Rebecca Reads » translations

Aucassin and Nicolette by an Out-of-the-Box Medieval Author

Rebecca Reid — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 11:00:02 +0000

Aucassin et Nicolete was written in medieval France, but it’s not your typical roman d’amour.

I haven’t actually read any other medieval romances. My expectations of “typical” are all formed on stereotype. In many ways, Aucassin and Nicolette meets those fairy tale stereotypes. On the other hand, something goes quite “wrong” in this love story, for Aucassin seems to be a selfish weakling, a man frozen into inaction when things don’t go as he expected, and Nicolette is constantly called on to be the true heroine of the story.

I first read Aucassin and Nicolette during my first or second year of college for a history class. I loved it! I found it again this week for the Really Old Classics Challenge, and I still love it. Because I think Nicolette is such an awesome heroine, going beyond the stereotypes of Medieval France, I’ve decided to also count Aucassin and Nicolette as my first work for the Women Unbound Challenge.

The Style and The Story

Aucassin and Nicolette’s story is a song-story. Every page has a short poem, and then the story continues in prose. Both are essential to the plot, so you might miss something by skipping the short poems. But the style of both poetry and prose is pretty basic, and while the translation I read this time did have an “older” feel, it still was straight forward and easy to read. Although I have not read other medieval romances (or, for that matter, anything else medieval of this sort!), the poetry style seemed to call up the days of knights rescuing princesses.

The basic plot is also somewhat typical of a fairy tale romance. A prince loves a gorgeous-yet-lower-class girl. The family disapproves, and both of them end up locked in separate prisons. But that is where it stops being typical. Aucassin the Prince is a lazy, complaining man. Although his father is at war, he has not entered the battlefield to fight for his kingdom, and he refuses to unless his father lets him marry Nicolette. Grudgingly, Aucassin goes to battle, but his father still denies him Nicolette and throws him into a cellar where he won’t get in trouble. Aucassin sits and mopes in his prison.

My sweet lady, lily white,
…
I for love of thee am bound
In this dungeon underground,
All for loving thee must lie
Here where loud on thee I cry,
Here for loving thee must die
For thee, my love.”

Nicolette, on the other hand, has been banished to a tower for loving Aucassin. When he does not come for her, she ties her sheets together, escapes, and sneaks to Aucassin’s prison, slipping past guards and climbing walls in her dress, in order to talk to him and help plan his escape.

I don’t want to tell you all the delightful adventures in this song-poem. Suffice to say, that the two lovers eventually meet up in a lovely garden bower where they begin their adventures together, Nicolette prompting Aucassin to action at most steps. It gets strange when they visit the foreign land of Torelore to find the King in bed in the throes of childbirth and the women fighting the neighboring kingdom with baked apples, eggs, and fresh cheese.

Now, the pregnant men and baked apples story sounds ridiculous, but I think the ridiculousness of the “gender roles” in Torelore is a way of underscoring the ridiculousness of the romance story to begin with. And Aucassin and Nicolette is all about gender roles.

Side note: In some criticism I read when I was in college, they said the pregnant man represents “the pregnancy of Adam, [and] far from undermining his gender position by rendering him effeminate, is the basis of his supremacy as a male” (quote from Jane Gilbert, “The Practice of Gender in Aucassin et Nicolette.” Forum for Modern Language Studies. 33 [1997]: 220). Therefore, Aucassin beating up the pregnant king is Aucassin rejecting his male role. Maybe that is a bit of a stretch. But if you ask me, I wrote a pretty good 10-page paper about androgyny in this story for my class. I’d be happy to share more about it if you really care. (If you are in the midst of writing your own paper for a class and I’ve never “met” you before, go do your own homework! I spent forever on my paper and I’m not going to let you copy it.)

Nicolette is a delightful woman, able to remain proactive in moving forward to get what she wants, especially when Aucassin himself is immobilized and distracted. Yet, she also wants to be a feminine woman (and she does little feminine things like make sure the edge of her dress didn’t get damp in the morning dew). She seems she know that she is in a romance story and she knows how the romance is “supposed” to go.

Would a romance where the two of them simply followed the “script” be demeaning to women? Not necessarily. But I personally found Nicolette’s more complex role as a proactive woman to be far more entertaining and appealing overall. Besides, the underlying message of the song-poem, to me, seemed to be that gender roles are unnecessary and that any person, male or female, can be strong or weak in a relationship.

My ultimate question is this: Why would such a strong, awesome woman want to be with such a loser anyway? What I realize is that I have that same question for so many women (and men) today. Surely they could choose so much better.

The Translation

This time, I read a Project Gutenberg download translated by Andrew Lang. There is second option via Project Gutenberg by Francis William Bourdillon. (If I’d seen the Bourdillon first, I’d had read that. I hadn’t realized there was a second option.) When I was in college, I read the Glenn S. Burgess translation. I no longer have the Burgess translation, but I recall it being much easier to read, and it was divided into sections. It was more modern, and sentence structure was better organized. That said, I still found the “thee”s and “shouldst”s of Lang’s translation more “medieval.” Both were good, but I’d highly suggest the Burgess translation if you can find it! I loved it. (I can’t find it on Amazon, unfortunately.) Links below go to Project Gutenberg, where available.

Here is the same excerpt three times. It is weakling Aucassin, claiming that he loves Nicolette more than she loves him. Feel free to roll your eyes now!

Andrew Lang translation via Project Gutenberg:

It may not be that thou shouldst love me even as I love thee. Woman may not love man as man loves woman, for a woman’s love lies in the glance of her eye, and the bud of her breast, and her foot’s tip-toe, but the love of man is in his heart planted, whence it can never issue forth and pass away.

Francis William Bourdillon translation on Project Gutenberg:

That were not possible that you should love me so well as I do you. Woman cannot love man so well as man loves woman. For a woman’s love lies in her eye, in bud of bosom or tip of toe. But a man’s love is within him, rooted in his heart, whence it cannot go forth.

Burgess translation (from The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, Volume 1, Sixth Edition):

It is not possible that you love me as much as I love you. A woman cannot love a man as much as a man loves a woman. For a woman’s love is in her eye and in the nipple of her breast and in her big toe; but a man’s love is planted in his heart, whence it cannot escape.

There is also a translation by Eugene Mason that I have not read; from the Google Books preview, it appears to be closer to the Burgess.

In Conclusion

No matter what translation you read, Aucassin and Nicolette is very short, at about 35 pages in Word with 12-point font. Even if you are intimidated by really old classics, I think this is a great one to read. If you decide to give it a go, consider joining the Really Old Classics Challenge: reading this one work will allow you claim you’ve finished it!

When I first read Aucassin et Nicolete ten years ago, I found it so modern I wondered if it truly was a medieval manuscript. It feels modern, for the issues are modern ones, and surely the questions it addresses, that of gender roles and women’s issues in general, are still relevant to us today!

(Apparently, it wasn’t very popular in medieval France.)

Also, it’s now a new comedic play in Seattle. I wish I could go see it, and I hope it has a long run. It sounds so wonderful!

Have I tempted you to attempt this? What could I say to get you to read it?

Do you think a romance/fairy tale with “traditional” gender roles (the woman submits to a man’s “rescuing”) is demeaning to women?

Related posts:

Reading in Spanish (Neruda’s Poetry and La casa en Mango Street by Cisneros)

Rebecca Reid — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 11:00:52 +0000

Pablo Neruda’s early poetry (specifically, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair) does not have much to do with Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street. Neruda was a Chilean who wrote love poetry (in Spanish) in the early 1900s at the age of 20. Hispanic-American Sandra Cisneros wrote in the 1980s a short volume (in English) of connected short stories about a Hispanic girl in Chicago. But I read both these works in Spanish (the Cisneros in translation) this month, and so the tenuous relationship between them is the language I read them in.

I studied Spanish for a few years while in college and I spent ten weeks in Bolivia one summer, so at one point I knew the language fairly well. I bought La casa en Mango Street back in the days when I dreamed in Spanish; reading it was delightfully easy because I knew the vocabulary. But, needless to say, when you don’t use a language skill for five years, you start to forget things. I recently met a woman at church who speaks Spanish and little English, and I found myself laughing and delighting in our broken conversation as I struggled to find Spanish phrases and she struggled to find English ones. It inspired me to rethink my relationship with this foreign language I once knew.

I was delighted to see that Neruda’s slim volume of poems had the Spanish alongside the translation. And while I no longer was able to read La casa en Mango Street with ease in Spanish, I was able to pick up a volume of the English and compare the two. I read Mango Street in Spanish, then in English, and then bits of it again in Spanish.

Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda

There is no doubt in my mind that the second volume of poetry that Pablo Neruda wrote is an example of his Nobel Prize in Literature greatness. Oh my, but his Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair are absolutely incredible to me, especially after I learned that he was twenty-years-old when he wrote them.

The beautiful introduction says, “These are not abstract poems aimed at idealizing beauty or love, but the messy, scented perceptions of lived loves – and lusts.” (Cristina Gracía, introduction, page vii)

That description – messy, scented perceptions – is why I enjoyed this volume. Although it the emotions and perceptions were “messy,” as whole it was perfectly controlled and beautiful.

What struck me is that this volume of poetry is telling a story. The love poems have elements of sadness (the woman is always sad) and the last poem of love is essentially a “good-bye”:

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Immediately following that is the “Song of Despair.”

I think my favorite poem was poem 1, “Cuerpo de mujer/ Body of a Woman.” It just has awesome imagery.

I’ve mentioned before that I am not trained in poetry. I don’t know how to read it or interpret it. All of these thoughts are my own impressions on this reading of the poems, not true analysis.

I picked this volume of Neruda’s poetry up because I saw his name on a Hispanic Heritage Month list somewhere and it piqued my interest. I am so glad I picked it up. It also counts for my Nobel Prize in Literature personal challenge. I will certainly be revisiting Neruda some day.

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

While Cisneros did not originally write Mango Street in Spanish, she writes about a young Hispanic American girl growing up in an Hispanic neighborhood in Chicago. Esperanza is an awkward girl, and she is determined to someday leave her past behind and live the life she dreams of. It is a coming-of-age story and it reveals some harsh realities of the world she lives in, including the horrendous abuse her friends live with and the homesickness some have for the country they left behind.

I felt I could not relate to most of it, but I did appreciate seeing Esperanza’s growth. Her personal stories were those that I remember. In the end, she realizes that even as she moves beyond her childhood neighborhood, she must come back and remember those she’s left behind.

“They will not know I have gone away to come back. For the ones I left behind. For the ones who cannot out.” (page 110)

I read La casa en Mango Street for Hispanic Heritage Month (September 15 to October 15). (Obviously, I read it after the month ended, but oh well!)

Reading in Translation

Reading poetry in the original Spanish and in the English translation was eye-opening, as was reading prose in a Spanish translation and then visiting it in English.

How does a translator capture the feeling of poetry? The translator for Neruda’s poetry (W.S. Merwin) did a great job, and I felt Neruda was beautiful in both Spanish and English. While I am of course not a Spanish expert, in some cases, though, the English translation did seem to change the nuances of the beautiful Spanish.

Consider poem 12. In Spanish, it is called “Para mí corazón” (For my heart), which is taken from the first line, which is “Para mí corazón basta tu pecho.” In English, it is called “Your Breast Is Enough” after the first line, which is “Your breast is enough for my heart.” While those two lines say the same things, putting “breast” before “heart” in the title and reversing the order of the sentence seems to lose something. The order and emphasis is changed and I don’t think it’s quite as gorgeous.

On the other hand, there are some beautiful translations that capture the language, albeit in a different way. In poem 13 (“I Have Gone Marking”), the last stanza begins with three verbs: “Cantar, arder, huir” The beauty of those words are the differences: the –ar, the –er, the –ir verbs are all represented and each word sounds so different. I just loved it. The words in translation (“Sing, burn, flee”) likewise seem to capture the same feelings for me. It’s a word-by-word translation and it works just as beautifully in English as in Spanish.

Reading Cisernos’s prose in Spanish translation and then in the original English is harder for me to comment on. Because I wasn’t reading English as I went along (as I had with the Neruda), I was much more lost as I read the Spanish. Entire sections didn’t make sense because I was interpreting some words wrong. I’m not a dictionary user – I liked to learn from context and I don’t have patience to look up words constantly. But that was a mistake in my approach to this book. I would have gotten more out of my reading experience had I stopped and looked up some words.

After I read the book in English, I went back and compared the two versions. There were some disappointing translations that I believe changed the meanings.

For example, in one chapter, the girls are jumping rope to little rhymes. The rhymes were not translated: instead, completely different rhymes were inserted. The English rhymes had to do with Chicago: it gave the entire story a sense of place. Obviously, to literally translate the rhymes into Spanish wouldn’t make it the “familiar” rhyme it is in context in the Spanish book; there is logic to it. I was just surprised to see such a difference. It changed the overall feel of the book to not have the Chicago references.

There were also a few conversations in mixed English and Spanish that just don’t make sense much sense all in Spanish.

I guess my bottom line is, it seems best to read a work in its original language! Something is probably lost in translation, even if it is a great translation.

My Experience

Although I’m glad I read both these works, I didn’t much enjoy my experience reading (or attempting to read) Cisneros in Spanish, simply because it was full of so much once-again new-to-me vocabulary. It also didn’t sound as beautiful and far-reaching. But is it truly fair to compare Neruda’s Nobel-worthy poetry to Cisneros’s prose-in-translation when I’m not looking in a dictionary? No, I don’t think so. Neruda’s poetry was inspiring; it was sweeping; it was awesome. Cisneros’ prose was challenging, and it was prose, not poetry.

In the end, reading Neruda and Cisneros reminded me of how far I’ve fallen in being able to read Spanish. After reading Neruda, I have to agree with Cristina García, who wrote in the introduction to Neruda’s poetry:

With their gorgeous sweep and intimacy, their sensuality and rhapsody, and their “secret revelations of nature,” Neruda’s poems also made me want to reclaim Spanish … after a long, long silence. (introduction, xvii)

Thank you, Neruda. You’ve encouraged me, too, to revitalize my Spanish.

Does anyone have any suggestions for reclaiming a struggling second-language ability?

Can you suggest a not-too-hard book in Spanish that I may have a good experience with?

I rarely get a chance to practice my Spanish in daily life (I remain at home with a two-year-old who doesn’t even speak English yet!), and I don’t have a television connection (nor would I like sitting and watching it). Maybe reading a children’s book would be easier. I also suspect I should find my old Spanish dictionary!

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Beauty and the Beast + The Complete Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault

Rebecca Reid — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 11:00:43 +0000

The Once Upon a Time III Challenge has a “Short Story Weekend” mini-challenge, so I thought I’d visit some fairy tales. To my surprise, the copy of Charles Perrault’s Complete Fairy Tales that I found was less than 200 pages and written for children, so I breezed through all of them very quickly. Many of Perrault’s stories are retellings of other’s stories. My favorite was “Beauty and the Beast.”

Beauty and the Beast

My all-time favorite story in this slim volume was “Beauty and the Beast.” The heroine of this story is Beauty, who is caring and sincere in all her actions and rightly deserves the “happily ever after” of the story. Beauty’s story differs from the Disney version. I much prefer the Perrault version, for Beauty is more likeable. Besides, the story, while still magical, holds a sincerity that is lacking in Disney. Note that my summary below provides “spoilers.”

Beauty is the youngest and prettiest of a rich merchant’s six children. Beauty’s two older sisters are quite arrogant and unpleasant, while Beauty is polite and delightful. As a result, many of the town gentlemen court Beauty, while the sisters are ignored, thus encouraging her older sisters to be very jealous. But instead of marrying, Beauty wishes to remain with her lonely father. When he loses his fortune, Beauty determines to be happy:

“However much I cry, I shall not recover my wealth,” she says, “so I must try to be happy without it.” (page 115).

Beauty works hard at their new home in the country, while her sisters are lazy, wishing for riches and luxury and pitying themselves. When her father goes on a business trip, hoping to recover some fortune, the older sisters greedily ask for many fancy things, while Beauty asks only for a rose: “Beauty had no real craving for a rose, but she was anxious not to seem to disparage the conduct of her sisters” (page 116).

The father fails to recover his wealth, and on his return home, he is lost late at night. Coming upon a lighted palace, he enters to find a table spread with dinner and a bed prepared for him. Despite not seeing any host, he feasts and rests. The next morning, as he departs, he sees a beautiful rose bush and picks a rose, remembering the selfless request of his youngest daughter.

Of course, this angers the Beast, who has secretly been the old man’s host in the palace. The old man is taken prisoner and condemned to die for his foolish act, until the Beast learns that the rose was for his daughter.

“Well, I am willing to pardon you if one of your daughters will come, of her own choice, to die in your place,” the Beast declares (page 119).

The old man departs, never intending to send his daughter in his place. But when Beauty hears the story of the dearly bought rose, she determines to give herself in her father’s place. Her loving older brothers try to stop her, but she goes anyway.

From the beginning, the Beast always treats Beauty kindly. And every night for three months, as they dine together, he asks her to marry him. While Beauty has come to appreciate the Beast and his sincere kindness, she is still repelled at the thought of his ugliness and always declines, thinking, “What a pity he is so ugly, for he is so good.” (page 126).

The Beast has a magic mirror, in which Beauty can look on her family. She longs to visit her father; since the marriage of his two oldest daughters, he has been left alone and he mourns every night for Beauty, who he assumes dead. Upon expressing her grief to the Beast, he allows her to return to her father:

“I would rather die myself than cause you grief …” the Beast says. “You shall stay with [your father], and your Beast shall die of sorrow at your departure.”

Beauty mourns at that and determines to go for just a week. When she is with her father, however, she forgets the Beast and stays longer than a week. When she looks in the magic mirror much belatedly, she sees the Beast dying of grief. In panic, she returns, mourning her friend. And as she mourns him, she realizes that she loves him:

“It is neither good looks nor brains in a husband that make a woman happy; it is beauty of character, virtue, kindness. All these qualities the Beast has” (page 130).

And when she tells the dying Beast so much, promising to be his wife, he becomes a prince (“more beautiful than Love himself”) before her eyes, for he had been condemned by a wicked fairy to be ugly until a girl consented to marry him.

I love “Beauty and the Beast” because it is a story of what sincere love is: it isn’t about love at first sight, but rather about true love of personality. Beauty and the Beast have become friends. I loved Beauty’s selflessness. I felt she was the most loveable character in all the fairy tales I’ve read, for she was sincere in both wanting to do good and recognizing the good in others. Even though her sisters were insincere and rude, she still served them. And even though she was mocked for her habits (like reading lots of books!), she still loved life and herself. Beauty is a true role model.

In contrast, Disney’s Belle was concerned with fitting in and concerned with looking for adventure; Disney’s Beast had a rude temper and seemed all-around unlikeable. The enchanted furniture in the palace was entertaining, but in the end, I much prefer Perrault’s characters.

Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales

Rebecca Reid — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 14:00:23 +0000

Reading Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales was a repetitive process. My 630-page leather edition (from Barnes and Noble Books; not same version as the Amazon link at left) included numerous retellings of stories very similar; it felt as if the compilers were taking translations from multiple sources. Then again, maybe the Grimm brothers wrote down similar stories with similar themes multiple times for their readers. They were, after all, trying capture the folk tales of the era; maybe those folk tales were likewise repetitive.

The Barnes and Noble edition I read did not include an introduction, so my experience was simply with the stories themselves. Despite the repetition of stories, I highly enjoyed reading the collection, especially as I took them slowly, reading a few stories (up to 20 or 30 pages) a day, mostly in the evening before bed. True “bedtime stories.”

But these stories probably aren’t for children, unless the children are pretty thick-skinned. (Note that I classify it, on this site, as Fiction, not Children’s Literature.) Grimm’s stories had blatant morals (such as how laziness leads to your death and wicked stepmothers who abuse children must, in the end, meet their horrendous end) and gruesome violence (such as stepmothers who decapitate stepchildren, girls so desperate to get a man they cut off their toes, and travelers who blind starving fellow travelers as payment for food).

Nevertheless, I still enjoyed the retreat into a world in which the animals one meets on the path are really princes in disguise, in which the dead come back to life, and in which magical fairies and witches regularly rescue those who really are deserving of assistance.

I don’t want to live in the world of the Brother’s Grimm. The violence and retribution is horrendous. Yet, the fairy aspects of the tales made some of them magical, and I look forward to visiting other fairy tales in the future – including Charles Perrault and Hans Christian Andersen.

Have you read Grimm? What was your verdict: Violent or Magical? I, personally, am torn between the two.

Other Reviews:

If you have reviewed any length collection of the fairy tales by the brothers Grimm, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

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Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges

Rebecca Reid — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 14:00:25 +0000

Ficcciones by Jorge Luis Borges is about 170 pages in Spanish; the English translation of the same book is about 120 pages (within Borges’ Collected Fictions). Why, then, has this me taken weeks to get through?

Borges’ writing style is powerful. In some sense, I’m glad I struggled through Borges just to get a feel for his different style. But unlike Nabokov’s powerfully written stories, Borges’ well-written stories are weird. I seriously can’t think of any other word to describe them. I overall did not like them, and I will never read more Borges.

Weird

Author Yann Martel, who is more literary than I am, explains Borges to Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper in this way:

These stories are intellectual games, literary forms of chess. They start simply enough, one pawn moving forward, so to speak, from fanciful premises-often about alternate worlds or fictitious books-that are then rigorously and organically developed by Borges till they reach a pitch of complexity that would please Bobby Fischer. Actually, the comparison to chess is not entirely right. Chess pieces, while moving around with great freedom, have fixed roles, established by a custom that is centuries old. Pawns move just so, as do rooks and knights and queens. With Borges, the chess pieces are played any which way, the rooks moving diagonally, the pawns laterally, and so on. The result is stories that are surprising and inventive, but whose ideas can’t be taken seriously because they aren’t taken seriously by the author himself, who plays around with them willy nilly, as if ideas didn’t really matter.

Here are a few notable stories with my summaries that may help you understand why “weird” is the only word I can think of to describe Borges.

“Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius.” A man discovers a reference to the odd country of Uqbar in an Encyclopedia and tries to find out more information about it. In the course of the next few years, the world becomes obsessed with this country, which has been invented on an invented planet, and begins to live as if the world of Orbis Tertius is the reality. This was the first story I read and was the most challenging to read.
“Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote.” Writing a critical review of Menard’s life, the narrator explains how Menard’s best work, although unknown, was his rewrite of Don Quixote. Menard rewrote Quixote from memory, living as if he were Cervantes.
“The Circular Ruins.” A man washes up on the shore outside of circular ruins. Over the next year, he dreams a man into creation, and sends his begotten son into the world. This was probably my favorite story, weird as it was: to think that he dreamed a person into being, from the heart to each hair on his body. Great twist at the end, too.
“The Garden of Forking Paths.” In a subtle mystery, during the end of WWII a man travels by train to escape his murderer and to deliver a message. It was quite confusing to me.
“Funes, His Memory.” A young man named Ireneo Funes developed a collective memory of everyone and everything.
“The Shape of the Scar.” The story of how an Irishman got his scar. This was also one of my favorites as it was the least weird.
“Death and the Compass.” A detective is trying to solve the mystery of three murders and he thinks he has the solution.

Reading in Spanish

I had started reading Borges’ stories in Spanish. I studied Spanish in high school and college, and would like to not forget all the things I studied. This was to be a refresher.

But I would read a paragraph and try to translate it, feeling frustrated. My preliminary thought was always “I don’t get it!” I read the first story (“Tlon”) twice in Spanish before I determined to find an English translation. To my surprise, I read it in English and felt similarly confused. I still didn’t get it.

I read that first story about four times before I started to appreciate it as the bizarre philosophical whatever that it is. I do now think it is rather interesting. But I’d suggest reading it in your first language from the beginning.

In the midst of struggling to read the second story in Spanish, I read Yann Martel’s letter to Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper:

Upon rereading Fictions I was as unimpressed this time around as I remember being two decades ago. …

Now why am I sending you a book that I don’t like? For a good reason: because one should read widely, including books that one does not like. By so doing one avoids the possible pitfall of autodidacts, who risk shaping their reading to suit their limitations, thereby increasing those limitations. The advantage of structured learning, at the various schools available at all ages of one’s life, is that one must measure one’s intellect against systems of ideas that have been developed over centuries. One’s mind is thus confronted with unsuspected new ideas.

Which is to say that one learns, one is shaped, as much by the books that one has liked as by those that one has disliked.

I can certainly appreciate that logic: that reading something you don’t like can still teach you something. But I still determined not to spend all the extra time required to read the book I don’t like in a foreign language.

Where It Fits

I read Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges primarily for my personal HTR&W challenge, in which I’m reading through Harold Bloom’s list of short stories, poems, plays, and novels. But then, to my delight, I found that it is also a part of the Martel-Harper Challenge. Since it was so painful to read, I’m counting it for both challenges.

Borges’ Fictions was just 120 pages in English; I was determined to finish it. But if I didn’t have Martel’s letter of encouragement and my personal HTR&W challenge, I may have given up.

Do you read books that you don’t like? How much do you read, not liking it, before you give up?

If you have reviewed Fictions (or any of Borges’ stories) on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

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Reading The Iliad by Homer, trans. by Robert Fagles

Rebecca Reid — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 14:00:10 +0000

Reading The Iliad (trans. by Robert Fagles) isn’t like reading a modern-day novel: I think it did take a level of concentration I’m not accustomed to. But that just proved to me that the “difficult pleasure” of reading is highly worth experiencing.

The Robert Fagles translation was poetic and rhythmic. Once I became accustomed to reading poetry, I felt it was highly readable.

Reading Notes

I’m not accustomed to reading epic poetry, but I thought I’d collect some of my thoughts about how I found it to be most fun.

As I have said, I don’t believe it’s possible to write about The Iliad with containing some “spoilers”: the gods give up the ending from the beginning.

As I read, I didn’t let myself stop and try to figure out all the relationships and characters as I read The Iliad. I’m also currently reading The Silmarillion, which also has a huge number of (unpronounceable) names and places, and I found letting go of the details makes it much more fun. I don’t think memorizing the details of characters is essential. These are books where the feel of the language and the sense of the battle is more important. (I really did enjoy learning the background of all the people who were killed in battle.)
I did reference Edith Hamilton’s Mythology a few times to get some background on the gods and goddesses. The back of the book also has line by line notes; however, I wish there was some indication in the text when a line had a note so I could have known when to turn back and get the information. As it was, the reader just has to remember to turn back occasionally.
By the end, the different language didn’t seem so hard to understand; I had gotten used to it. So don’t give up, especially with Book Two, which seemed to drag on. I suspect if I read more books like this, it will become easier. Some others commented that it took them 4 or 5 books to get into it, as well! So it’s not just me.
I read Bernard Knox’s introduction after I read the poem. I didn’t know any of the plot before reading it. Because Knox details many detailed aspects of the poem and expands upon them, I highly recommend doing the same. Of course, now I also want to reread the poem…
A reader commented that she listened to it. Since this was the way it was originally experienced, I think that would be an excellent way to experience it!

What tricks to find help you understand and “get into the groove” of a new reading style (like epic poetry)?

The Translation

I loved reading the Fagles translation. I can’t compare it to others very accurately at this point because I’ve only read The Iliad once. However, sometimes I’d pick up the book, read a line, and get the chills because I thought it was so beautiful.

For example, I began reading Book 19 and was overcome with the beauty of the dawn:

As Dawn rose up in her golden robe from Ocean’s tides,
bringing light to immortal gods and mortal men,
Thetis sped Hephaestus’s gifts to the ships. (Book 19, lines 1-3, page 488)

I’d mentioned that I also wanted to read the Stanley Lombardo translation. I was excited to see how he treated this beautiful passage. I was horribly disappointed, but that disappointment may simply be a style preference:

Dawn shrouded in saffron
Rose out of the deep water with light
For immortals and humans alike. And Thetis
Came to the ships with Hephaestus’ gifts. (Book 19, lines 1-4, page 374)

Lombardo’s translation got the message across, but to me, it seemed to lack all of the poetry. I may read still read Lombardo’s translation; I do want to reread the poem. This really failed the “poetic” test for me. I was not impressed.

Which translation style do you prefer? Do you think Lombardo’s is poetic?

The Next Step

Now that I’ve read The Iliad once, I also am interested in reading the Lattimore and the Lombardo translations, as well as Christopher Logues’s War Music, which is not a translation, but a “version.” I also want to listen to The Iliad, as someone suggested in a comment the other day.

Which other translations can you recommend? Have you read any interesting commentary on The Iliad?

Because there is so much I want to share about The Iliad, this is part three (Reading the Iliad, Fagles Translation) of a three-part series about reading The Iliad. Also in the series:

Related posts:

The Iliad by Homer, trans. Robert Fagles: Love and Hate But Mostly Love

Rebecca Reid — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 14:00:32 +0000

I thought reading The Iliad by Homer (translated by Robert Fagles) would be a chore. Even after I reviewed four different translations and chose one I felt was “best,” I told myself I would have to read at least one chapter a day, just to get through it before it was due at the library. I thought The Iliad would be horribly boring.

I was wrong.

I admit that the first few chapters were hard to get into – I wasn’t used to the characters, and because it began in medias res, I felt a little lost; also, it is a poetic style I am not accustomed to reading. Besides, the second chapter included a list of the boats and characters (a back story) that seemed to drag on and on.

But by the fourth or fifth chapter, I found myself immersed in the story: not only did I empathize with the characters and enjoy the somewhat morbid action-packed battle scenes, but I loved the lilt and feel of the poetry. And while I can’t say whether or not Fagles’ translation was the most accurate of all translations, I certainly found the poem to be beautifully poetic as well as highly readable.

All of that said, I feel I have a love/hate relationship with this book.

Note: As I said yesterday, there may be “spoilers.” But, considering the gods reveal most of the “ending” in the beginning of the book, I don’t think this should be a huge issue.

Love and Hate

I loved Hector. I disliked Achilles. Meeting Hector’s wife and infant son just made him a human. He was so good! But Achilles: am I supposed to like Achilles? Did anyone else like him at all? He was a horrible!

I loved the lengthy family details given about each person as they are killed (even those characters I’d never met before). I disliked how many thousands of names there were. Even if I don’t know the character, before he dies, Homer tells about his father and mother and a number of interesting details about his childhood. As he is stabbed or his limbs are cut off, I can almost hear his parents weeping for him. But why does everyone need three names? (For example, Agamemnon is also called “son of Atreus,” as well as “Atrides,” which derives from his father’s name. He has a brother who is also called “son of Atreus” and “Atrides,” because they have the same father.) Add 100 more people with three names and another 100 killed in detailed battle, and yes, it’s a bit confusing.

I loved the language of the poem. I disliked that I found it a challenge. More about this tomorrow…

I loved the “family squabbles” among the gods. I disliked not being familiar with mythology and who each god or goddess was. I especially liked it when the goddess Hera overpowers Zeus. Zeus may be the god of all, but he still has a weakness: sex. But Greeks were expected to know all about the gods and goddesses: I had a hard time because I didn’t know a lot of the back stories.

I loved the gory details of how each person was killed. I didn’t like it when my favorite characters were killed in battle, even when the gods told me of their fate in the beginning of the book. To give you a better idea of what I mean by gory details, here’s an example:

With that, just as Dolon reached up for his chin
to cling with a frantic hand and beg for life,
Diomedes struck him square across the neck -
a flashing hack of the sword – both tendons snapped
and the shrieking head went tumbling in the dust. (Book Ten, lines 523-527, page 291)

Why did I like the gore? I have no idea. But it was heart breaking when the person at the receiving end was someone I met, even just briefly, for each person had a mother and father weeping over them. As is the case with war, much of the killing was senseless.

The Bottom Line

The bottom line is that I cried. Overall, I really and truly did love to read The Iliad.

What do you love and hate about The Iliad?

Because there is so much I want to share about The Iliad, this is part two (Love and Hate by Mostly Love) of a three-part series about reading The Iliad. Also in the series:

The Story
Reading the Iliad (Fagles translation) (to come)

Related posts:

The Iliad by Homer: The Story

Rebecca Reid — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 14:00:03 +0000

When I decided to read The Iliad, I knew essentially nothing about it.

All I knew was that it was Greek, it was written by Homer, and that it was somehow a precursor to The Odyssey (which I read in high school). Having read The Iliad, I can say now that while it certainly is Greek, the author is officially unknown, and the characters, setting, and plot are completely different from those in the The Odyssey. The Iliad is its own story. It also has a different feel than I expected, focusing on anger, war, and revenge, as well as virtue and honor.

These thoughts are only from my one read of the poem; I don’t promise that they are accurate. Now I see why studying the classics is a life-long endeavor!

(I don’t believe it’s possible to write about The Iliad without revealing some “spoilers”: in the beginning of the poem, we learn what will inevitably happen at the end of the poem and at the end of the war.)

Who What When Where Why

Who are the main characters in The Iliad? Achaeans, Trojans, and the gods

What is the backdrop of The Iliad? The Trojan War

When does The Iliad take place? A long time ago, at the dawn of the tenth year of the Trojan War

Where does The Iliad take place? Outside of the city of Troy, also called Ilus, and in the realms of the gods

Why is there a story in The Iliad? Because Achilles has a bad temper

How?

While the main characters of The Iliad seem to fit in one of three categories (the Achaeans, the Trojans, and the gods) and the Achaeans and the Trojans are at war, the battle is rather complicated.

First, the battle seems to be a game for the gods, although the gods do realize that the humans have destinies that should not be changed. The pull and tug of the gods on the tide of the battle adds an imperative element to the poem, for the gods seem fickle as to whom they intend to support.

Also, it’s interesting that the internal jealousies of humans and the gods cause much of the conflict. To begin with, before the poem begins, the Trojan War is started because of jealousy. This background was left out, I suppose because we are expected to know it. Here’s Bernard Knox’s explanation in the Notes to the translation by Robert Fagles:

When the gods came to celebrate the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, the goddess Strife threw a golden apple among the guests, announcing that it should be awarded as a prize to the most beautiful of the three goddesses Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. But no god was willing to take the responsibility of judging among them. Zeus finally appointed Paris, then minding his flocks on Mount Ida. All three of the goddesses offered him bribes. Hera promised to make him ruler of all Asia; Athena offered him wisdom and victory in all his battles; Aphrodite offered him the love of Helen, wife of Menelaus, the most beautiful woman in the world. He gave the apple to Aphrodite: the result was the Trojan War, and the undying hatred of Hera and Athena for Troy and the Trojans. (note 24.35-36; page 633)

As The Iliad opens, then, Achilles (an Achaean) refuses to fight because he’s been offended (Agamemnon has taken one of his war prizes, a woman, away from him). Through his mother, Achilles convinces Zeus to fight against the Achaeans. The gods and goddess on the Achaeans’ side, then, are trying to get Achilles to cool his rage because they don’t like the Trojans to get any victory. Achilles’ anger ultimately drives the events of the tenth year of battle, as described in the poem.

So What Is The Iliad About?

The Iliad is about Achilles: he thinks and fights for himself. He is the best human warrior on earth, and he knows it. And yet, he lacks the human qualities of empathy: he is angry and proud and watches while the other Achaeans die. When he finally does fight, he fights in his anger. He is selfish. The first line of the book (Fagles translation) is “Rage – Goddess, sing of the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles.”

Or maybe The Iliad is about Hector: he is fighting for his city, his family, and his way of life. He is the mightiest Trojan warrior, and yet he still wants each man killed in battle to be respected and honored as much as possible. He only fights because he has to. The last line of the book (Fagles translation) is (highlight if you want to read this “spoiler”) “And so the Trojans buried Hector breaker of horses.”

I don’t think I can accurately answer what The Iliad is about without rereading the poem a few times. These are some very preliminary thoughts. But I know some of you have read multiple translations.

What do you think The Iliad is “about”?

Please, correct me where I’m wrong (or at least where you think I’m wrong): I want to hear what you think! I’m just an every-day person trying to make sense of a classic.

Because there is so much I want to share about The Iliad, this is part one (The Story) of a three-part series about reading The Iliad. Also in the series (to come):

Love and Hate But Mostly Love
Reading the Iliad (Fagles translation)

Related posts:

Iliad in Translation

Rebecca Reid — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 13:00:19 +0000

What am I looking for when I read the Iliad this month? I’ve been wondering that, especially now that I have four translations before me. As I mentioned when I wrote about Aesop’s writers last week, a translation can make a big difference in how a story is portrayed.

I’m not against a literal translation, but does it really matter to me if what I read is exactly how Homer wrote it? At the same time, I’m not afraid of Greek literature and I want to get the most accurate, but readable, experience of the Iliad.

So, what’s the difference between these four translations? I decided to read the translator’s notes and the first few pages and determine which one(s) are worthwhile for me. Of course, I haven’t truly read any of them yet, so I can’t recommend anything.

Bear with me; this is very long.

Samuel Butler, 1898

The Iliad that I own is the Dover Thrift Edition; it cost me $2.50 a few years ago, when I was proud of myself for finding the cheapest one. It was translated by Samuel Butler in 1898 and it’s all prose.

Butler expressed his opinion that “…a translation should depart hardly at all from the modes and speech current in the translator’s own times …” Since current speech for him was turn-of-the-last-century English, I wasn’t too eager to get started. Then I read his explanation that ” [p]rose differs from verse much as singing from speaking or dancing from walking.” That prompted the question in my mind as to why he then changed poetry into prose in this very book. I don’t think he ever answered that satisfactorily.

A Quote

In the first pages, Agamemnon refuses to release Chryses’ daughter:

“Old man,” said he, “let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your scepter of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you.”

Now take that quote, add a few more sentences to it, and that’s the average paragraph length in this book. It is very text heavy. I’m intimidated.

Richmond Lattimore, 1950s

Next I reviewed Richmond Lattimore’s translation, a translation recommended by a LibraryThing group of which I’m a part (Geeks Who Love the Classics). But my copy is from Harvard’s Great Books series, published by Encyclopedia Britannica, and there is no translator’s note. My copy’s text is very tiny and there are no notes of any kind. It also is published in paperback form, and that might have notes; please let me know if you have it.

Enter Wikipedia (entry for Iliad, translations in English):

Richmond Lattimore’s version is “a free six-beat” line for line rendering that explicitly eschews “poetical dialect” for “the plain English of today”; it is more literal than older verse renderings.

So once again, the translator is trying for plain English.

A Quote

Again, Agamemnon refuses to release Chryses’ daughter:

“Never let me find you again, old sir, near our hollow
ships, neither lingering now nor coming again heareafter,
for fear your staff and the god’s ribbons help you no longer.
The girl I will not give back; sooner will old age come upon her
in my own house, in Argos, far from her own land, going
up and down by the loom and being in my bed as my companion.
So go now, do not make me angry; so you will be safer.”

Robert Fagles, 1992

The Robert Fagles translation came recommended in numerous sources; in addition to the LibraryThing group, Amazon reviewers seemed to love this one. It’s very approachable in a poetry format. It has an extensive introduction and a hundred pages of notes and other back matter. Fagles details his goals in capturing the meter and the feel of the Greek:

Not a line-for-line translation, my version of the Iliad is, I hope, neither so literal in rendering Home’s language as to cramp and distort my own – though I want to convey as much of what he says as possible – nor so literary as to brake his energy, his forward drive – though I want my work to be literate, with any luck.

A Quote

space space space … ”Never again, old man,
let me catch sight of you by the hollow ships!
Not loitering now, not slinking back tomorrow.
The staff and the wreaths of god will never save you then.
The girl – I won’t give up the girl. Long before that,
old age will overtake her in my house, in Argos,
far from her fatherland, slaving back and forth
at the loom, forced to share my bed!
space space space space space Now go,
don’t tempt my wrath – and you may depart alive.”

Stanley Lombardo, 1997

When I checked out Stanley Lombardo’s translation the other day, the librarian commented on the cover picture: Into the Jaws of Death on D-Day (incorrectly written on dust cover as 6 June 1994).

“Why is that on the cover?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. Now, having read a few dozen pages of the Iliad, I can tell you: the Iliad is a war story. Lombardo’s has a modern black and white photo of war because, I think, his translation is going to feel pretty modern.

Lombardo’s explanation of his translation:

… the real work of a Homeric translator is clear: to produce a version that is responsive not only to meaning and nuance but also to overall poetic effect, a version that has a much poetry as the original text, the translator’s talent, and the current literary situation will yield. … what we love is the poet’s voice, and finding its tone, rhythm, and power is the heart of Homeric translation.

Interestingly, he began his translation “… as scripts for solo performances I began giving ten years ago.”

In other words, Lombardo’s translation is going to be poetry, and it’s going to be modern, and it’s going to be meant for performance. I think it’s also going to be pretty beautiful and relatively easy to read. He also has a lengthy introduction, though not as many notes.

A Quote

“Don’t let me ever catch you, old man, by these ships again,
Skulking around now or sneaking back later.
The god’s staff and ribbons won’t save you next time.
The girl is mine, and she’ll be an old woman in Argos
Before I let her go, working the loom in my house
And coming to my bed, far from her homeland.
Now clear out of here before you make me angry!”

My Plan, Which May Change

I’ve decided I’m going to read the Fagles translation – to get a first read of the Iliad as a Greek masterpiece – and then to read Lombardo’s modern classic. I think both will be excellent; it just depends on what you are looking for: an easier to read modern approach (Lombardo’s translation has been called “uniquely American”) or a more literal Greek-like approach to the classic (Fagles is praised as “combining the skills of poet and scholar”). But then again, I really am not a professional: I’m just a reader like you.

I have a feeling translation is going to make a huge difference in reading this work!

Note: I’m quite embarrassed to realize that I’ve been spelling this title wrong on this site for weeks. It is “Iliad,” not “Illiad.” Oops. My spell-checker even catches it.

For the rest of October, I’ll donate 10 cents to World Food Programme for every (non-spam) comment I receive on any post of Rebecca Reads. See most post on Blog Action Day 2008 here. I’m also donating any proceeds (4%) from my Amazon Store.

I’m giving away books! Today is the last to enter the contest here.

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Ingenuity and Authority: Who Really Wrote Aesop’s Fables?

Rebecca Reid — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 13:00:58 +0000

A few months ago, I read a version of Aesop’s Fables that I found online at Project Gutenberg, written and published in the early 1900s. I thought I’d read Aesop’s Fables.

I was interested, then, to read in chapter two (“Ingenuity and Authority”) of Seth Lerer’s Children’s Literature: A Reader’s History from Aesop to Harry Potter that Aesop’s fables differ markedly from generation and generation. The history of Aesop’s fables (the Aesopica), then, illustrates how the translators changed the message of a translated text, especially in literature for children. This prompted a question: How are the authors’ purposes and translators’ objectives subversively included in modern children’s literature, and does it matter?

Fables as Nursery Lessons

Fables, Lerer explains, were (and are) the child’s first “lesson in the arts of the literary imagination” (page 37).

[Fables] take parts for wholes, draw on particulars for generalizations, make mute creatures speak. Their status in the nursery or in the classroom rests not simply on moral or didactic goals, but on their metaphorical enchantment. … the heart of the Aesopic fable is a form of impersonation: of animating the inanimate, of turning abstractions into realities. (page 37, page 38)

Even the most original of the Aesopica had some didactic goals. Lerer explains that “Aesop became a touchstone for an understanding of life itself” (page 38), and Aristophanes, Plato, and other writers often referred to Aesop in their texts as underlying examples of a basic nursery education. Hearing Aesop, then, appears comparable to a modern child learning to sing the ABCs. It was an understood part of growing up.

Aesop as Religious Lessons

Through the centuries, various translations of the Aesopica were made, each drawing on the vernacular language of the age. Following the advent of Christianity, translations of Aesop began to emphasize different aspects: instead of being moral life tales, they became Christian parables with religious undertones. Further, Aesopic texts for children in medieval schools included commentaries to explain correct behavior.

Some of the Aesopica still retained a sense of literacy, and some later translators maintained a sense of “wit” rather than “the heavy hand of the school teacher” (page 46). But the bottom line is this: “Translation is transmission” (page 47). With the advent of the printing press, Aesop was often the first text printed, and the translator could rewrite it as he or she desired.

Do We Need Aesop Today?

Obviously, with the advent of a further children’s literature, children can look anywhere for “metaphorical enchantment.” But when reading Aesop a few months ago, I was surprised to recognize familiar stories and semi-familiar characters.

Lerer also recollects how the Aesopica has been reincorporated into other literature: Hamlet’s conversation with the skull, Yorick, for example, has shadows of Aesop (“scattered fragments of an old tradition,” says Lerer, page 56). Aesop speaks today through such fragments, and the new metaphors are the ones familiar to this generation. You probably have read remnants of the Aesopica without ever picking up a book labeled “Aesop’s Fables.”

Further, I was struck by the brief history Lerer recounted. The translator’s and publisher’s agendas transformed the fables into a new literature, thus calling in to question the authenticity of the “original” fable itself. Each new translation became its own work of literature, designed to meet the needs of the children of that age, as the “translator” deemed appropriate.

For me, this calls to mind, then, the various recent debates about works for children today that are obviously created with an agenda. As I haven’t read some of those debated books, I can’t give an opinion of those. I don’t have answers, only questions, and I think it leads to an interesting discussion.

Looking back on the history of Aesop, I wonder: Does it matter why a work was created for children? What is the value of didactic or even subtle “agenda” literature? Did children in the medieval ages know, care, or notice why and how the Aesop they read was created? Would we, as parents, resent the agenda of the translator, and if so, how can we pay attention to the agenda of the author today?

For the rest of October, I’ll donate 10 cents to World Food Programme for every (non-spam) comment I receive on any post of Rebecca Reads. See most post on Blog Action Day 2008 here. I’m also donating any proceeds (4%) from my Amazon Store.

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Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Rebecca Reid — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 16:22:03 +0000

I knew that Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert was about an adulterous woman. But for some reason, I assumed that the title character was a despicable, ugly, tricky middle-aged woman. “Madame” makes one sound old. Besides, when I was young, my mother had a copy of Madame Bovary; it must have been an old copy of the book, and I remember an unattractive woman on the cover (a cover like this one or this one). Just a dim memory of that cover never made the novel, and the character, seem appealing.

To my surprise, when I met Madame Bovary between the pages of Flaubert’s novel, I found that she was very young, beautiful, and skinny, and mostly known by her first name, Emma. Beyond that, the writing in this novel was full of beauty.

The Story

Book cover via Amazon

Much like Anna in Anna Karenina, Emma finds escape from her stifling 1800’s marriage through an extramarital affair. But Emma’s story is much simpler (and shorter) than Anna’s and differs in many ways. (It’s been a few years since I read Tolstoy’s classic, so correct me if I’m wrong.) While in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina the two parties to the affair actually love each other, in Madame Bovary, Emma is seduced by an unloving man who is basically using her. Emma’s story is of a woman who, marrying young, feels trapped in a relationship that is, to her, stagnant. And yet, while her husband loves her dearly, she fails to find any comfort from him and instead succumbs to boredom, thus opening herself to heartbreak.

Despite her foolish decisions, I still pitied Emma, much as I pitied Lily Bart in Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth. Like Lily, Emma was restricted in society and longed to be more than she was. In some respects, I think Emma was trapped and made her choices as a way to escape. Emma spent money, as did Lily, as a comfort from boredom. But, unlike Lily, Emma also retreated to sexuality, as she’d read in “lurid” novels, to find expression and self-fulfillment.

By the end of Madame Bovary, I had stopped pitying Emma and felt annoyed. Flaubert’s side stories, in which he discussed the history and future of other characters and which comprised the first few chapters and the last few chapters, also bored me. To me, Madame Bovary should have been all about Emma, although I’m sure there is something in those chapters that I missed.

The Writing

Despite my annoyance, I still enjoyed the novel. Flaubert’s beautiful writing was what kept me going. I read the (free) Project Gutenberg translation by Eleanor Marx-Aveling, and I wonder if the novel would be improved with a different translation. Is there a better translation out there?

I don’t read novels with lots of sex in them, and this one had a fair amount underscoring the story. However, reading of Emma’s love affairs in Flaubert’s language reminded me that excessive sexual jargon should not be necessary to beautifully capture a sexual encounter in a love story. Take this example, which I think is beautiful, appropriate, and tactful:

The cloth of her habit caught against the velvet of his coat. She threw back her white neck, swelling with a sigh, and faltering, in tears, with a long shudder and hiding her face, she gave herself up to him–

The shades of night were falling; the horizontal sun passing between the branches dazzled the eyes. Here and there around her, in the leaves or on the ground, trembled luminous patches, as if hummingbirds flying about had scattered their feathers. Silence was everywhere; something sweet seemed to come forth from the trees; she felt her heart, whose beating had begun again, and the blood coursing through her flesh like a stream of milk. Then far away, beyond the wood, on the other hills, she heard a vague prolonged cry, a voice which lingered, and in silence she heard it mingling like music with the last pulsations of her throbbing nerves.

My Verdict

What does it say about me that I loved (most of) this novel? It is the basic story of a woman, married to a loving man, who has an affair with a man who doesn’t love her. I’ll clarify, as I did to my husband, that I love my husband, I am not bored in my life or my relationship, and I don’t have any desire to have an affair for excitement. So, then, why do I like this story? I think the language and Emma’s boredom in her society were intriguing to me. I really did like Emma’s story.

Would Madame Bovary be more interesting if her husband didn’t love her and Emma’s affair was with a man who did love her? Would Emma have been justified in her affair? Was she justified as it was? I don’t know the answers, but I do know that the story, as it is, was very interesting to me!

I concede that Flaubert’s flowery writing style is not for everyone; it may be too dense or boring for you, and I could easily see how one could become bored (and annoyed) with Emma’s self-pity and stupid choices. That said, for those that are interested in such a story and a beautifully written and yet verbose novel about the many facets of love, lust, and boredom, I’d highly recommend Flaubert’s masterwork!

I read the Project Gutenberg version. But you’ll find plenty of attractive covers out there these days.

Madame Bovary is kind of opposite my personality, and I don’t have much in common with the “heroine.” Therefore, I’m confused why I like it. Nevertheless, I do like it. What novel do you like that is kind of opposite yourself? Why do you think you like it?

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Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Favorites)

Rebecca Reid — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 08:43:52 +0000

As I mentioned, Maupassant was a best-seller in his day. What makes his stories resonate with the modern reader is the attention to our own natural wants.

His stories capture greed (a woman wanting to look elegant for a party, no matter the cost; a man in need of money selling his wife; a parent in need of money selling his child; etc.), self-interest (a young man escaping from his pregnant girlfriend; society shunning prostitutes while yet accepting them; a family having the funeral before the loved one died for convenience), desire for power (a man lusting after a woman; a man trying to politically overtake a city), and so forth.

For a specific example, in “The Devil,” Maupassant captures our natural impatience. The son of a dying woman needs to plant his crop, so he hires a peasant woman to sit with his dying mother. But as the hired woman has been hired for a set pay, she doesn’t feel like waiting for the woman to die. I won’t tell you how this is resolved, but I will tell you I laughed out loud, horrid as it was! Humans are impatient by nature, and Maupassant wonderfully captured us.

I’ve now read between 80 and 100 stories (probably about 400 pages, skipping around the huge volume I have). As I’m moving this weekend, I had to return the book to the library.

I think I’ve had a good taste of Maupassant’s great stories. I’m sure there are other great ones out there. Tell me if I missed your favorite! (Links below are to the stories on the web; all are in the public domain.)

Stories I Would Reread

The Necklace: A middle-class woman really wants to look nice at a social gathering so she borrows a diamond necklace from her friend….and loses it.
The Piece of String: A stingy man finds a piece of string in the middle of the town square and stops to pick it up, changing his life.
The False Gems: When his beloved wife dies, the man eventually must sell her cherished-but-false jewels.
The Horla: An invisible creature follows a man, driving him crazy.
Was it a Dream?: A man’s beloved wife died, and he morns over her grave, only to be “haunted.”
The Father: A man abandons his girlfriend once she becomes pregnant; only later does he realize what that meant for him.
The Devil: A peasant woman is hired to sit with a dying woman and gets impatient for her to die.
A Sale: Why did he dump his wife in a barrel of water? The judge wants to know.
Simon’s Papa: Simon doesn’t have a papa, and the boys in the school yard are making fun of him. He is determined to find a papa.
Clair de Lune: A priest hates women because they are only temptresses, and nothing good can come from women. And then he learns something.

HTR&W

Harold Bloom selected as his favorites “Madame Tellier’s Establishment” and “The Horla.”

While I didn’t really love reading “Madame Tellier’s Establishment,” it did fit in to the pattern of Maupassant’s stories that I mention above in terms of addressing aspects of human’s carnal desires. Madame Tellier’s “establishment” is a whorehouse. They all take a holiday to visit Madame Tellier’s niece’s first communion. I had an odd sense as I read it that the prostitutes weren’t really people in the society, and yet we find that they were.

“The Horla,” on the other hand, was wonderfully weird. It was written during Maupassant’s own “going crazy” stage, as were a few of his stories. As I mention above, it is about a man being followed by an invisible man, and slowing going crazy. There were some great passages in it, and I really enjoyed the sense of “is this really happening?”.

In How to Read and Why, Bloom compares and contrasts Maupassant and Chekhov, much as I did in my previous post. He has some interesting comments. (Again, he has no respect for Poe, which makes me want to go read Poe again just to prove him wrong.) He concludes with this:

Why read Maupassant? At his best, he will hold you as few others do.

Yes, Maupassant really does capture your attention!

What are you waiting for? Many Maupassant stories are very short. Read some of his stories online right now (links to specific stories above):

Related posts:

Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)

Rebecca Reid — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 22:00:42 +0000

Image via Wikipedia

If Guy de Maupassant lived and wrote stories or novels today, his name would appear on The New York Times best-seller lists many weeks out of a year.

As it was, in the late 1800s, his stories were best-sellers from the time the first one, “Boule de Suif,” appeared in a collection with five other previously unknown authors, until he died, mentally ill, at the young age of 42 in 1893.

But don’t let the best-seller title sway you from reading Maupassant. I tend to avoid modern-day best-sellers because, in my mind, they are (stereotypically) not written very well. But that’s not the case with Guy de Maupassant’s stories: he writes incredibly well.

Maupassant’s Style

I’ve only read about 40 of Maupassant’s stories thus far (out of a book with 270), so these are all preliminary thoughts. As I’m still reading his stories, I’ll share my favorites by Maupassant and my HTR&W thoughts in a subsequent post.

Since I recently read Chekhov’s stories, I can’t help but compare the two writers. Apparently, most people compare them. In the introduction to the volume I’m reading, Dr. Artine Artinian discusses at length why Maupassant is better than Chekhov. I don’t think I can assign one as better than the other; they are just very different.

Maupassant’s writing style is a stark contrast to Chekhov’s (read my discussion of Chekhov’s stories here). I loved Chekhov’s writing and style: it was thoughtful despite being (I suppose you could say) verbose. He explores the characters’ emotional states and their thoughts. Maupassant is much more concise. He also relies on dialog more than Chekhov seemed to, so his stories moved more quickly. But Maupassant’s stories are still beautifully written. He captures the essence of the setting in few words and makes it complete.

Maupassant’s subject matter is also a stark contrast to Chekhov. Both writers focus on the lives of everyday people, focusing on everyday matters. But while Chekhov wrote his stories with the ever-present political situation of various classes of people (money and station seemed to be a theme), Maupassant wrote with under-lying carnal desires in mind. In other words, he wrote about sex, greed, love, misunderstandings, and lying, among other things. The characters in his stories care most about themselves. Chekhov’s stories were more concerned with how people relate with each other. In a sense, Chekhov’s characters felt more sensitive. Maupassant’s characters are more “human.”

In searching for a recommended translation, I stumbled upon an Amazon reviewer who wasn’t too impressed with Maupassant. He/she says:

The real reason that everyone makes such a big deal about Maupassant is because he mostly wrote about sex. His stories are entertaining but not extraordinary…

He’s right, and he’s wrong. Yes, Maupassant mostly wrote about sex. But I believe that Maupassant’s writing has a hint of extraordinary. Some stories are simply masterpieces. I believe Maupassant deserves the credit he received.

The Verdict

As I said, I haven’t read every story in this collection of stories by Maupassant. But when I read stories like these I am glad that I don’t have a rating system on my blog. How could I assign a “score” to these painfully beautiful stories after I assigned a “score” to Chekhov’s painfully beautiful stories? I am glad I read both authors, but I can’t begin to “grade” them.

If there is one author I’d read again someday, it would probably be Chekhov and not Maupassant. But that doesn’t mean that Maupassant isn’t as good or that I find his stories “worse.” Also, don’t judge a book by it’s cover: I’m liking Maupassant despite its stench.

In the end, Maupassant’s stories feel modern in writing style and subject matter. Therefore, you (personally) may relate to them more than you would to the under-lying politics in Chekhov’s peasant Russia. I guess you could say that Maupassant is the average “Guy.” That helped him become the best-seller he deservedly was.

Questions for you:

Which writing style do you prefer to read: verbose beauty or concise beauty?
If you’ve read Maupassant’s stories, do you think they’re “all about sex” or is there something else deeper in them?
Do you assign “scores” or ratings to books or stories you read? Why do you assign ratings? How do you determine which rating to assign?

Related posts:

Judging a Book by Its Cover

Rebecca Reid — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 23:57:42 +0000

It’s not Maupassant’s fault, but I have a grudge against him already: his book stinks.

The librarian had to retrieve it from The Stacks. The first thing I noticed as she returned was its size. At more than 1300 pages, it thudded on the counter. Then, as she swiped my library card and pushed the book toward me, I smelled it. Musky. Old. Like a 1950s house that hasn’t been aired out in decades. Like puke-colored green shag carpet.

The cover itself isn’t too bad: the top two-thirds has the long title and subtitle and editor written in plain print across a faded (and stained) orange background. Bizarre green faces stare at me from the bottom third of the page.

Then I opened it. The text is about 8 point font. A story ends and the next begins on the same page (that bothers me: a story should stand by itself). And each page is as thin as skin. The book is probably 11 inches tall and 5 inches wide, so with 1300+ pages, a heavy cover, and Bible-thin pages, it’s kind of hard to curl up in bed for some comfort reading.

The book is The Complete Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant. I’m ashamed to say that if it wasn’t for my How to Read and Why reading list goal, I would return this book right now. No: I’d never have picked it up to begin with.

I requested this particular volume (edited by Professor Artine Artinian; copyright 1955 by Doubleday under the imprint Hanover House, no ISBN number) because two reviewers on Amazon insisted it was the best volume of Maupassant’s works, and my library happened to carry it. I fail to be convinced. To begin with, having read the introduction and skimmed the front matter, I fail to see any evidence for who actually translated the stories in this collection. Dr. Artinian doesn’t claim that; he only claims to be editor. I want to know who translates. Besides, if it’s so good, how come nobody else on Amazon could find it? Why isn’t it in print anymore? Why doesn’t it have an ISBN number? Why hasn’t it been republished time and again?

If you want to read Maupassant, maybe go for a “selected works” collection. Having all 270 stories in one volume is a bit unwieldy and overwhelming, to say the least.

I know it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover. I intend to read Maupassant, at least some of these stories, despite the stench emanating from the pages. I never realized I was so easily swayed by format. This post is just an explanation of why it’s taking me so long to give Maupassant a try: I’m biased against him already.

Have you judged a book by its cover? Were you right about it, or was it merely unfortunate? What is the worst cover you’ve come across?

Related posts:

Literature in Translation

Rebecca Reid — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 22:00:05 +0000

Chekhov’s stories (which I reviewed yesterday) are available free in the public domain via Project Gutenberg, although the translation is different from the one I read. I loved the translation I read! Compare these to passages from “The House with the Mezzanine: An Artist’s Story” to the Project Gutenberg translation. Is there a “better” translation? I think there is.

Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky

To the right, in an old orchard, an oriole sang reluctantly, in a weak voice – it must have been a little old lady, too. But now the lindens also ended; I passed a white house with a terrace and a mezzanine, and before me there unexpectedly opened up a view of the manor yard and a wide pond with a bathing house, a stand of willows, a village on the other side, with a tall, slender belfry, the cross of which blazed, reflecting the setting sun. For a moment I felt the enchantment of something dear and very familiar, as if I had already seen this same panorama sometime in my childhood.

Translated by Constance Garnett via Project Gutenberg

From the old orchard on the right came the faint, reluctant note of the golden oriole, who must have been old too. But at last the limes ended. I walked by an old white house of two storeys with a terrace, and there suddenly opened before me a view of a courtyard, a large pond with a bathing-house, a group of green willows, and a village on the further bank, with a high, narrow belfry on which there glittered a cross reflecting the setting sun. For a moment it breathed upon me the fascination of something near and very familiar, as though I had seen that landscape at some time in my childhood.

Which do you prefer? Has a story or novel been ruined for you by a poor translation?

I want to find the best translations for the upcoming works on the HTR&W list. Any suggestions for Maupassant, Cervantes, Proust, and the others?

Related posts:

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Rebecca Reid — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 22:00:11 +0000

I didn’t understand The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry at all. I guess I’m not a child.

A pilot has crashed his plane in the desert. While striving to repair it, he meets a young boy from a asteroid-star planet. The little prince’s planet has 44 sunsets a day, and the little prince is full of ideals and love. He shares his story with the pilot.

The bottom line was, I think, that adults don’t make the right priorities. I guess I also don’t make the right priorities: while I wanted to like this story of random childhood weirdness, I didn’t.

I read The Little Prince in English, but I imagine it’s a good starting point for scholars of the French language because it’s not too intimidating and the language is repetitive and easy. If I ever learn French, I’ll revisit it.

For now, however, I don’t consider it the classic, life-changing book I’ve heard it suggested that it is. What do you think?

Other Reviews:

If you have reviewed The Little Prince, leave a link in the comments and I’ll your link to this post.

Related posts:

Two Stories by Turgenev

Rebecca Reid — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 22:00:10 +0000

At Harold Bloom’s suggestion in HTR&W, I tackled “Bezhin Lea” and “Kasyan from the Beautiful Lands” by Ivan Turgenev. I say “tackled” because, unfortunately, these stories were evidence to me that I am accustomed to reading quickly and easily; reading them was a “difficult pleasure.” I expect not all of the stories on Bloom’s reading list will be so (dare I say it?) dull, but to me, “Bezhin Lea” and “Kasyan” failed to ignite my interest, despite the superior quality of the writing. I had intended to read all of Turgenev’s Sketches from a Hunter’s Album, but I think I’ll stop at just the two for now.

Ivan Turgenev’s Sketches from a Hunter’s Album (also called A Sportman’s Sketches) contains more than 25 stories about a hunter (assumed to be Turgenev) relating his experiences among the people he meets. The two “sketches” I read were beautifully written.

In “Bezhin Lea” (or “Bezhin Meadow” or “Bezhin Prairie”), the hunter gets lost after a long day of hunting. In the darkening twilight, he comes across a group of young peasant boys, with whom he spends the evening. Feigning sleep, the hunter overhears the conversation among the boys, which is about superstition and life and death. Bloom opines that we should read this story

to know better our own reality, our vulnerability to fate, while learning also to appreciate aesthetically Turgenev’s tact and only apparent detachment as a storyteller. (page 33)

I struggled to find my “own reality” in “Bezhin Lea.” After reading Bloom’s comments, I reread the story. Upon second reading I could sense what Bloom means: because the narrator was detached, the other characters are developed objectively to some extent. I suppose not “getting it” is just an example of how poorly I read the story the first time, but I also remember that Bloom expressed in his prologue that reading is intensely personal, and what he gets out of a story is not necessarily what I get out of the story. Maybe that is the case with Turgenev.

In “Kasyan from the Beautiful Lands” (or “Kasyan of Fair Springs”), the hunter is returning home from hunting when the axle breaks on his coach. He and his driver stop in a peasant village to have it repaired. While waiting, the hunter meets a strange peasant man, a dwarf named Kasyan. The hunter stays with Kasyan and goes hunting for grouse. The character of Kasyan was interesting to me and the writing was again beautiful, but again it took me two readings to really like him and the careful development of his character. Only after my second reading did I realize what Bloom meant:

[The hunter's] thoughts on Kasyan remain unexpressed, but do we need them? … One need not idealize Kasyan; his peasant shrewdness and perceptions exclude a great deal of value, but he incarnates truths of folklore that he himself may scarcely know that he knows. (page 35)

I think Turgenev has a superb ability to capture the individuals in peasant society within the context of a story. In “Bezhin Lea” and “Kasyan from the Beautiful Lands,” Turgenev captured the different superstitions and philosophies of the peasants without lecturing us or rehearsing it before us. While I’m not in love with his writing, I think that is a reflection on my own ingrained reading habits. I can sense the quality of his writing, and I look forward, at some point in my life and not right now, revisiting Turgenev’s Sketches from a Hunter’s Album.

Note that I read these two stories by Turgenev via the public domain project at Project Gutenberg, where the translator was different from Bloom’s. Also, if you haven’t yet read the stories and were planning on reading Bloom’s How to Read and Why, please note that Bloom does reveal spoilers: Bloom assumes that we, as readers, have already read these stories. I suspect that is how he will treat all of the works on his list. I’ve decided that I’m going to hesitate to read Bloom’s overview until I’ve read the work myself. I’m still intending to read his works in order; we’ll see if that lasts as well.

Do you consider Turgenev’s stories to be superior? Why or why not?

If you’ve read and reviewed Turgenev’s stories on your site, leave a link and I’ll post it here.

Related posts:

Rebecca Reads » translations

Aucassin and Nicolette by an Out-of-the-Box Medieval Author

The Style and The Story

The Translation

In Conclusion

Reading in Spanish (Neruda’s Poetry and La casa en Mango Street by Cisneros)

Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

Reading in Translation

My Experience

Beauty and the Beast + The Complete Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault

Beauty and the Beast

Other Perrault Stories

Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales

Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges

Weird

Reading in Spanish

Where It Fits

Reading The Iliad by Homer, trans. by Robert Fagles

Reading Notes

The Translation

The Next Step

The Iliad by Homer, trans. Robert Fagles: Love and Hate But Mostly Love

Love and Hate

The Bottom Line

The Iliad by Homer: The Story

Who What When Where Why

How?

So What Is The Iliad About?

Iliad in Translation

Samuel Butler, 1898

A Quote

Richmond Lattimore, 1950s

A Quote

Robert Fagles, 1992

A Quote

Stanley Lombardo, 1997

A Quote

My Plan, Which May Change

Ingenuity and Authority: Who Really Wrote Aesop’s Fables?

Fables as Nursery Lessons

Aesop as Religious Lessons

Do We Need Aesop Today?

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

The Story

The Writing

My Verdict

Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Favorites)

Stories I Would Reread

Other Good Stories

HTR&W

Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)

Maupassant’s Style

The Verdict

Questions for you:

Judging a Book by Its Cover

Literature in Translation

Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky

Translated by Constance Garnett via Project Gutenberg

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Two Stories by Turgenev