There are so many different forms of literary experimentation, and sometimes translating the works that result from them can force the translator to walk the tightrope right behind the author. Just think of all those Oulipoian texts written around the use of constraints, the more constraining the better. The genesis of such a text might look like this: “Write a novel without once using the letter e, in French!” Well, we already know that such a lipogram cannot include the directive that produced it, since “write,” “novel,” “once,” “letter” and even “the” are all verboten. Instead we might read: “Script a book not containing this off-limits sign.” The constraint limits comprehensibility, and when practiced with skill can result in texts whose underlying strangeness lends interest to the narrative, as in the famous example of George Perec’s 1969 novel La Disparition, translated by Gilbert Adair as A Void (since the word “disappear” had to disappear, along with “disappearing”).
Here are the first lines in Spanish:
12. 1. 21. 12. 5. 22. 20. 1. 21. 4. 5. 5. 21.
L a s l e t r a s d e e s
22. 5. 1. 12. 6. 1. 2. 5. 22. 17.
t e a l f a b e t o…………….243
And in Racz’s English:
12. 15. 20. 8. 5. 1. 12. 16. 8. 1.
L o t h e a l p h a
2. 5. 20. 19. 12. 5. 20. 20. 5. 18. 19.
b e t’ s l e t t e r s………243
The underlying line “Las letras de este alfabeto” becomes, cleverly, “Lo, the alphabet’s letters.”
It looks simple enough if you ignore the constraint. But constraints are interesting: they force the brain to apply its cognitive powers to something other than narrative and “meaning” – which turns out to be a good strategy for the production of literature. If you don’t believe me, just think about the success of all those crazy artificial verse forms poets are always forcing their imaginations to conform to: the sonnet, the terza rima, the villanelle and – my personal favorite – the sestina.