Translations

 I've started another re-read of Proust, which I think is my fifth total reading. The big difference this time is that I'm switching translations, from the traditional standard edition of C.K. Scott Moncrieff's Remembrance of Things Past to the new Penguin Classics In Search of Lost Time. Each of the seven volumes of the new Penguin Classics series is translated by a different person, which should make for an interesting experience. I don't speak French so I'm a poor judge of which is the "correct" version, and I would not pretend to be. They're both beautiful. Some of the differences in the new translations are slightly jarring, but that's mainly because I'm used to the C.K. Scott Moncrieff version. Let me give a brief comparison of one of my Proustian paragraphs from Swann's Way, first from Moncrieff and then from Lydia Davis's award winning translation.

"But it was in vain that I lingered beside the hawthorns - inhaling, trying to fix in my mind (which did not know what to do with it), losing and recapturing their invisible and unchanging odour, absorbing myself in the rhythm which disposed their flowers here and there with the lightheartedness of youth and at intervals as unexpected as certain intervals in music - they went on offering me the same charm in an inexhaustible profusion, but without letting me delve any more deeply, like those melodies which one can play a hundred times in succession without coming any nearer to their secret. I turned away from them for a moment so as to be able to return to them afresh. My eyes travelled up the bank which rose steeply to the fields beyond the hedge, alighting on a stray poppy or a few laggard cornflowers which decorated the slope here and there like the borders of a tapestry whereon may be glimpsed sporadically the rustic theme which will emerge triumphant in the panel itself; infrequent still, spaced out like the scattered houses which herald the approach of a village, they betokened to me the vast expanse of waving corn beneath the fleecy clouds, and the sight of a single poppy hoisting up its slender rigging and holding against the breeze its scarlet ensign, over the buoy of rich black earth from which is sprang, made my heart beat as does a wayfarer's when he perceives upon some low-lying ground a stranded boat which is being caulked and made sea-worthy, and cries out, although he has not yet caught sight of it, 'The Sea!'" (Swann's Way, p. 151, C.K. Scott Moncrieff translation)

"But though I remained there in front of the hawthorns, breathing in, bringing into the presence of my thoughts, which did not know what to do with it, then losing and finding again their invisible and unchanging smell, absorbing myself in the rhythm that tossed their flowers here and there with youthful high spirits and at unexpected intervals like certain intervals in music, they offered me the same charm endlessly and with an inexhaustible profusion, but without letting me study it more deeply, like the melodies you replay a hundred times in succession without descending further into their secrets. I turned away from them for a moment, to accost them against with renewed strength. I pursued, all the way onto the embankment behind the hedge that rose steeply toward the fields, some lost poppy, a few cornflowers which had lazily stayed behind, which decorated it here and there with their flower heads like the border of a tapestry on which there appears, thinly scattered, the rustic motif that will dominate the panel; infrequent still, spaced apart like the isolated houses that announce the approach of a village, they announced to me the immense expanse where the what breaks in waves, where the clouds fleece, and the sight of a single poppy hoisting its red flame to the top of its ropes and whipping it in the wind above its greasy black buoy made my heart pound like the heart of a traveler who spies on a lowland a first beached boat being repaired by a caulker and, before catching sight of it, cries out: 'The Sea!'" (Swann's Way, p. 141, Lydia Davis translation)

Again, I'm not going to presume to comment on which is the more accurate or "better" translation. I may be generally ridiculous, but not that ridiculous. The line, "But it was in vain that I lingered beside the hawthorns," is one of my all-time favorite lines from Proust, so it was strange to see it rendered so differently, although how Davis interprets it is wonderful. I know that I've appreciated the power and beauty and profundity of Moncrieff's translation with every re-read, and I'm sure the same will be true with the new Penguin Classics editions. It reminds me of my Muslim friends who assure me that you can never truly grasp the beauty of the Quran until you can read it in Arabic, and I'm sure the same is true of Proust and French. For some time I've been thinking about writing a novel about an old man who learns he's going to die, and decides he's only going to read Proust endlessly until he passes, so that he's assured of dying in beauty.