It’s true, the author’s voice is often lost in translation. Sometimes, what the translation conveys is not quite how the author would want it to be taken across to his reader. Sometimes, the translator is totally faithful to the voice of his author, but the author cannot comprehend the nuances of the target language, hence his dissatisfaction.
To me, it is a familiar situation with some twist. The good Lord has been my author all along. I have been translating his will all this time. Even when I pretend to be writing in my own name, it is he who wills it. It cannot be otherwise. Or it would have been.
Never being able to voice your own concerns, affiliations, and preferences can get to you, over time. Contentment and effacement of how you’d like to communicate are the only recourses left to one’s lot. A translator cannot respond to the writing he translates. He cannot infuse his own spirit into the writing. He can only blandly translate.
At least that’s what modern translation theory and modern authors will have you believe. Well, turns out that I have the rebellious streak in me. At 40, you can well expect it to be a full-blown tornado. But it’s more. It’s life’s blood, no less.
Authors have been writing my life for too long. I was the feeble voice lost in translation. I haven’t had the opportunity to break free all along. Now I am gonna do it – in great style too.
Here I come. Stop me anyone?