Tag Archives: Translation

15. USSR: Diary of a Perestroika Kid, by Vladimir Kozlov

8 Apr

USSR Diary of a Perestroika Kid

I took a gulp of lemonade, put down the glass, and took some cucumbers with sour cream from the salad dish. These were the first cucumbers of the year.

By the time I read the above quote about eating cucumbers, I was starting to wonder if anything, ever, was going to happen in USSR, Vladimir Kozlov’s exquisitely detailed but not exactly plotty autobiographical novel about an ordinary boy growing up in the late days of the Soviet Union.

The book’s protagonist, Igor, a seventh-grade boy, is moving through the ordinary, depressed, small events of childhood in the Belorussian town of Mogilev. His is a world in which, “Signs of a crumbling society were everywhere, but childhood forged on, largely structured around the daily schedule of school and activities such as clubs, sports, Pioneers and Komsomol (the mandatory youth and teenage communist organizations),”  one of the book’s introductory writers explains. Another introductory writer mentions that Kozlov’s other fictional works are usually about “the quick, intuitive, and often misguided adjustments that ordinary Soviet people were forced to make on the spot in order to survive in their rapidly changing surroundings, even as they remained rooted in their small, customary ‘Soviet’ worlds…”.

That understanding, I think, is crucial to reading this book, which is about what life was like just before the cataclysmic change occurred—the book’s project is to establish that small, customary world, with great tenderness. A little boy drinking lemonade and eating cucumbers with sour cream, not understanding anything, is the essential counterpart to what’s occurring elsewhere in the scene: The adults are discussing the appointment of a new Soviet premier—Mikhail Gorbachev. And even they don’t understand what it will mean. One says, “‘It doesn’t matter who they appointed, everything will stay the same.'” Hindsight is hilarious.

With this project in mind, the child’s unimaginative viewpoint, which does not see the larger picture, is a brilliant POV from which to catalog the last days of the empire.

And what Igor does see—the smaller picture—of model cars, brands of jeans, first crushes, dads who drink too much, and bootlegged Western music is entertaining too. The narration had a habit of hopscotching from scene to scene, so I wasn’t always sure where, exactly, we were. Was the grandma’s house in a village, or in Mogilev proper? Does Igor’s friend Kolya live in the same building? How did they meet again? But the scenes themselves were so beautifully rendered that I was along for the ride.

An old woman in a quilted jacket was leaving the bus stop with her net bag. There was a red and blue carton of milk and a round loaf of black bread in the bag.

I know just what that looks like! I’m glad someone has written a tribute to it.

Time will eat up all the use. A post on the translation of Kotlovan, or “The Foundation Pit” by Andrei Platonov

6 Feb

The strange, futuristic, experimental genius of Andrei Platonov will get its own blog post—and wow, experimental fiction geeks, gird yourselves, this book is bending my mind in all the good ways—but first, I’d like to address the New York Review of Books’ 2014 translation, by Robert Chandler & Olga Meerson, of Platonov’s 1930 classic, The Foundation Pit (Kotlovan, in Russian). I’m reading my English version simultaneously with an original Russian version, and have been amazed by seeing what the translators, and the NYRB, were up against. The Foundation Pit could be a case study in impossible translations, further complicated by the persecution of writers in the Soviet Union.

The NYRB had a difficult primary decision to make, in terms of which version of the book to use, since The Foundation Pit was published only in part in the 1930s, and then suppressed. The version of the manuscript most commonly used in Russia, (and the one I’m reading in Russian) is from the writer’s daughter’s archive. In an appendix to the NYRB edition, the translators explain that this commonly-used one “reflect[s] an earlier stage in the evolution of the text” and also contains additions and deletions by a third party that were supposed to make it more acceptable for publication. The “greatly superior” manuscript version Chandler & Meerson have chosen to work with, which was first published in Russia in 2000, reflects later changes made by Platonov, and restores some of the lost material, particularly the raunchy bits. I’m going to refer to these two versions as “daughter’s archive” and “NYRB/more recent” to help the reader keep it straight.

On paper it makes sense to use the NYRB/more-recent version, since we can presume it’s the one the writer intended. But reading both side-by-side, complications arise. There are continuity issues in the NYRB/more-recent version that it seems the writer would have fixed if he’d intended it to be published. Things like the character Chiklin appearing on page 12 without previous introduction, “The engineer told Chiklin…” a sentence begins. Who is Chiklin? Huh? In the daughter’s-archive version, Chiklin is identified earlier as an earth-worker. Another example is a spot on page 13 in the NYRB/more-recent edition where the line reads,  “Annulling nature’s old order, Chiklin felt unable to understand it.” That’s an obscure line to begin with, and made more obscure by the fact that Platonov apparently cut material from the daughter’s-archive version where Chiklin asks questions about the earth he’s digging, giving us some explanation for what he doesn’t understand and deepening the joke.

I don’t know the back-story, but such issues make me wonder if the NYRB/more-recent revision was complete. The daughter’s-archive version is more polished. (It has line-reps and minor errors as well). This is probably unorthodox in the world of translation, but I wonder if these two versions couldn’t be reconciled, either using the NYRB/more-recent but fixing the obvious continuity issues, or annotating the daughter’s-archive version to include major missing scenes. It’s an interesting puzzle, and I’m not sure which I’d choose if it were up to me (which, ha ha, it is obviously not).

Another bizarre note: There are end-notes in the NYRB edition, but without corresponding numbers on the text. Did someone forget?

All of that about which manuscript to use, however, doesn’t get to the difficulties with the actual translation of the words. Let’s go back to,

“Annulling nature’s old order, Chiklin felt unable to understand it.”

In Russian it’s “Упраздняя старинное природное устройство, Чиклин не мог его понять”,

which could be more literally translated as “Abolishing the old natural construction, Chiklin could not understand it.”

No matter how you translate it that’s a weird sentence. Platonov has been described as a linguistic cubist. He was using words wrong in a systematic way to a variety of ends. You can’t abolish construction, so, the translator has the difficult job of choosing not just the right word, but a word that will be wrong in a similar way to how the word is wrong in Russian.

Reading the Russian and English translation side by side, it’s apparent to me how much is lost. Calling soil “the old natural construction” is humorous because Platonov is spoofing the Soviet lingo of his time, which applied mechanical and industrial terminology to all of life’s processes. Nature is just another worker. The translation loses that shade of meaning. But it also invents annul in place of the more literal abolish. Annul is stilted and legalistic and odd in just the way the spirit of Platonov’s prose is. Annul is a great choice.

Platonov was a devoted communist. Post-Revolution he’s like a cyborg using the Soviet Union’s new and unfamiliar jargon to examine his own human soul—a use for which the jargon was not meant. It’s amazing, brilliant and deeply sad, and much of the texture is created by the odd word choices and gappy syntax through which meaning falls like flung coins. The translators capture that, while doing a very good job of making the prose “read” smoothly. There are insertions and inventions, but if you look very carefully at the options, each one seems correctly weighed.

Here’s another example of how difficult the decisions must have been:

“‘We need more hands,’ said Chiklin to the engineer. ‘This job’s a killer. And time will eat up all the use.'”

And here’s the Russian “Мало рук, – сказал Чиклин инженеру, – это измор, а не работа, – время всю пользу съест” (p 26).

Literally translated, the Russian says: “Too few hands” said Chiklin to the engineer. “This is death-by-starvation, not a job. And time will eat up all the use.”

The translation is stilted and a little bit dorky (“a killer!”), but it renders the moment as smoothly as it reads in Russian, and preserves the best strange part, which is that bit about “time will eat up all the use.” The line barely makes sense in either language, but is an essential Foundation Pit construction. Platonov is using “use” as something like “useful force,” a concept you’d find in revolutionary social theory, but he maroons it in a bit of dialog where a worker is explaining how a utopian construction project is failing. It’s a great coinage and the most important part of the sentence. On the other side of the scale, the translators lost измор, which means “death by starvation,” (of course Russian has a word for that) and lost the echo between “death by starvation” and “time will eat up.” It must have been painful, but that literal translation clunks, and you can’t have too many of those.

(For more on how awful literal translations are, read this brilliant takedown of  Pevear & Volkonsky in  Commentary Magazine.)

I will eventually write a post about The Foundation Pit itself and blow everyone’s minds out their ear….. For now, I will leave it that Chandler & Meerson have done a wonderful job.