A translator, by contrast, has seemingly a much more limited domain, only a single text to transpose. As perspectives from general systems theory and semiotics suggest, however, this difference is more apparent than real, for the same cultural complexity facing a post-colonial or minority-culture author is implicit in any single text of the same Post-colonial writing and literary translation 2! M culture: Ivir (1987: 35) goes so far as to claim that translatiOn means translating cultures not languages.4 Thus, a literary translator is de farm concerned with differences not just in language (transposing word for word, mechanically), but with the same range of cultural factors that a writer must address when writing to a receiving audience composed partially or primarily of people from a different culture. The culture or tradition of a post-colonial writer acts as a metatext which is rewritten — explicitly and implicitly, as both back- ground and foreground ~ in the act of literary creation. The task of the interlingual translator has much in common with the task of the posecolonial writer; where one has a text, however, the other has the metatext of culture itself. A more significant difference in the two literary activities has to do with the parameters of constraint. A translator is faced with a fixed text (one usually freely chosen, to be sure, but fixed nonethe- less); such a fixed text includes cultural and linguistic elements that are givens for the translator and that typically involve factors that are particularly problematic for the receiving audience. Thus the translator is faced with the dilemma of faithfulness: to be ‘faithful’, such problematic factors must be transposed despite the difficulties they might cause to the sensibilities or cognitive framework of trans— lator or audience; in obscuring or muting the cultural disjunctions, the translator ceases to be ‘faithful’ to the source text. This constraint of a text with cultural givens in a fixed ordering is a major factor behind the discourse regarding literalism that has been part of dis- cussions of translation for some centuries.5 A post-colonial writer, by contrast, chooses which cultural elements to attempt to trans— pose to the receiving audience. An author can choose a fairly aggressive presentation of un— familiar cultural elements in which differences, even ones likely to cause problems for a receiving audience, are highlighted, or an author can choose an assimilative presentation in which likeness or ‘universality’ is stressed and cultural differences are muted and made peripheral to the central interests of the literary work. Similarly, linguistic features related to the source culture (such as dialect or unfamiliar lexical items) can be highlighted as defamiliarized elements in the text, or be domesticated in some way, or be circum— vented altogether. The greater element of choice in the construction of an original literary text means that in the hands of a skilled writer it is easier to keep the text balanced, to manage the information load, and to avoid mystifying or repelling elements of the receiving 22 Maria Tymoczko ________________________________———-————————-- audience with a different cultural framework. Because a translator begins with a text intended for an audience in the source culture, however, it is not uncommon that elements that are difficult for the receiving audience will cluster; a translated text more than an orig- inal piece of literature thus risks losing balance at critical moments, making the information load too great for comfortable assimilation by the receiving audience. These diflerences are somewhat miti- gated in practice by the choice actually exercised by translators in deciding which elements of a text to preserve in translation (T ymoczko 1995); at the same time writers are not necessarily so free as might be imagined, constrained as they are by history, myth, ideology, patronage and affiliation, which set bounds on the presentation of the source culture in the literary work. Thus, the two types of writing converge on the shared limit defined by cultural interface.6 It is tempting to identify the greater range of paratextual com- mentary permitted to the translator as another difference between literary translation and post-colonial writing. In the form of intro- ductions, footnotes, critical essays, glossaries, maps, and the like, the translator can embed the translated text in a shell that explains necessary cultural and literary background for the receiving audience and that acts as a running commentary on the translated work. Thus, the translator can manipulate more than one textual level simulta- neously, in order to encode and explain the source text. This, too, is a distinction that may be more seeming than real between these two types of intercultural writing. Particularly in contemporary literary works aimed at intercultural audiences, it is not uncommon to find maps, glossaries, appendices with historical information, or intro- ductions describing the cultural context of the work, while experi— mental formal techniques and multilayered textual strategies may even permit the use of embedded texts, footnotes and other devices constituting more than one textual level. Authors also frequently pro- vide introductions and postscripts, write critical essays commenting on their own texts, or facilitate ‘authorized’ commentaries on their work.7 Indeed, we better understand why post-colonial authors embrace such textual types and such literary strategies by consider- ing the functions of similar elements for translators. Thus, although there are differences between literary translation and post-colonial writing, such differences are more significant pn'ma farie than they are upon close consideration. The two types of textual production converge in many respects; as the metaphor Post—colonial writing and literary translation 23 of translation suggests, the transmission of elements from one culture to another across a cultural and/ or linguistic gap is a central concern of both these types of intercultural writing and similar constraints on the process of relocation affect both types of texts. To these constraints let us now turn. It is abundantly clear from the theory and practice of translation that no text can ever be fully translated in all its aspects: perfect homology is impossible between translation and source.8 Choices must be made by the translator; there are additions and omissions in the process, no matter how skilled the translator. Some of the differences between text and translation have to do with incompatibilities between the substance of any two linguistic systems, and it is for this reason that ].C. Catford defines translation as ‘a process of substituting a text in one language for a text in another’, involving the replacement of source-language meanings with alternate receptor-language meanings (Catford 1965: l, 20, 35—42). Many of the differences between source text and translation are inescapable, resulting from the shift from the oblig- atory features of one language to the obligatory features of another. Other shifts have a cultural basis; the translator must decide how to handle features of the source culture (e.g. objects, customs, histor— ical and literary allusions) that are unfamiliar to the receiving audience, adapting and modifying the source text in the process, if only through the process of explanation.9 Still other differences have to do with information load: in trying to adapt the multiple layers of information in a text to a new reception environment, a translator will almost inevitably produce a longer text. Even that eventuality does not result in a full capture and transposition of all the coded information. ‘0 A translator’s refractions of a source text have analogues in the choices a minority—culture writer makes in representing the home culture, for no culture can be represented completely in any literary text, just as no source text can be fully represented in a translation. Selectivity is essential to the construction of any piece of literature, particularly when the intended audience includes readers who are unfamiliar with the cultural subject.” Not everything in a post— colonial cultural metatext can be transposed in a literary format; just as literary translations are typically simpler than their source texts, so post-colonial authors of necessity simplify the cultural fields they write about. Like translators, they will be criticized accord— ingly. The greater the distance between an author’s source culture and the receiving culture of the author’s work, the greater will be 24 Maria Tymoczko the impetus to simplify. A minority-culture or post—colonial writer will have to pick aspects of the home culture to convey and to emphasize, particularly if the intended audience includes as a sig- nificant component international or dominant-culture readers; similarly, a literary translator chooses an emphasis or privileges an aspect of the text to be transposed in translation (e.g. linguistic fidelity, tone, form, cultural content, or some combination thereof). Another name for the choices, emphases and selectivity of both translators and post-colonial writers is interpretation. Judgement is inescapable in the process; ‘objectivity’ is impossible. And just as there can be no final translation, there can be no final interpretation of a culture through a literary mode. There is no last word.'2 Such a process of selectivity and interpretation is ideological and will inevitably invite controversy. The political censure that post- colonial writers are subject to from their fellow citizens can be given an intellectual context in the proverbial denigration of translation as a process; the Italian aphorism about translation, ‘traduttore, traditore’, says it succinctly. The ideological valences of post-colonial literature are spectacularly obvious in cases where feelings run so high about the portrait of the source culture that the very life of an author is in jeopardy, but the case of Salman Rushdie is only a limiting example of the way in which post—colonial literature can become the battleground of ideological disputes. Many post-colonial writers choose to live abroad, writing about their culture of origin from the vantage point of another nation, in part because of the ideological pressure and censure — both implicit and explicit political constraint — that they are subject to within their native framework. joyce is an example of such a writer, and he was outspoken about the impossibility of writing freely about his culture from within Ireland, making explicit the necessity he saw of exile if he was to be an artist.” Translation is generally a less heated affair at present, but the process of translating texts from minority cultures can in fact become fraught for ideological reasons (Simms 1983), while in the past translation has produced its own martyrs to ideology.” Various well-known problems of translation can be related to marked features of post-colonial writing. There are, for example, often perturbations in the lexis of a translation. In source texts to be translated translators are presented with aspects of the source culture that are unfamiliar to the receiving audience — elements of the material culture (such as foods, tools, garments), social structures (including customs and law), features of the natural world (weather "*5 Post-colonial writing and literary translation 25 conditions, plants, animals), and the like; such features of the source culture are often encoded in specific lexical items for which there are no equivalents in the receptor culture or for which there are only extremely rare or technical words. In the face of such a crux, a trans- lator has avariety of choices: to omit the reference or pick some ‘equivalent’ in the receptor culture on the one hand, and on the other to import the word untranslated (with an explanation in a footnote perhaps), add an explanatory classifier or an explicit explanation, use a rare or recondite word of the receiving language, extend the semantic field of a word in the receptor language, and so on.[5 The use of rare or untranslated words in translations and the inclusion of unfamiliar cultural material are not necessarily defects of translated texts: translation is one of the activities of a culture in which cultural expansion occurs and in which linguistic options are expanded through the importation of loan transfers, calques, and the like. The result is, however, that translations very often have a different lexical texture from unmarked prose in the receptor culture. Similar features are to be found in the lexis of post-colonial texts as writers struggle to translate the cultural metatext, and similar lexical solutions can be discerned as well. In A Grain of Wheat, Ngauga‘i wa Thiong’o imports without explanation words for plants (e.g. Mwarilci, p. 125), tools (e.g., panga and jembe, pp. 6, 8), garments (e.g. Mithum, Miengu, p. 180), and dances (p. 205), among others, where the category of the words is made clear by context or collo- cation. In A Man (yr the People Chinua Achebe also imports African words into English (e.g. lappa, a garment), but more typically uses established English equivalents for African cultural concepts that are part of his English dialect (e.g. head tie, pit latn'ne, lzighlfe). Another tactic is exemplified by Buchi Emecheta, who introduces African words, for which she then provides explicit explanations: ‘he . . . paid ten shillings towards his esusu, a kind of savings among friends whereby each member of the group collected contributions in turn’ (fry: (idiotherhood, p. 147). The same technique is found in Bapsi Sidhwa’s introductions of ‘by'li: a word that in the various Indian languages, with slight variations stands for both electricity and light— ning’, ‘C/zoorailr, witches with turned-about feet who ate the hearts and livers of straying children’, or ‘a plump, smiling bowlegged Sikh priest, a grant/u" (Cracking India, pp. 30, 31, 63). In .Mz'dnz'ght’s Children Rushdie takes an assirnilative approach to lexis in a key metaphor, using pickle where he might have chosen chutney as representing the source culture concept more precisely.‘6 26 Maria Tymoczko Other lexical anomalies can also be identified in both literary translations and post—colonial writings. Features of the source language or the source culture in both types of intercultural trans- position are associated with variant semantic fields for words, with non-standard frequency distributions of particular lexemes, and with non-standard patterns of collocation. These aspects of trans- lation have been discussed extensively in the literature about translation (cf. Nida 1964: 137-40), and similar features are found in post—colonial writing. Thus, for example, Ngaugai uses the term ridge in a non-standard sense to refer to villages and their territory; his use of the English taste is also non-standard: ‘Did he himself taste other women, like Dr Lynd?’ qf I'Vheat, p. 157); ‘Come, man. You must have tasted her. How do her goods taste?’ (Grain of Meat, p. 160). In both cases the sense is clear, though the English is non- standard; the usage seems to represent the semantic fields of words in Ngfiugfii’s language which have been represented by literal English equivalents. By contrast, in the following sentences, spoken by a woman in Achebe’s A Man qf the People, it is the unusual collo- cation that strikes the reader: ‘. . . she is our wife . . .’ (p. 36); ‘We are getting a second wife to help me’ 36); ‘. . . our new wife . . .’ (p. 88). In standard English the word wife does not collocate with the first-person plural unless the speaker is royalty and, moreover, only lesbian women refer to their wives, but neither of these condi- tions obtains in Achebe’s text. In both respects, then, Achebe’s usage is non-standard: the Nigerian custom of multiple wives forces the linguistic variation in his text, much as it might in a translation. For various reasons such as these, therefore, the metatext of an unfamiliar culture in a post-colonial text is a factor in the wide range of lexical items in some post—colonial works, many unfamiliar to the ordinary reader in the dominant culture. The size of James Joyce’s vocabulary in Ulysses stands as an early example of the phenomenon in English; it results in part from Joyce’s transposition of lexemes referring to Irish culture, his use of words that derive from Irish, and his representation of Irish dialects of English speech which include archaic words, imports, loan translations and words with lexical meanings, semantic fields or semiotic values that differ significantly from those of standard English (Wall 1986; Tymoczko 1994: 229—30). Salman Rushdie is a contemporary writing in English who has an unusually varied lexis, particularly in Midnight’s Children; as in the case of Joyce, Rushdie’s rich word-hoard is not Post-colonial writing and literary translation 27 simply attributable to his wit and literary sensibility, but to the cultural substratum of his work as well. Often unfamiliar cultural information does not simply reside in lexical items, but is a more diffuse presence in a source text. A trans- lator may be faced, for example, with a myth, custom or economic condition presupposed by a text, but not located explicitly in it. If such implicit information is to be made accessible to the receiving audience, it must be presented either through explicit inclusion in the translation or through paratextual devices.17 In post-colonial texts parallels are apparent, and many tactics used by contempo— rary minority—culture writers to deal with such problems are familiar to literary translators. Customs, beliefs and myths are frequently explained explicitly in post-colonial literature, much as they must be in translations, and the following is illustrative: The feast of the New Yam was approaching and Umuofia was in a festival mood. It was an occasion for giving thanks to Ani, the earth goddess and the source of all fertility. Ani played a greater part in the life of the people than any other diety. She was the ultimate judge of morality and conduct. And what was more, she was in close communion with the departed fathers of the clan whose bodies had been committed to earth. The Feast of the New Yam was held every year before the harvest began, to honor the earth goddess and the ancestral spirits of the clan. New yams could not be eaten until some had first been offered to these powers. Men and women, young and old, looked forward to the New Yam Festival because it began the season of plenty — the new year. On the last night before the festival, yams of the old year were all disposed of by those who still had them. The new year must begin with tasty, fresh yarns and not the shriveled and fibrous crop of the previous year. All cooking pots, calabashes and wooden bowls were thor— oughly washed, especially the wooden mortar in which yam was pounded. Yam foo-foo and vegetable soup was the chief food in the celebration. So much of it was cooked that, no matter how heavily the family ate or how many friends and relatives they invited from neighboring villages, there was always a large quantity of food left over at the end of the day. The story was always told of a wealthy man who set before his guests a mound of foo-foo so high that those who sat on one side could not see what was happening on the other, and it was not until late in 28 Maria Tymoczko the evening that one of them saw for the first time his in—law who had arrived during the course of the meal and had fallen to on the opposite side. It was only then that they exchanged greetings and shook hands over what was left of the food. (Achebe 1991: 37—8) Similarly in a minority-culture text, mythic allusions may require an explicit presentation of the myth at some point in the text, as in translations (where such allusions are typically explained in the foot- notes or prefatory material). Thus, when Toni Morrison wishes to use the myth of the African slave who flies away home to Africa, she cannot suppose that most of her white American or intema— tional audience will know the tale, so she must provide a version explicitly in the text (Morrison 1978: 326—7; cf. Lester 1970: l47~52). The same is true about information related to historical events and historical figures which is frequently made explicit in post-colonial literature, as in literary translations. It is probably for this reason that in chapter 2 of A Grain of Wheat Ngaugai gives a version of the colonial history of Kenya, and he makes the histor- ical background explicit at other points as well where necessary for an uninformed international audience. Although Rushdie has left the myth of Shiva largely implicit in Midnight’s Children, thus risking its being missed by non-Indian readers, he is explicit about corres- ponding historical information having to do with the formation of the states of India and Pakistan.I8 When a literary work is intended for an audience that shares the culture of the text, such customs, myths and historical information can and generally do remain implicit, whether that audience is from a dominant or marginalized culture, because the audience can be counted upon to recognize the allusions and to have the requisite cultural background. It is telling that translators moving from a dominant-culture source text to a minority-culture audience often , leave dominant cultural materials implicit, presupposing knowledge of the mythic allusions, historical events or customs of the dominant culture: such a stance is part of the assertion of hegemony. A text produced in this way participates in the assertion of cultural domi- nance, defining what constitutes the domain of knowledge necessary for public discourse. Thus, in both literary translations and original literary works, the necessity to make cultural materials explicit and to foreground potentially unfamiliar cultural materials affects pri- marily the movement of a cultural substratum from a marginalized r. :whmhfi wm‘mq ..,.,,,. . . «w . a H ., fir. a... my wave”...an mwnnc—u we Post-colonial writing and literary translation 29 culture to a dominant culture and it is associated with a negative cline of power and cultural prestige. In post-colonial writing the amount of cultural material that is explained explicitly serves as a kind of index of the intended audience and of the cultural gradient between the writer/ subject and the audience, with greater amounts of explicit material indicating that a text is aimed at the former colonizers and/ or a dominant international audience. In such cases cultural background is, so to speak, explicitly ‘frontloaded’ for the reader.‘9 Prevailing Western standards of literature, however, exclude instructional or didactic literature; although such a posture is by no means universal in literature, with many oral traditions combining instruction and entertainment easily, it has been an aesthetic stan- dard in the West since the Romantics. Thus ‘frontloading’ cultural information or foregrounding material that is normally presupposed in an intracultural text - resulting in the more highly explicit quality of both post-colonial literature and translations — potentially compromises the literary status of a text per se. The text begins to read more like an instructional or didactic work, rather than a piece of imaginative literature. When such a text is also full of specialized or unfamiliar words, unusual grammar and other linguistic anom- alies, the explicitly informative elements of the text combine with the dense information load from the language itself to work against other features of the text that are perceived as literary. These are risks shared by both translators and writers of post-colonial and minority—culture literature. Yet both translators and post-colonial writers are caught in the dilemma of producing texts with large amounts of material that is opaque or unintelligible to international readers on the one hand or having large quantities of explanation and explicit information on the other hand. Either choice threatens to compromise the reception of the text as literature. A third alter- native - suppressing the distinctive qualities of the writer’s culture and language — compromises the writer’s own affiliation with his or her culture and probably the very reasons for writing, just as a trans- lation which is highly assimilated or adapted to the standards of the receiving culture raises questions of ‘fidelity’. In translation studies a distinction is often made between ‘bringing the text to the audience’ and ‘bringing the audience to the text’. The same type of distinction can be projected with respect to post- colonial writing: some texts make more severe demands on the audience, requiring the audience to conform to the beliefs, customs, language and literary formalism of the source culture, while other 30 Maria Tymoczko works conform more to the dominant audience’s cultural, linguistic and literary expectations, as we have seen. In translations the greater the prestige of the source culture and the source text, the easier it is to require that the audience come to the text. In post-colonial writing there is an analogue in the prestige of the author: the greater the international reputation of an author, the greater the demands that can be placed upon an international audience. One avenue of research that suggests itself, accordingly, is to test post—colonial writing to see if there is a correlation between the success of the writer and growing demands on the audience to conform to the ways, beliefs and language of the culture being portrayed.20 The problem of information load in both translations and post- colonial writing is not restricted to unfamiliar cultural material such as customs, history or myth, and material culture. Even proper names if they present unfamiliar phonemes or foreign phonemic sequences can cause problems for the receptor audience of both post-colonial literature and literary translations, while finding ways to transpose the semantic meanings of names may be of concern to both the writer and translator.21 Similarly, transposing the literary genres, forms, proverbs and metaphors of the source culture will be equally problematic to translators and post-colonial writers alike. Each will struggle with the question of naturalizng material to the standards of the receiving audience; each will consider whether to adopt representations that tend towards formal or dynamic stan- dards.22 Such dilemmas influence the representation of the largest elements of text (eg. genres, character types, plot materials) down to the smallest (phonemes, lexis, idiom, metaphor). lndeed, in Gideon Toury’s terms, both types of intercultural writing involve norms: preliminary norms involving general princi— ples of allegiance to the standards of the source culture or the receptor culture, as well as operational norms guiding the myriad small choices that are made in textual and cultural transposition (T oury 1995: 53—69; cf. Holmes 1994: 81—92). The discernment of such norms is essential to any analysis of a translation, but it is essentially impossible to determine from the vantage point of the receptor culture alone; typically judgements about translations are made by people who know both the source language and the receptor language, and can evaluate the adaptations and adjust- ments in the transposition on the basis of both languages and cultures. This situation should strike a cautionary note about criti— cism of post-colonial works: detecting the norms governing cultural . .. Mot Myer-owme vA~<A4qM-mm Multan.-qu at are...“ m. ,wmavn .. s, Post-colonial writing and literary translation 3| transposition in a piece of post-colonial writing is an equally important point of departure for an evaluation of the aims and achievements of the work, but at the same time it is difficult to do without a standpoint in both cultures that permits comparison.23 Recent work on translation theory and practice indicates the importance of patronage as a determinant of translation practice, and this is another area that bears on post-colonial writing. Patrons — once wealthy aristocrats — now take the form of presses and publishing houses, universities and granting agencies, which are in turn dependent on such groups as a readership, a critical estab- lishment or government officials. Patrons determine the parameters of what is translated just as they determine parameters of what is published; that the effects of patronage are currently achieved largely through self-censorship does not invalidate the point. Studies of translation are increasingly alert to the circumstances under which books are chosen for translation and translations are published,(24 and similar questions are relevant to post-colonial writing. Literary merit, though not insignificant, is rarely the only or even the chief issue to consider in answering such questions. Here it is germane that many — perhaps most — post-colonial writers who have achieved an international reputation also reside in foreign metropolitan centres; the risk of such a choice is, of course, that the demands of international patronage will compromise the form, content and perspective of the post-colonial works themselves.25 The demands of patronage are intertwined with questions of audi- ence, which is an important element in translation norms and strategies. Not only will factors such as the belief system or the values of an audience affect the translation strategy, but the nature of the audience itself will determine translation norms.26 Issues about intended audience are often deceptive; for example, paradoxically translations are at times produced for the source culture itself when, say, a colonial language has become the lingua franca of a multicultural emergent nation or of a culture that has experienced a linguistic transition of some sort. The most efficient way of addressing such a nation after a colonial period may be through translation into the colonizers’ language. A translation of this type, however, is produced within an ideological climate that is quite different from a translation oriented primarily at an international audience, and the translation strategies are, accordingly, divergent (cf. Simms 1983). In recent years translation studies have turned increasingly to such issues of audience, opening up profitable lines 32 Maria Tymoczko of investigation, and they are no less relevant to post—colonial texts. Reception theory has indicated the central importance of the audi- ence or implied reader in the production of literary texts, of course. But even more basic economic and ideological questions about audi- ence must be asked that have close parallels to the questions asked about the audiences of translations. Who is a writer writing for? Is the audience primarily an audience within the post-colonial culture? Is the work addressed primarily to the former colonizers or is the audience an international culture, neither primarily the former colony nor the former colonizer? Writing strategies will differ consid- erably depending on the audience, and critics must be alert to such factors. In the case of post-colonial writers, the question of an inter- national audience ~ neither primarily former colony nor colonizer — is in turn related to a marked trend at present towards the inter- nationalization of literature. It becomes increasingly hard to define national traditions of the modern novel, for example, for more and more the novel has become an international genre with writers influ- enced by and influencing other writers from different linguistic traditions. Thus, Faulkner has influenced Garcia Marquez, who in turn influences writers in English. Borges speaks of himself as an . English writer who happens to write in Spanish. At the same time American cultural and economic hegemony means that to succeed as writers, many authors feel an imperative either to write in English or to be translated into English: being marketed in the United States is often seen as an essential index of international success which in turn augments an author’s reception at home. Thus the interna- tional audience of a post—colonial writer might be, in fact, first and foremost an American audience, with the drama of colony and colo- nizer — or of author and cultural establishment — being played out for arbitration on an American stage. Where Tagore — through auto translation — turned for acceptance to the literary world of the . colonizing power (Sengupta), contemporary post-colonial writers have a different set of priorities. The ways in which such consider- ations impact on text production have been partially explored with reference to translation; the intersection of literary systems, their symbiotic and dependent relations, have been productive avenues of enquiry that can offer models for the study of post-colonial and minority—culture writing.27 The case of Ngaugai is instructive with respect to these issues of internationalization, patronage, audience, and the extent to which “3314me‘QV»W'VVym3<¢i&‘~SK4~?-ot<3~\fi—uv~ avafifla . . ,.r., .zw-«rwwflw. ., Post-colonial writing and literary translation 33 an audience is ‘brought to the text’; Ngaugai also illustrates the fine line between post-colonial writing in a metropolitan language and literary translation. In 1977, after writing several successful novels in English, Ngaugai turned to writing in his native language, Gikfiyfi; since then his literary works have been accessible to international audiences only through literary translation. N gaugai’s linguistic shift was prompted in part by a crisis having to do with audience: I came to realise onlytoo painfully that the novel in which I had so carefully painted the struggle of the Kenya peasantry against colonial oppression would never be read by them. In an interview shortly afterwards in the Union News . . . in 1967, I said that I did not think that I would continue writing in English: that I knew about whom I was writing, but fir whom was I writing? (Ngaugai 1993: 9—10) Influenced also perhaps by his growing international reputation (cf. ibid.: 5), in A Grain (J Wheat Ngaugai already exhibits a growing confidence in the demands he can place upon his international readers: he uses ‘resistant’ strategies of writing, embedding without explanation GIkfiyfi words and phrases in his text. Through these means he implicitly shifts to the standards of his own culture, even while writing in English. In Moving the Centre Ngaugai writes that his shift of language was related to his desire to make connections with the forms and modes of oral literature in his culture (Ngaugai 1993: 21), but issues having to do with the ideology of language are central for Ngaugai, including his belief that languages should meet as equals (ibid.: 35, 39). The politics of post-colonial writing, thus, brings Ngaugai to the importance of translation; he writes, ‘Through translations, the different languages of the world can speak to one another. . .. Interlanguage communication through translation is crucial’ (ibid.: 40).28 Translation is frequently a source of formal experimentation in receptor cultures, as translators import or adapt the genres and formal strategies of the source text into the receptor system. Because translation is at times one locus in a literary system where formal experimentation is more easily tolerated, translation can even become an ‘alibi’ for challenges to the dominant poetics. Translation was used by modernists in this way, and Pound is one of the fore- most examples. When translation acquires prestige, in part because 34 Maria Tymoczko it is associated with literary innovation, one even finds the phenom- enon of pseudo-translation, in which an innovative, original literary work masquerades as translation.29 There are analogues in post-colonial and minority-culture writing. In twentieth«century literature formal experimentation is wide- spread, but, even so, formal innovation is a notable characteristic of these forms of intercultural writing. Indeed, post-colonial and minority literatures are literary domains in which challenges to dominant standards of language, poetics and culture are frequently advanced, where literature is expanded through new mythic paradigms and archetypal representations, new formal resources and paradigms, and revitalized language, including new mythopoeic imagery. As with translations, innovative formalism often reflects the literary system of the post-colonial or minority culture itself, and the writer may introduce various forms of indigenous formalism to the dominant culture. Joyce does this in Ulysses, importing the standards of Irish epic, elements of Irish poetic form, charac- teristics of Irish prose, and structures of Irish narrative genres into his English-language masterwork.30 The dramatic forms of Wole Soyinka stand as another example of innovative formalism that is indebted to the indigenous literature of a post-colonial culture, while even the most superficial reading of Amos Tutuola’s 7712 Palm- Wine Dn'n/cani must come to terms with its Yoruba poetic sensibility (cf. Thelwell 1994: 188 ff). But formal experimentation may also have to do with other aspects of the interface of two cultural systems. As an author strives to repre- sent the experiences or beliefs of a minority culture that differ from those of the dominant culture, it may be necessary to develop new forms which are not part of the dominant receptor system in order to signal or encode such alternate experiences or beliefs. Thus, Zora Neale Hurston in 77zeir Eyes Were Watching God uses a divided narrative voice, shifting between a literate voice in standard English and a highly , idiomatic black voice. The unreconciled tension between the two forms of narration are ‘a verbal analogue of her double experiences as a woman in a male-dominated world and as a black person in a non- black world, a woman writer’s revision of W.E.B. Du Bois’s metaphor of “double-consciousness” for the hyphenated African-American’; her voice captures, as well, the fragmentation of modernity (Gates 1990: 193—4). At the same time, Hurston’s narrative voice is also col— lective rather than individualistic, thus representing the ‘collective spirit of African-American oral tradition’ (Washington 1990: xii). Post-colonial writing and literary translation 35 The appropriation of a dominant language for the aims of a for- mer colony or an oppressed group and the shift of dominant poetics towards the standards of a minority or post-colonial people are potent means of realigning power structures in a shared cultural field and of asserting an independent world-view. In the Spanish—speaking culture area, the authors of the former Spanish colonies of Latin America have pioneered important formal strategies, including those of Magic Realism, and they have expanded the linguistic resources of literary Spanish in this century so as to express specifically the hybridity and specificity of Latin—American historical and cultural experience. In the English-language world this process has been in the making for 200 years as former colonies, including the United States and Ireland, have developed literatures in their own versions of English. In this linguistic sense, post-colonial literature like trans- lation is subversive, and Heaney, speaking of Joyce’s use of Dublin’s demotic English, claims thatjoyce turned English from ‘an imperial humiliation’ to ‘a native weapon’ (Heaney 1978: 40). One of the most challenging features of writing about post— colonial and minority—culture literature is constructing a standard of judgement, for it is difficult to sort out the creativity of the writer from the deautomatization associated with the importation of new cultural materials, new poetics and new linguistic patterns derived from the cultural substratum of the author’s culture itself. It is easy to overread such features as metaphor, linguistic transpositions of obligatory features of a native language, or shifts in frequency distri- bution associated with a variant dialect; a critic may take the cultural givens of a post—colonial writer as authorial creativity. While it is clear that the author exercises mastery in selection, the extent to which the author creates may be less clear. How is the critic to eval- uate such neologisms as Ngaugai’s ‘birth—motions’ or ‘love-mates’ (Ngaugai 1986: 203), or Achebe’s ‘cowrie-shell eye’3' (Achebe 1989: 14)? Is Tutuola’s dn'n/tard an ‘error’, a lexeme from his dialect of English, or a brilliant, innovative portmanteau word? An author may even have a vested interest in concealing the debt of a text to the native culture, fearing that his or her own authorial status may be compromised.” Paradoxically, even when the innovative elements of a specific text may not be personally invented by the author, post-colonial authors nonetheless remake the languages and literatures of their former colonizers through the importation and adaptation of native mythos, mythopoeic imagery, an alternate lexis, vibrant textures of idiomatic speech and new formalisms, as 36 Maria Tymoczko we have seen. It is ironic that the rich presence of these elements confers prestige in contemporary post-colonial literature while the same elements have been so often rejected in translations. Most literary phenomena are defined by more than their content. Though certain types of the novel — such as the picaresque or the Bildungsroman or anti~Utopian literature — are defined primarily with reference to their subject matter, this is rarely done with larger literary categories: American literature is not defined as being about America, nor is every work of literature written by an American relevant to American literature per se. Similarly, post-colonial litera- ture as a literary phenomenon is more than just literature about a former colony or by a citizen of a former colony. Criticism about post-colonial literature and minority-culture literature will benefit from a clearer sense of the parameters that are characteristic of post— colonial and minority—culture literatures; several such parameters have emerged through the comparison of these bodies of literature with literary translations, an analogous form of intercultural writing. Comparisons of the type suggested here help to define the bound- aries of these cohesive groups of literary works, indicating common- alities of linguistic texture and form, as well as challenges of the artistic task. Just as descriptive approaches to translation avoid the pitfalls of certain vicious circles having to do with normative standards, so a stronger sense of the ways in which post-colonial lit- erature is a self-standing type of writing will help move the criticism beyond repetitive ideological debate or a sophisticated form of assim— ilative cannibalism in which post-colonial works are appropriated or swallowed whole into hegemonic canons of world literature. Notes 1 See N gaugii 1993; Ashcroft, Griffiths and Tifiin 1989. Strictly speaking the purview of this investigation is broader than post-colonial writing per se and includes minority—culture writing that involves the negotiation of significant cultural and / or linguistic boundaries, as, for example, is the case with African-Americans and Irish writers. Thus, examples from such writers as Zora Neale Hurston and Toni Morrison, as well as James Joyce, are relevant to some of the points raised here. 2 Jakobson (1959: 234—5) gives other examples of this type of metaphor— ical speech about new phenomena; see also Lakoff and Johnson 1980. 3 Cf. Bhabha 1990: 292—3, 314—20, and sources cited for instances of the use of translation as a metaphor for post—colonial writing. 4 See also Pym 1992; Lefevere 1992b: 51~8; Even—Zohar 1990: 74 ff; Snell~Hornby 1990: 81—2, and sources cited. " *‘W‘W'Wf' ’7 r‘ gig; it .;. La. . 35,, , Post-colonial writing and literary translation 37 5 Nida discusses literalism in 1964: ch. 2; cf. 184 If, 213 If. See also Bassnett 1991: ch. 2. 6 The question of information load as a controlling factor in the construc- tion of intercultural writing — particularly in the shaping of the fictive world ~ should be closely attended to in the analysis of any specific literary work. Post-colonial texts, like literary translations, can also be examined for places at which they risk becoming opaque to an inter- national audience, such spots revealing pressure points of cultural constraint on the writer. 7 Joyce is an early example of the latter strategy; he facilitated the ‘author- itative’ studies of both Stuart Gilbert and Frank Budgen, both of which introduced important cultural and textual contexts to readers. 8 See, for example, the discussions in Bassnett 1991: ch. 1 and Jakobson 1959. 9 On the differences that result from shifts betWeen obligatory features of different languages, see the examples in Catford 1965: chs 3, 5, 12; on shifts having to do with cultural differences, see the examples in Nida 1964: 215—18, 228—9, 235—7. See also Bassnett 1991: ch. 1. 10 Discussions are found in Nida 1964: chs 4—6. Note especially the ways in which referential meanings are language—bound insofar as semantic fields are inherently related to contrasting words, linguistic hierarchies, and so forth within any single language. 1 1 The creation of all literary worlds involves selection, not merely repre- sentation. Both the inclusions and omissions of post-colonial authors are significant; indeed the silences are as revealing as the subjects spoken of in these literary texts. l2 Bhabha 1990 attempts to displace the discourse of historicism which has dominated critical approaches to post—colonial authors in favour of seeing them as interpreters of the nation as metaphor, openaended as the image of the past is projected into the performative world of the present and future. See esp. pp. 292—3, 303~7 and sources cited. Cairns and Richards offer a case study of the ways in which over time authors create shifting symbolic images of their people and their nation within the changing political and ideological contexts of colonization and decolonization. Literary translations can similarly be viewed as metonymic refractions of original literary works and, ultimately, ideo» logical representations of the underlying source cultures of those literary works; see Ty'moczko 1995. 13 The question of exile and post—colonial writing is taken up and reap- praised by Brennan 1990, esp. pp. 60—6; note Brennan’s assessment of the relationship between exile and patronage. 14 See, for example, the history of Bible translators discussed by Bassnett 1991: 45—50; Nida 1964: 14 if 15 Nida 1964: ch. 10 offers examples. 16 There are, of course, symbolic reasons for his choice of pickle. 17 Examples of such problems can be found in Lefevere 1992a: 22*9. Other complex types of diffuse cultural material that both translators and writers struggle to communicate include elements of the habitus (see Bourdieu 1977), as well as pervasive cultural metaphors (see Lakotf 38 Maria Tymoczko and Johnson 1980); these issues are, however, beyond the scope of this essay. 18 In this discrepancy we see Rushdie’s priorities for communication with his readers; at the same time the ironizing of history and the unreli- able historical narration in the text are probably obscured for most international readers whose ignorance hampers recognition of Rushdie’s rhetorical strategies. 19 A writer like joyce who does not provide explanation (of customs, beliefs, social structure, politics, history, geography, language, and so forth) for his international readers assumes a political stance resistant to hegemony (cf. Sommer 1992), but also risks alienating the interna— tional readership. 20 An example suggesting this trajectory is Achebe’s careful explanation of the kolanut ceremony in 771ings Fall Apart (Achebe 1991: 9—1 1) which contrasts markedly with his later treatment of the same ceremony in A Man if the People (Achebe 1989: 91) in which no explanation is provided. One can also project an alternative trajectory in which growing international success leads an author to a somewhat cynical accommodation to the standards of the dominant-culture audience. 21 For examples, see Ngaugai 1986: 14; Emecheta 1979: 11. Nida discusses issues in translating names (1964: 19345, 233—4). 22 Types of translation strategies are discussed in Bassnett 1991: 23—9 and Nida 1964: ch. 8. 23 Consider, for example, the problems of interpreting Rushdie’s versions of history discussed above; see also the discussion in Tymoczko 1994 of the skewed readings of Joyce produced by critics with inadequate knowledge of his Irish cultural context. 24 For a discussion of patronage and translation, see, for example, Lefevere 1985 and 1992b. 25 As, for example, Brennan claims (1990: 63 if.) 26 Thus, for example, translators must take into account the literacy levels of their audience (Nida 1964: 129 ff, 143—4). 27 See, for examples, the essays in Even—Zohar 1990; Hermans (ed.) 1985; and Lefevere and Jackson (eds) 1982. 28 On resistant strategies of writing and translation see Sommer 1992; Venuti (ed.) 1992 and Venuti 1995. 29 These points are taken up in Even-Zohar 1990: 45-51; Kahnan 1986; Lefevere 1979; Toury 1985: 20 ff. and 1995: 40—52; Venuti 1995. I 30 See Tymoczko 1994: chs 3, 5 and 6. 31 Referring to a cataract. 32 Joyce, for example, seems to have deliberately suppressed his debt to Irish formalism for both intrapsychic and practical reasons pertaining to patronage (T ymoczko 1994: chs 1, 9). Conversely in judging a trans— lation, a reader may be deceived into overreading a text as ‘universal’ by a translator’s assirnilative strategies of rendering the text; Fitzgerald’s infamous translation of Omar Khayyam’s Rubabiat comes to mind. 2 I l. I l x x l Post-colonial writing and literary translation 39 References Achebe, C. (1989 [1966]) A Man oft/1e People (New York: Doubleday). (1991 [1959]) Yhings Fall Apart (New York: Fawcett Crest). Ashcroft, B., Griffiths, G. and Tiflin, H. (1989) The Empire Writes Back: 771607] and Practice Post-colonial Literature (London and New York: Routledge). Bassnett, S. (1991) Translation Studies rev. edn (London: Routledge). Bhabha, H.K. (1990) ‘DissemiNation: time, narrative, and the margins of the modern nation’, in Bhabha (ed.) 1990, pp. 291-322. (ed.) (1990) Nation and Narration (London and New York: Routledgc). Bourdieu, P. (1977) Outline qfa 771mg! omectioe trans. R. Nice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Brennan, T. (1990) ‘The national longing for form’, in Bhabha (ed.) 1990, pp. 44—70. Cairns, D. and Richards, S. (1988) Writing Ireland: Colonialism, .Nationalimz and Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Catford, J.C. (1965) A Linguistic 771mg! of Translation: An Esstyv in Applied Linguistics (London: Oxford University Press). Emecheta, B. (1979) 77zejojs of Motherhood (New York: George Braziller). Even-Zohar, I. (1990) Polygistem Studies, Poetics Today 11 (1), special issue. Gates, H.L.,Jr. (1990) ‘Afterword: Zora Neale Hurston: “A Negro Way of Saying’”, in Hurston (1990), pp. 185~95. Heaney, S. (1978) ‘The interesting case of John Alphonsus Mulrennan’, Planet: The Welsh Internationalist 41 (Jan): 34—40. Hermans, T. (ed.) (1985) The Manipulation of Literature: Studies in Literary Translation (New York: St Martin’s Press). Holmes, J.S. (1994) Translated! Papers on Literapl Translation and Translation Studies 2nd edn (Amsterdam: Rodopi). Hurston, Z.N. (1990 [1937]) Their Eyes Were Watching God (New York: Harper & Row). Ivir, V. (1987) ‘Procedures and strategies for the translation of culture’, Indian journal of Applied Linguistics 13: 2.35—46. Jakobson, R. (1959) ‘On linguistic aspects of translation’, in R. A. Brewer (ed.), 0n Translation (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press), pp. 232—9. Kalman, CC. (1986) ‘Some borderline cases of translation’, New Comparison 1: 117—22. Lakoff, G. andJOhnson, M. (1980) Metaphors W'e Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Lefevere, A. (1979) ‘Slauerhoff and “Po Tsju I”: three paradigms for the study of influence’, Tam/tang Review 10: 67—77. (1985) ‘Why waste our time on rewrites? The trouble with interpre- tation and the role of rewriting in an alternative paradigm’, in Hermans (ed.) 1985, pp. 215—43. r (1992a) Translating Literature: Practice and Theory in a Comparative Literature Context (New York: Modern Language Association). 40 Maria Tymoczko —(1992b) Translation, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame (London: Routledge). andjackson, K.D. (eds) (1982) YheArt and Science of Translation, Divporitio 7, special issue. Lester, j. (1970 [1969]) Black Folktales (New York: Grove Press). Morrison, T. (1978 [1977]) Song ofSolomon (New York: Signet). Ngfiugai, wa T. (1986 [1967])A Grain of Wheat rev. edn (Oxford: Heinemann). (1993) Moving the Centre: The Struggle for Cultural Freedoms (Iondonzjames Currey). Nida, EA. (1964) Toward a Sa'ence of With Special Reference to P‘Iinczpler and Procedure: Involved in Bible Translating (Leiden: EJ. Brill). Pym, A. (1992) Translation and Text Trany'er: An Emy on the Hinciples of Intercultural Communication (Frankfurt: Peter Lang). Rushdie, S. (1991 [1980]) Midnight’s Children. (New York: Penguin). Seng'upta, M. (1990) ‘Translation, colonialism, and poetics: Rabindranath Tagore in two worlds’, in S. Bassnett and A. Lefevere (eds), Translation, Histogt and Culture (London and New York: Pinter), pp. 56—63. Sidhwa, B. (1991 [1988]) Cracking India (Minneapolis: Milkweed). Simms, N. (1983) ‘Three types of “touchy” translation’, in N. Simms (ed.), Nimrod’s Sin, Pacific Quarterly Moana 8 (2) (special issue): 4-8—58. Snell-Hornby, M. (1990) ‘Linguistic transcoding or cultural transfer? A critique of translation theory in Germany’, in S. Bassnett and A. Lefevere (eds), Translation, History and Culture (London and New York: Pinter), pp. 79—86. Sommer, D. (1990) ‘Resistant texts and incompetent readers’, [aa'n American Literao' Review 20: 40104—8. Thelwell, M. (1994) ‘Introduction’, in A. Tutuola [1984] The Palm-wine Dan/card and 11/1} Lifi in the Bush of Ghosts (New York: Grove Press), pp. l77~90. Toury, G. (1985) ‘A rationale for descriptive translation studies’, in Hermans (ed.) 1985, pp. 16—41. (1995) Descriptive Translation Studier and Beyond (Amsterdam: John Benjamins). Tymoczko, M. (1994) The Irish ‘Ulflses’ (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press). — (1995) ‘The metonymics of translating marginalized texts’, Comparative literature 47: 1.11—24. Venuti, L. (ed.) (1992) Rethinking Translation: Dircourse, Suly'eetzvig', Ideology (London: Routledge). ~——- (1995) The Translator’: Invin‘biliy: A Hister of Translation (London: Routledge). Wall, R. (1 986) An Anglo—Irish Dialect Glossapvforjtyceir Work: (Gerrards Cross: Colin Smythe). Washington, (1990) ‘Foreword’, in Hurston 1990, pp. vii—xiv. ' Chapter 5 Liberating Calibans Readings of Antropofagia and Haroldo de Campos’ poetics of ‘ transcreation Else Ribeirp Pires Vieira Creative translation . . . this panicidal dis-memory (Haroldo cle Campos 1981a: 209) Translation as transfusion. Of blood. Ironically, we could talk of vampirization, thinking now of the translator’s nourishment. (Haroldo de Campos 1981a: 208) As with any rich offering, satisfaction can be accompanied by surfeit or excess. Such may be the case for the world’s digestion of the Brazilian-derived metaphor of anthropophag'y.l From its avant- garde emergence in the 19203, within the context of several manifestos presenting alternatives to a still persistent mental colo— nialism after 100 years of political independence for Brazil, has developed into a very specific national experimen— talism, a poetics of translation, an ideological operation as well as a critical discourse theorizing the relation between Brazil and external influences, increasingly moving away from essentialist confrontations towards a bilateral appropriation of sources and the contamination of colonial/ hegemonic univocality. Disrupting dichotomous views of source and target, Antropofagia and its appli- cation to translation entails a double dialectical dimension with political ingredients; it unsettles the primacy of origin, recast both as donor and receiver of forms, and advances the role of the receiver as a giver in its own right, further pluralizing (in)fidelity. Yet, in the last few years, throughout the world, outside the setting of its own local cuisine, Anbqufagia has become a too quickly swallowed body of thought, a word devoured literally and not digested as a complex metaphor, undergoing metamorphoses in different contexts and critical perspectives. Anhopofagia, which, in Haroldo de Campos’ 96 Else Ribeiro Pires Vieira view, is a sign of the polyphonic identity of Brazil, rings not a note of furious aggression but rather one of irreverently amorous devouring. Deriving from a non-Eurocentric way of conceiving spir- itual force as inseparable from matter, related to the local natives’ animism, it ultimately entails a tribute to the other’s strength that one wishes to have combined with one’s own for greater vitality. While undercutting the plenitude of any origin as the only source of strength, it makes an incision and a conjoining to unite the blood and marrow of the one with the other. Proceeding with culinary care, this essay follows de Campos’ poet- ics of transcreation from the 19605 to the present, with specific reference to the digestive metaphor in Brazil. We shall discuss the critical discourse on Antroquagia, created by de Campos himself and seen to operate in various segments of Brazilian culture which, in dif- ferent ways, have appropriated and exploited the digestive metaphor. As I contextualize the anthropophagous play of permanence through discontinuity and difference, both in critical discourse and in trans- lation metalanguage, two different moments of enunciation of subaltern subjectivities (d la Spivak) will be considered: first in the 19205 with Oswald de Andrade and again from the 19605 to the early 1980s. Referring to the tension between the national identity of a peripheral post—colonial culture and incoming contributions from hegemonic ones, I argue with Johnson that cannibalism, initially an irreverent verbal weapon and a form of resistance in the Manfisto Antropo’fizgo (Anthropophagous Manifesto) of the 19205, re-emerges in the 19605 and 19705 as both a metaphor and a philosophy of culture (Johnson 1987: 42). The political dimension of Antropty’agia will be seen to have been broached by de Campos, among others, in his view of nationalism ‘as a dialogical movement of difference . . . the rup- ture instead of the linear course; historiography as the seismic graph of fragmentation, rather than the tautological homologation of the homogeneous’ (de Campos 1981b English version 1986: 45).? Translation as ‘verse making’, ‘reinvention’, a ‘project of recre— ation’ (in the 19605), ‘translumination’ and ‘transparadisation’ (stemming from his translation of Dante), as ‘transtextualization’, as ‘transcreation’, as ‘transluciferation’ (stemming from his transla- tion of Goethe’s Faust), as ‘transhelenization’ (as from his translation of the Iliad of Homer), as ‘poetic reorchestration’ (from his rendering of the Hebrew Bible into Brazilian Portuguese), as ‘reimagination’ (from his transcreation of classical Chinese poetry into Portuguese) are but some of the neologisms coined by Haroldo de Campos that Haroldo de Campos‘ poetics of transcreation 97 ______________________________._____._____—— offer a vanguardist poetics of translation as textual revitalization while pointing to the Anthropophagic dimension of feeding on the very text he is translating to derive his metalanguage. ‘Re’ and ‘trans’ are recurrent prefixes that locate translation at a remove from mono- logical truth in the direction of a transformative recreation of inher— ited tradition. Translation is further theorized as ‘uma desmeméria parricida’ / ‘a parricidal dis-memory’ (de Campos 1981a:' 209). ’ Arguing with Foucault that ‘knowledge is not made for understand- ing", it is made for cutting’ (Foucault 1986: 88), my own anthro— pophagic hyphenation of ‘dis-memory’, as I rendered ‘desmeméria’ into English, highlights the dual positionality of de Campos’ van- guardist theory of translation in relation to tradition: a hyphen that both separates and unites inasmuch as ‘dis-memory’ speaks of a translation project which unleashes the epistemological challenge of discontinuity but reunites threads into a new fabric; a translation pro- ject which murders the father, means in his absence yet reveres him by creating a continued existence for him in a different corporeality. Also in the space of ‘trans’ is the notion of ‘translation as transfusion of blood’ (de Campos 1981a: 208) — a more conspicuously anthro- pophagic metaphor that moves translation beyond the dichotomy source/ target and sites original and translation in a third dimension, where each is both a donor and a receiver - a dual trajectory that, again, points to the specificity of the digestive metaphor in Brazilian culture we shall briefly discuss. ‘TUPI OR NOT TUPI, THAT IS THE QUESTION’ Tupi, to be. In the famous line from Oswald de Andrade’s A/Ianyfzrto Antroptfiago of the 19205, both ‘Tupi’ and ‘to be’ read the same, except for a minor phonological change: in ‘to be’ the bilabial conso- nant is aspirated and voiced whereas in ‘Tupi’ it is non—aspirated and voiceless. Such a voicelessness pronounces difference and inscribes a colonial perspective into the Shakespearean intertext and, for that matter, to the Western canon. Since the Tupis were a tribe inhabiting Brazil at the time of the discovery, the colonial dilemma is not one informed by Christian scruples as to what may come after death, but has to do with the duality, plurality of the origin and, accordingly, of the cultural identity of Brazil, both European and Tupi, both civilized and native, both Christian and magic; a 98 Else Ribeiro Pires Vieira M culture that grew out of the juxtaposition of not two but many civi- lizations and which carries to this day the paradox of origin. Tupi, to be: the attempt in the 19205 to discontinue mental colonialism through the‘desanctifying devouring of the Western legacy. A further reading of the play operating within ‘Tupi or not Tupi’ arises not from a minor phonological but from a major theological echo. For the ontological question of the sixteenth-century ecclesi- astical debates as to whether the Indian had a soul, and the concomitant Aristotelian-derived debate regarding the permissibility of his or her enslavement, effectively asked whether the colonist or his legislators could or should, either morally or economically, allow the Tupi to be. To be, Tupi -— through language, permission for the voicelessness of the Tupi to sound out, allowing difference to disrupt homogeneity. The devouring of Shakespeare and the revitalization of Hamlet’s dilemma in the Manflérto points to the assimilative perspective of cannibalism both as a programme and as a praxis: foreign input, far from being denied, is absorbed and transformed, which brings cannibalism and the dialogical principle close together. However, it stands to reason that Oswald de Andrade’s dialogism has political imports for Brazil, because the denial of univocality means assertion of the Brazilian polyphonic and pluricultural space and, ultimately, liberation from mental colonialism. Cannibalism is a metaphor actually drawn from the natives’ ritual whereby feeding from someone or drinking someone’s blood, as they did to their totemic ‘tapir’, was a means of absorbing the other’s strength, a pointer to the very project of the Anthropophagy group: not to deny foreign influences or nourishment, but to absorb and transform them by the addition of autochthonous input. Initially using the metaphor as an irreverent verbal weapon, the Manyfem Antropo’fago stresses the repressive nature of colonialism; Brazil had been traumatized by colonial repression and conditioning, the para- digm of which is the suppression of the original anthropophagical ritual by the Jesuits, so ‘the cure is to use that which was originally repressed — cannibalism — as a weapon against historically repressive society’ (Nunes in Johnson 1987: 51). The awareness of Europe’s debt to the New World pervades the Antropcy’agia in Oswald de Andrade’s Manyésto. In the overt attempt at freeing Brazilian culture from mental colonialism, the Manferto redirects the flow of Eurocentn'c historiography. The New World, by means of the permanent ‘Caraiba’ revolution, becomes the source of Haroldo de Campos’ poetics of transcreation 99 revolutions and changes; the Old World is pronounced indebted to the New World because without it ‘Europe would not even have its poor declaration of the rights of man’. Again, through a reading of history from a reverse angle, the Christian missionaries who are traditionally said to have gone to Brazil to save the population are recast in the Manifesto as runaways from a civilization Brazilians are now, in turn, dissecting. The reversal of history culminates in the date of composition of the Manyfisto. Contradicting both the Christian calendar and orthodox historiography that sets the year 1500 as the discovery and origin of Brazil, Oswald de Andrade’s Manfiésto is dated in the 374th year of the ritual devouring of a Portuguese bishop which, metaphorically, marks the synthesis of the European and autochthonous elements, signposting the emergence of Brazilian culture. ANTROPOFAGIA REVISITED Having briefly demonstrated how the digestive metaphor was initially used in Oswald de Andrade’s Mangfesto of the 19203 irreverently to present a non-Eurocentric historiography, I now move from what Spivak calls ‘strategic essentialism’ to a brief survey of the more recent revitalization of the digestive metaphor in the 19603 and 19705. A web of narratives and social reports will be shown to theor- ize metaphorically the tension between world culture and the identity of a peripheral national literature within the complex interplay of neo—colonialism and transnationalization in the Third World, a term that came to be applied to post—colonial countries and which brought a heightened awareness of hierarchy and underdevelopment. Segments of Brazilian cultural production, including literature, cinema, popular music and the discourse of criticism might be seen as having incorporated such new sensitivities, at times returning to the view of a non~contaminated culture, at others asserting identity via the appropriation and recycling of the world’s cultural objects. In this context, Johnson’s study of the re-emergence and re— evaluation of Antmquag'a, from which I select three examples, is illuminating in that it includes several forms of rewriting. In 1967, Oswald de Andrade’s play 0 Rei a'a Vela, a virulent critique of capi- talism, economic dependency and authoritarianism, was staged and recreated, among other things, as a radical critique of the economic and political model imposed by the regime following the 1964 IOO Else Ribeiro Fires Vieira Revolution. Two years later, Joaquim Pedro de Andrade adapted Macunaz’ma, a novel of the 19203 associated with Antrofiofagia, into a film, where the image of cannibalism is used to criticize Brazil’s savage capitalism and the country’s relations of dependency on advanced industrial powers. The novel Galuez, Inmeraa'or do Acre (The Emperor of the Amazon) by Marcio Souza (1976) keeps the anthro- pophagic attitude and creates an allegory of economic and cultural imperialism. The symbol of the castrating function of colonialism is to be seen in the character of Sir Henry Lust, a British scientist who collects Indians’ genital organs (Johnson 1987: 54—5). The two generations of Cinema .Navo (Brazilian New Cinema) also reintroduce the discussion on cultural identity and dependence using the digestive metaphor or variations upon it in their examination of the question of Brazil and external influences. As remarked by Hollanda and Goncalves in their study of the Cinema Now, its first generation, associated with the name of Glauber Rocha, attempted to make decolonized films by deconstructing the dominant American and European models and by defending the thesis named A Estética da Fame (The Aesthetics of Hunger). Hunger, Glauber Rocha claims, is the distinctive trait of the social experience of underdeveloped and peripheral countries — so the Cinema Nova repre— sented ‘Latin hunger’ and its cultural manifestation, violence. Underdevelopment is thus the very stuff of Cinema Nova (Hollanda and Gongalves 1989: 44—5). The second generation of Cinema Nova, whose main exponent is Arnaldo Jabor, reflects differently on the relationship between Brazil and what is foreign. Says Jabor: From 1965 to 1980 the country changed a lot. Brazil . . . became a country of technological surplus, of contradictions generated by the invasion of the multinationals, a hungry and empty country surrounded by superfluities and pockets of development like Sao Paulo. We are still hungry, but the situation has changed. I think that the aesthetics of today is that of ‘I want to eat’. The aesthetics of . . . the wish to appropriate the [colo— nizer’s] equipment . . . but not one of lament. (labor in Hollanda and Goncalves 1989: 87) A parallel development to that of the two generations of Cinema Nova 18 to be seen in Brazilian popular music. In the mid-19605, when a CIA and multinational-capital-backed dictatorship was ?5 ' ‘. i- : g! " s .. "i 3% i“ is? f." "E .. Haroldo de Campos' poetics of transcreation IOI established in Brazil, protest singers like Nara Leao held the view that art should be committed and express a political opinion mostly against authoritarianism. Nara Leio’s ‘mais que nunca é preciso cantar’ (‘more than ever it is necessary to sing’) reveals the tone of mobilization used to elicit an emotional rather than a critical response from the public (Hollanda and Goncalves 1989: 22—4). Singers also relied heavily on rural music as an expression of a genuine, non-contaminated national culture (Wisnik 1987: 122). Later, Tropicalinno (T ropicalism), a segment of Brazilian popular music associated with Caetano Veloso, among others, moves away from the protest song and from the idea of a non-contaminated national culture, theorizing differently the relationship between Brazil and external influences. Arnaldo Jabor stresses that ‘The importance of Tropicalirma was to say that Brazil is also the calf’s foot—jelly, the general jam, the great multinational confusion that was planted here Trapicalinno made Brazil aware that reality is more complex than the empire versus the colony’ (Jabor in Hollanda and Goncalves 1989: 88). Rather than stressing a non— contaminated national culture, Tropicalimo appropriates the cultural forms generated in the international circuit of mass communication. Thus, Brazilian culture emerges as a focus of tensions between the rustic and the industrialized, the acoustic and the electric, the national and the foreignras such, history emerges as the locus of a complex and unlevelled simultaneity, to use Wisnik’s terms (W isnik 1987: 122). Tropicalismo, the critic Santiago adds, takes up the anthro- pophagic move while decentring the geography of Brazilian culture from the land of the palm trees to London, and displacing the Portuguese‘Brazilian linguistic axis to a sort of Esperanto — for example, ‘My country has got palm-trees where the Big-Ben chimes’ (Santiago 1978: 124-). Still according to Santiago, this linguistic salad, evidence of cosmopolitanism, means that the linguistic sign has no nationality and that in this period of the opening up of cultural frontiers all languages are valid (ibid.: 131—2). The anthropophagous metaphor continues, then, to contaminate Brazilian critical discourse. Santiago further stresses the political implications of the traditional study of sources and influences in Brazil and Latin America which casts the artist in a position of tributary to the flow of another culture. This conventional critical discourse, Santiago goes on, does not differ in the least from neo— colonialist discourse: both talk of insolvent economies. The sources, he specifically claims, become the unreachable star that, without 102 Else Ribeiro Fires Vieira ‘ allowing itself to be contaminated, shines for Latin American artists when they depend on its light for their work. The star illumines the movement of the artists’ hands, but at the same time subjects them to its superior magnetism; critical discourse based on influences sets the star as the only value. To find the ladder to the star and to contract with them the debt which would minimize the unbearable distance between moral artist and immortal star is, for Santiago, the conventional role of the Latin American artist; a new critical discourse stresses difference, not debt and imitation, as the only critical value. And he concludes that, while submission may be a form of behaviour, transgression becomes the form of expression (ibid.: 20—7). HAROLDO DE CAMPOS ON ANTHROPOPHAGY In this climate of re-evaluation and rereading of the digestive metaphor, Haroldo de Campos himself emerges, from the 19605, as the creator of a discourse around Antropofagz‘a with the publication of Oswald de Andrade —— Trev/w: escollzidos (Oswald de Andrade —— Selected Passages) (1967) and, in the 19703, of Mozfiflogia do Macwzaz'ma (Morphology of Macunajma) (1973), writing that moves away from economic dependence as a referent towards a view of Antroptfagia as a critical, poetic and ideological operation. This section, specifically regarding his critical discourse and his views of translation as criticism associable with Antroprfagia, focuses on ‘Da Traducao como Criacao e como Critica’ (‘On Translation as Creation and Criticism’) (first published in 1963).3 In the early 1960s de Campos had started meditating on the pos- sibility of an experimental and avant-garde literature in an under- developed culture as a discussion not dissociable from the tension in Latin America between the world’s cultural legacy and local specificities (de Campos 1986: 42). The timing, of course, was not accidental. For it was precisely at this juncture that the term ‘Third World’ was spawned with increasing regularity but decreasing recog- nition of crucial differentialities. As Cold War tensions climaxed, binary conceptions dominated more than ever, paradoxically high- lighting the space between West and East but homogenizing the many cultures not incorporable into such easy schemata so that ‘Third World’ became reified as one. Plurality, as a political and cultural possibility, virtually receded in Latin America, for instance, after the ti Haroldo de Campos' poetics of transcreation 103 Cuba missile crisis of 1962. And the impact of such reductivities was also felt culturally and artistically. Tracing the meanders of this path, it is in Octavio Paz that de Campos initially finds an illuminating contention, namely, that the notion of underdevelopment is an offshoot of the culturally reduc— tionist idea of economic progress not readily associable with artistic experience. He thus advances the need to consider the national element in a dialogical relationship with the universal (ibid.: 43—4). Hence his reading of Oswald de Andrade’s Anthropop/zagy as follows: the thought of critical devouring of the universal cultural heritage, formulated not from the insipid, resigned perspective of the ‘noble savage’ . . . but from the point of view of the ‘bad savage’, devourer of whites — the cannibal. The latter view does not involve a submission (an indoctrination), but a transcultur- ation, or, better, a ‘transvalorization’: a critical view of History as a negative function (in Nietzsche’s sense of the term), capable of appropriation and of expropriation, de-hierachization, decon- struction. Any past which is an ‘other’ for us deserves to be negated. We could say that it deserves to be eaten, devoured. With this clarification and specification: the cannibal was a polemicist (from the Greek polemos, meaning struggle or combat) but he was also an ‘anthologist’: he devoured only the enemies he considered strong, to take from them the marrow and protein to fortify and renew his own natural energies. (ibid.: 44) Opposing the view of an ontological nationalism, which seeks to locate the origin of a national logos, considered as a point, he advances a counterpoint, a modal, differential nationalism as a dialogical movement of difference: ‘the dis-character, instead of the character, the rupture instead of the linear course; historiography as the seismic graph of fragmentation’, involving the novel notion of tradition as a counter to the prestigious canon (ibid.: 45). It is worth noting his ‘culinary care’ in pointing out a bilateral flow in the digestive metaphor while tracing the manifestation of what he calls modal nationalism to the nineteenthccentury Brazilian novelist Machado de Assis: ‘The great and unclassifiable Machado, swallower of Sterne and of innumerable others (he gives us the metaphor of the head as a ruminator’s stomach, where all suggestions, after being broken down and mixed, are prepared for a new ,remastication, a 104 Else Ribeiro Pires Vleira complicated chemistry in which it is no longer possible to distinguish the assirnilating organism) from these assimilated material ’(ibid.: 45). Refusing the essentialist metaphor of a gradual, harmonious natural evolution associated with the ontological view of nationalism and questioning logocentn'c questions of origin, de Campos sees literature emerging in colonial Brazil as ‘the non—origin’, as an obstacle, as ‘the non-infancy’. The etymology of infans as one who does not speak reverberates in his'argument: born adults, Brazilians had to speak the elaborate international rhetorical code of the Baroque, articulated as difference (ibid.: 47). ‘A partogenesis without an ontological egg’ is his playful contradiction of the legend of the egg of Columbus (ibid.). It is in the Brazilian Baroque, when the ‘rule of anthropophagy’ develops, deconstructing the logocen- trism inherited from the West (ibid.: 49), that he pinpoints the first practitioner of Anthropophagous translation, Gregério de Matos, in whose translation of Gongora, he argues, one finds a distinctive sign of alterity in the gaps of a universal code (ibid.: 48). But he claims in the essay ‘Translation as Creation and Criticism’ (1992: 38) that the first actual theorist of translation, and more specifically of creative translation, is the pre-Romantic Manuel Odorico Mendes. In his translation of the 010559, Odon'co Mendes synthesized 12,106 lines into 9,302, maybe to accommodate in pentameters Homer’s hexameters, or to avoid the monotony of transposing the sound effects typical of a language with declensions to an analytical one. He further made up compound words in Portuguese to translate Homer’s metaphors; ‘anthropophagically’, he interpolated lines from other poets such as Camoes into Homer (1992: 38-9). Haroldo dc Campos points out that the anti-normative tradition in Brazilian contemporary poetry informs the Concretist movement, which challenges the universal code and appropriates and reclaims the patrimony of a peripheral literature, criticizing and ‘chewing over’ a poetics (dc Campos 1986: 51). With the attempt of Sao Paulo’s Concretist poets of the 19503 (principally the de Campos brothers and Décio Pignatari) to theorize and create a Brazilian poetics, there emerged a continuous translation activity of re/ transcreation also linked to Ezra Pound and his view of translation as criticism; while translating the Cantor themselves, they nourished on and applied Pound’s own criteria for creative translation (1992: 42). A series of translations followed — of e.e. cummings, the German avant-garde, Japanese haz'kus, Dante, Joyce — whose ‘fragile and apparently unreachable beauty’ had its entrails dissected and Haroldo de Campos' poetics of transcreation 105 W revitalized into the body of a foreign language and poetics (1992: 43). The translation of creative texts, de Campos argues, is always recreation or parallel creation, the opposite of a literal translation, but always reciprocal; an operation in which it is not only the meaning that is translated but the sign itself in all its corporeality (sound properties, visual imagetics, all that makes up the iconicity of the aesthetic sign) (1992: 35). With Pound, translation is seen as criticism, insofar as it attempts theoretically to anticipate creation, it chooses, it eliminates repetitions, it organizes knowledge in such a way that the next generation may find only the still living part. Pound’s well-known ‘Make it new’ is thus recast by de Campos as the revitalization of the past via translation (1992: 36). ' Having contextualized the discourse on Antraquagia associated with Haroldo de Campos himself, as well as his subscription to Pound’s view of translation as criticism and recreation, it remains to be seen how he combines these two sources of nourishment to advance his poetics of transcreation and more specifically his view of translation as transtextualization. In the trajectory, Goethe, one who ‘carnivalizes Hell and carnalizes Heaven’ (de Campos 1997: 29), and Benjamin will be seen to be further presences he anthropo- phagically absorbs and transforms. ON ‘TRANSPARADISATIONS’ AND ‘TRANSLUCIFERATIONS’ Heavenly and daemonic. Transculturating the sacred and the diabolic. Irreverent and reverent. Moving beyond essentialist bina— risms, Haroldo de Campos aportuguera the Hebrew language and hebraiza the Portuguese language. These bilateral movements in his translation of the Hebrew Bible point to the double dialectics that informs Antroquagia inasmuch as they highlight the ontological nationalism he had advanced, one that homologizes and, at the same time, inscribes difference in tradition. The Hebrew Bible, he explains, presents a proverbial and aphorismatic style where the solemn and the colloquial intermingle in a markedly poetic form. Subscribing to Benjamin’s view that fidelity relates to the signifying form beyond the transmission of a communicative content, he further stresses the resources he used specifically from Brazilian Portuguese. Focusing on the fact that the literary emergence of Brazilian Portuguese occurred during the Baroque, he argues that l06 Else Ribeiro Pires Vieira M the transposed language counteracted the constraints of a European and long—standing rationalist tradition, despite all the efforts of the purists; the language was shaken by the subversion of speech, of orality in its several registers, not to mention several lexical inven- tions; it is a plastic idiom that opens its sounds and its syntax to the fertilizing impact of the foreign language. In order to render the original’s interplay of the oracular and the familiar/ colloquial whereby the voice of God partakes with that of man, he transtex- tualizes the Hebrew text into the corresponding existing tradition of the Brazilian writer Guimaraes Rosa, as in Grand: Sertdo: Veredas (The Devil to Pay in the Backlands,) orJoao Cabral de Melo Neto, Autos (Plays), who have, in their turn, fed on the popular oral tradi- tion together with innovation and revitalization of the arcane in popular speech (1981b: 31—5). Transilluminations of Dante’s Paradise and transorchestrations of the Hebrew Bible coexist with a movement towards a counter- sublime, the daemonization of translation apparent in the ‘bad savage’s’ nourishment from Goethe in the act of translating him. The interweaving of literatures, the coexistence of several discourses, a re- evaluation of the axiology of mimesis, a break with the hierarchy between original and translation, and so on, are elements that are explicitly brought into a synthesis in de Campos’ paratext to his trans- lation of Faustus (Faust) in 1979 (published in 1981). The title of the work, unlike conventionally translated books, is not Faustw but Deus e o Diabo no Fausto de Goat/1e (God and the Devil in Goethe’s Faust), which asserts the cannibalistic/dialogical principle from the Stan, because, for the Brazilian contemporary reader, the nourishment from Glauber Rocha’s film Dew e 0 Diabo na Terra do Sol (God and the Devil in the Land of the Sun) is all too obvious. The intertext in the very title suggests that the receiving culture will interweave and transform the original one, which is confirmed later, as we shall see, throughout the exposition of de Campos’ translational project. Anyway, from the very title we can say that translation is no longer a one-way flow from the source to the target culture, but a two-way transcultural enter- prise. The cover iconography further asserts the autonomy of the translator/recreator while problematizing the question of authorship in translation; the visibility ofde Campos’ signature on the cover con- trasts with Goethe’s less conspicuous signature which only appears on the third page. It is also worth highlighting that, at the end of the book, the section ‘Works by the Author’ actually lists de Campos’ work, which suggests the articulation of a space conventionally Haroldo de Campos’ poetics of transcreation I07 deemed marginal or even irrelevant as compared to the original author’s centrality — that is, stresses the translator’s own production. Moving from the cover iconography to the main bulk of the para- text, in the first section called ‘A Escritura Mefistofélica’ (‘The Mephistophelian Ecriture’), de Campos presents his concept of ‘plagia- tropy’, developed as early as 1966. His claim is that Goethe’s Faustux, the first one, relies a good deal on parody in the etymological mean— ing of ‘parallel canto’ and, as such, marks a rereading of the Faustian tradition — the intertexts being various, ranging from the Bible to Shakespeare. Goethe is quoted verbatim in his defence of the accusa- tion of plagiarism on the grounds that one can only produce great works by appropriating others’ treasures, as also is Pound with the view that great poets pile up all the things they can claim, borrow or steal from their forerunners and contemporaries and light their own light at the top of the mountain (de Campos 1981a: 74). Plagiotropy, for de Campos, who stresses the etymology of ‘plagios’ as ‘oblique’, ‘transverse’, means the translation of tradition. Semi- otically speaking, it is an unlimited semiosis as found in Pierce and Eco, and has to do with the etymological meaning of parody as ‘parallel canto’ to designate the non-linear transformation of texts throughout history (ibid.: 75—6). This etymological reactivation of ‘parody’, as has been shown, was elaborated by de Campos in 1973 in his Mayologia do Macunaz’ma and introduced even earlier in his intro‘ duction to Oswald deAndrade: Tree/20: Escol/zido: in 1966. At that time, he argues, he was not familiar with Bakhtin’s work on Dostoevsky, which only became available in the West through Kristeva in 1967. Anyway, Bakhtin’s dialogism and polyphony as well as Kristeva’s reformulation of them in ‘intertextuality’ approximate de Campos’ own etymological reading of parody, as he demonstrates in an extended note on parody and plagiotropy (ibid.: 73—4). What is theorized becomes a cannibalist practice. If plagiotropy in Goethe is evident, like the echo of Hamlet in the song of the gravediggers, de Campos nourishes on Goethe’s poetic practice to derive his own translational praxis. The Shakespearean intertext is not translated by the insertion of existing translations of Shakespeare, but by appro- priating the Brazilian literary tradition. It is joao Cabral de Melo Neto, specifically in Marta e Vida Seminal (Death and Life of Severino), who provides the diction for the intertext in the translation (ibid.: 191—2). Translation, as he defines it, is a persona through whom tradition speaks. ‘Translator, transformer’, if one follows the example of the Brazilian poet Sousandrade (1833—1902), the patriarch of 108 Else Ribeiro Pires Vleira creative translation who would insert in his homeric translations lines from Camoes and others (ibid.: 191). In the section ‘A Escritura Mefistofélica’, de Campos also presents a long and detailed interpretation of Faust, and the emphasis is quite political, even though he does not make it explicit. Instead of pre- senting the consolidated body of criticism, as in conventional trans- lators’ prefaces, he follows Bakhtin’s hint and analyses Faust from the point of view of camivalization. Carnivalization means, as in Bakhtin’s analysis of Roman Carnival, ‘familiarization, a break with hierarchies (the temporary upholding of the hierarchical differences, the proximity of the superior and the subaltem), the atmosphere of liberty the general ambiguity of relations the desecrating impudence of gestures’ (ibid.: 78). Yet he extends Bakhtin’s percep- tion, for prior to the explicit scene of masks in the Imperial Palace, the elements of carnival are present in Mephistopheles’ language which ‘in its corroding negativity, ridicules everything, desecrates everything, beliefs and conventions’ (ibid.: 79). In the second section, ‘Bufoneria Transcendental: O Riso das Estrelas’ (‘Transcendental Buffoonery: The Stars’ Laughter’), he takes up the non-explicit polit- ical tone of his analysis of Faust. This time he relies on Adorno and Benjamin, more specifically on the latter’s concept of allegory and the principle of synchrony that reconstitutes the tradition of the oppressed, in contradistinction to the official historiography of the winners (1981a: 127). Yet, de Campos claims, Benjamin’s theor- ization of allegoric discourse comes close to Bakhtin’s polyphony (dc Campos 1981a: 132) as well as to carnivalization, in that all of them break with the paradigm of purity, of the absolute. There is no more place for tranquillizing interpretations: ‘We are in an era that has already been called postmodern but that could be better defined as post-utopian. The non-place of u-topia . . . . To a poly-topia of power corresponds, in each case . . . a tropology of monological discourse, of the monolithic creed: of the only word and of the final word’ (ibid.: 176—7). And he concludes his section on the analyses of Faust by emphasizing that the Bakhtinian logos is an important tool of analysis insofar as it opposed the utopia of monological truth to the dialogical truth of utopia, whereby utopia loses its claim to totality and manifests itself in its ambivalence and ambiguity (ibid.: 177). Cannibalism, understood as a break with monological truth as well as a form of nourishment, is to inform the third main section of the paratext, in fact a pastrm'ptum, wherein de Campos actually theorizes translation. What the two first sections have in common Haroldo de Campos‘ poetics of transcreation 109 with the third is that they present reverse or non—conventional read- ings of Goethe and of translation. For the reverse reading of translation, he relies both on Antroquagia and on Walter Benjamin’s ‘The Task of the Translator’. His theorization presented in the third part of the paratext is called ‘Transluciferacao Mefistofaustica’ (‘Mephistofaustic Trans— luciferation’), a transformation of Faust’s Lucifer, a title that connects both to cannibalism and to the work of Benjamin. ‘Transluciferacao Mefistofaustica’, he explains, is what translation sets out to do: as a ‘parricidal dis-memory’ it ‘intends to erase the origin, to obliterate the original’ (ibid.: 209); yet, recalling my initial remarks on the use of the hyphen that separates and unites, the very thrust of translating implies a gesture of acknowledgement. It is further apparent that the metaphors for his title are drawn from the very title he is translating. The use of the text one is translating as a source of nourishment for one’s theorization gives a further cannibalistic dimension to de Campos’ work, a point that de Souza has made, while also calling attention to the number of expressions used throughout the text to exemplify the satanic feature of the translator’s task: ‘1uciferian translation’, ‘a satanic enterprise’ (de Souza 1986: 183). The irony of the metaphor is that de Campos had been describing Benjamin’s ‘angelical’ theory of translation, emphasizing its effect of liberating the translator from servitude. But while subscribing to Benjamin’s theory, in itself liberating, he also subverts and departs from it. If Benjamin casts the translator’s task in an angelical light, that of liberating the pure language, de Campos highlights the satanic import of it, for ‘every translation that refuses submissively to serve a content, which refuses the tyranny of a pre-ordered Logos, breaks with the metaphysical closure of presence (as Derrida would say)’, is ‘a satanic enterprise’ (dc Campos 1981a: 180). The trans— formation of an angelic into a satanic theory can also be understood by recalling de Campos’ remarks on the ‘critical devouring of the universal critical heritage, formulated not from the insipid, resigned perspective of the “noble savage” . . . but from the point of View of the “bad savage”, devourer of whites — the cannibal’ (de Campos 1986: 44). There is a further point in which he depaérgs from Benjamin’s angelical theory: teleogy for Benjamin is related to the recovery of the pre-Babclic harmony of the pure language; teleology for de Campos has to do with the turbulence of asserting the differ~ ence. Anyway, if translation is a form, and that is where he IIO Else Ribeiro Pires Vieira subscribes to Benjamin’s liberating views on translation, there is nothing more alien to it than submission, for translation implies fidelity not so much to the original, but to another form. The prag- matics of translation, he claims, is to translate a form, the Art des Mez'nens, ‘rewriting it . . . in the translator’s language in order to get to the transcreated poem as an isomorphic re-project of the origi- nating poem’ (de Campos 1981a: 181). The question ofmimesis in translation is also taken up. Translation does not copy or reproduce, but ‘virtualizes the notion of mimesis not as a theory of copy . . . but as the production of difference in sameness’ (ibid.: 183). ‘Transcreation’, de Campos claims, is a radi- cal translation praxis. To transcreate is not to try to reproduce the original’s form understood as a sound pattern, but to appropriate the translator’s contemporaries’ best poetry, to use the local existing tradition (ibid.: 185). As such, one could infer that for him, to trans- create means also nourishment from local sources, nourishment that, at the same time, limits the universality of the original and inscribes the difference. Translation is a reading of the universal tradition, he claims, but, at the same time, of the local literary production, because if the translator does not have a stock of the best poetry of his time, he cannot reshape synchronically and diachronically the best poetry of the past (ibid.: 185). De Campos’ own examples of appro- priation of the local tradition are many. We have already mentioned his appropriation of Joao Cabral de Melo Neto’s diction in Mort: a Vida Severina to translate the Burial Chorus. Another example he pro- vides is the use of Sousandrade to translate the German compound words that are alien to Portuguese and are conventionally given ana- lytical translations. At the same time, the use of neologisms after Sousandrade brings de Campos close to Panwitz (a debt he acknow- ledges) when he Germanizes the Portuguese language to broaden its creativity potential (ibid.: 194, 202). Translation, as such, in his terms, is a ‘parallel canto’, a dialogue not only with the original’s voice, but with other textual voices, or, as he encapsulates it, ‘Translation: transtextualization’ (ibid.: 191, 200). Translation as transtextualization or transcreation demythicizes the ideology of fidelity. If translation transtextualizes, it is no longer a one-way flow, and de Campos concludes his text with two anthro- pophagic metaphors. One is ‘transluciferation’, which closes the text and provides its title; the other brings us back to the anthropophagic double dialectics of receiving and giving highlighted in this chapter’s epigraph: ‘Translation as transfusion. Of Blood’ (ibid.: 208). Haroldo de Campos' poetics of transcreation lll Translation that unsettles the single reference, the logocentric tyranny of the original, translation that has the devilish dimension of usurpation (de Campos 1997: 33—59); translation that disturbs linear flows and power hierarchies — daemonic dimensions that coexist with the a pn'mi gesture of tribute to the other inherent in translating and the giving of one’s own vitality to the other. Transcreation — the poetics that disrupts the primacy of the one model — a rupture and a recourse to the one and the other. Translation can be servitude, translation can also be freedom — for me, that very liberating transhistoricization of TS. Eliot’s 7713 Four Quartet: which might sign off but can never close this meditation. By way of conclusion, however, I must stress that any discussion of Antroquagia, in the post-theoretical era, would be incomplete without my drawing attention to the major critique of it, namely that of Roberto Schwarz. Long-standing ideological binaries are entailed. As soon as the base~superstructure relationship is deemed to be threatened by Anthropophagy’s locating translation ‘at 21 remove from monological truth’, then corrective responses are both inevitable and predictable. For readers of English, the easiest access to the counter-position may be found in ‘Marco Historico’ (‘A Historic Landmark’), of 1985, in Mirplacea’ Idea: (Schwarz 1992: 187—96). The translator isjohn Gledson and his own, materialist, gloss is as self-explanatorin polarizing as it is eloquent: ‘One can feel his [Schwarz’s] anger at those who try to argue . . . that things are better because they are worse: because Brazilians have always imitated, but now are told that there is no reason to think that imitators are inferior to the things they copy, they are always in the vanguard’ (ibid.: xix). At the very least, Schwarz might be said to be downplaying the Paz—de Campos challenge to reductivism regarding the role of economics in artistic and cultural expression which I have already discussed. Most recently, Bernard McGuirk, in his Latin American Literature: .Sjmptoms, Risks and Strategies qf Post‘Structuralz'st Critia’sm (1997), further interrogates Schwarz regarding the latter’s claim that ‘the key trick played by the concretists, always concerned to orga- nize Brazilian and world literature so that it culminates in them, is a tendency which sets up a confusion between theory and self- advertisement’ (Schwarz 1992: 191—5). McGuirk asks: ‘Are we to be locked again into the long familiar tensions of a Nietzche—Marx binary?’ (McGuirk 1997: 89). His own proposal is pertinent not only to his primary purpose of ‘locating inequality’ in critical ||2 Else Ribeiro Pires Vieira appropriations of Latin American literatures and cultures but also to the very questions of translation raised by Haroldo de Campos: How, then, is the encounter with the other to be represented? . . .Just as I have made the claim for overlapping (or, to re-use a by now familiar Brazilian metaphor, mutually feeding) critical discourses, I would argue, too, that the Levinasian focus I have chosen is but one mode whereby cultures and societies might be theorized differently. Rather than the utopian horizontal of materialism, or the religious verticality of transcendentalism, a ‘ trans-jech of movement both across frontiers and through the uplifts of self in other, other in self, becomes operative. Through such translation the writing self is to be located in writing others ~ multi-epigraphically, mosaically. (ibid.: 16—17) Readers everywhere will expect no definitive answers regarding such polemics, but it is my contention that the specifically Brazilian expe— rience demonstrably exemplifies the necessity of the discursive dislocatability of all translations. Notes 1 For the present essay, I acknowledge the recent invaluable assistance of Haroldo de Campos himself. Space constraints do not allow me to do justice to his work — a lifetime dedicated to literature, criticism, trans— lation as an art, in a total of forty books. For an extended study of his brother Augusto de Campos’ specific relation to Antropifagia and increasing move towards visual translation see Vieira 1997. 2 Haroldo de Campos’ Da Raza‘o Antrapcy’dgioa: Dialogo c flfnma na Cultura Brasileira was produced in 1980 and first published in Portuguese in Lisbon in 1981, then reprinted in Brazil in the fourth revised and enlarged edition of the collection of essays Metalinguagem : Outras Meta: (1992), pp. 231—66. References and quotations throughout this text will be made from the 1986 English version, ‘The Rule of Anthropophagy: Europe under the Sign of Devoration. 3 References here will be to the version reprinted in the fourth revised and enlarged 1992 edition of Metalinguagem e Outras Metas, pp. 31—48. References de Andrade, O. (1968) ‘Manifesto Antropéfago’, in A. Candido and J.A. Castello, Presmga do Literatura Brarileira, vol. 3 (Sao Paulo: Difusao Européia do Livro), pp. 68~74. Haroldo de Campos‘ poetics of transcreation l|3 de Campos, H. (1963) ‘Da Tradugao como criacao e como critica’, Tempo Brasileiro 4~5, (June—Sept). Repr. in de Campos (1992), pp. 31—48. (1967) Oswald de Andrade: Tree/tor Escollzia'os (Rio de Janeiro: Agir). —— (1973) Moyirlogia a'e Macunaz'ma (Sao Paulo: Perspectiva). —— (1981a) Dear a o Diabo no Fausto do Goethe (Sao Paulo: Perspectiva). ———(1981b) ‘Da Razao Antropofagica: Dialogo e Presenca na Cultura Brasileira’, Colo’quio/[atrar 62 (Jul) (Lisbon: Fundacao Calouste Gulbekian). Repr. in de Campos (1992), pp. 231—55. -——- (1986) ‘The rule of anthropophagy: Europe under the sign of Devoration’, trans. M.T. Wolff, latin American Literary Review 14.27 (Jam—June): 42—60. --——(1991) Qgrhe'let: O—que‘rabe: Eclm'aster: poema sapiencial, trans. H. de Campos with the collaboration of J. Guinsburg (Sao Paulo: Perspectiva). (1992) ‘Translation as creation and criticism‘, Metalinguagem e Outras Molar: Ensaios do Teoria e Critica Iiterdria, 4th rev. and enlarged edn (55.0 Paulo: Perspectiva). (1997) 0 Arno-Iris Bronco: Email): d: Literatura e Cultura (Rio de Janeiro: Imago Editora). de Souza, EM. (1986) ‘A Critica Literaria e a Traducao’, in: I Semina’rio Latino-Americana do Literatura Comparada (Porto Alegre: Universidade Federal do Rio Grande do Sul), pp. 181—6. ’ Foucault, M. (1986) ‘Nietzsche, genealogy, history’, in The Foucault Reader, ed. P. Rabinow (Harmondsworth: Penguin). Hollanda, HB. de and Goncalves, MA. (1989) Cultura e Paflioiaagao no: Arms 60, 7th edn (Sio Paulo: Brasiliense). Johnson, R. (1987) ‘Tupy or not tupy: cannibalism and nationalism in contemporary Brazilian literature’, in]. King (ed), Modern Latin American Fiction: A Sung (London and Boston: Faber & Faber), pp. 41—59. McGuirk, B. (1997) Latin Amerioan Literature: Sjrmptom, Risks and Strategies Qf Port-:tmcturalirt Criticism (London and New York: Routledge). Santiago, S. (1978) Uma Literatura nos Yrépioos: Emaios do Dependéncia Cultural (Sao Paulo: Perspectiva). Schwarz, R. (1987) ‘Nacional por Subtracao’, in Tradigao Contradigao (Rio de Janeiro: Jorge Zahar Editor/Funarte). (1992) Misplaced Ideas: Essays on Brazilian Culture, trans. and ed. J. Gledson (London and New York: Verso). Vieira, E.R.P. (1992) ‘Por uma Teoria Pés-Modema da Tradueao’, unpub. PhD thesis, Belo Horizonte, Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais. —-—— (1997) ‘New registers in translation for Latin America’, in K. Malmkjaer and P. Bush (eds), Literary Translation and Higher Education (Amsterdam: john Benjamins). Wisnilt, (1987) ‘Algumas Questoes de Musica e Politica no Brasil’, in A. Bosi (ed), Cultura brarileira.‘ temas e situagoes (Sio Paulo: Atica), pp. 1 14—23. ...
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Postcol Trans- - Translation Studies General editors Susan Bassnett and André Lefevere St C o I O n i a I Tra n s I ati o n Theory and practice In

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