Tag: Balder

C.S. Lewis on Translating Poetry

On By robstroudIn Advice to Writers, C.S. Lewis, C.S. Lewis & the Inklings, Literature, Poetry, The Bible, The Future, Writing12 Comments

“A poetic translation is always to some extent a new work of art.”
C.S. Lewis
English Literature in the Sixteenth Century

C.S. Lewis was a gifted translator. One who recognized well the challenges of skillful rendition, including the differing requirements imposed by prose and poetry. Thus, in his essay “The Literary Impact of the Authorised Version,” he offers the following insight.

No translation can preserve the qualities of its original unchanged. On the other hand, except where lyrical poetry is in question, the literary effect of any good translation must be more indebted to the original than to anything else.

In his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis describes his transformative encounter with translated poetry that introduced him to the “northern sky.” Before he became a skilled translator in his own right, he describes how a major part of his awakening,

. . . came through poetry. I had become fond of Longfellow’s “Saga of King Olaf:” fond of it in a casual, shallow way for its story and its vigorous rhythms.

But then, and quite different from such pleasures, and like a voice from far more distant regions, there came a moment when I idly turned the pages of the book and found the

unrhymed translation of Tegner’s Drapa and read

I heard a voice that cried,
Balder the beautiful
Is dead, is dead

I knew nothing about Balder; but instantly I was uplifted into huge regions of northern sky, I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described (except that it is cold, spacious, severe, pale, and remote) and then, as in the other examples, found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it.

One of Lewis’ most involved explanations of the subject is found in Reflections on the Psalms. As Mere Inkling has noted in the past, C.S. Lewis was a distinguished member of a committee appointed to “revise the Psalter.” Being poetry, the Psalms demanded the proper mindset in their translators.

What must be said, however, is that the Psalms are poems, and poems intended to be sung: not doctrinal treatises, nor even sermons. . . . Most emphatically the Psalms must be read as poems; as lyrics, with all the licences and all the formalities, the hyperboles, the emotional rather than logical connections, which are proper to lyric poetry.

They must be read as poems if they are to be understood; no less than French must be read as French or English as English. Otherwise we shall miss what is in them and think we see what is not.

Some translations, unfortunately, are intentionally corrupted. I described in 2020 the Communist Chinese twisting of the Christian Scriptures. Fortunately, this sort of intentional crime is rare, and most translation efforts are well motivated. That does not mean, however, that even gifted linguists are up to every challenge.

In a letter to the editor of The Christian Century, C.S. Lewis contrasted academic and vernacular translations. Declaring that “any fool can write learned language,” he argues that clergy in particular are faced with the challenge of translating languages into prose which is understandable to the general population. He begins by demurring that he cannot respond to a request for an article written for a popular American audience.

An article on “translation” such as Dr. Pittenger suggests . . . certainly needs doing, but I could not usefully do it for Americans. The vernacular into which they would have to translate is not quite the same as that into which I have translated. Small differences, in addressing proletarians, may be all-important.

In both countries an essential part of the ordination exam ought to be a passage from some recognized theological work set for translation into vulgar English – just like doing Latin prose. Failure on this exam should mean failure on the whole exam.

It is absolutely disgraceful that we expect missionaries to the Bantus to learn Bantu but never ask whether our missionaries to the Americans or English can speak American or English. Any fool can write learned language. The vernacular is the real test.

C.S. Lewis remained an avid reader and critic until his death. In 1961, he received some translations of “modern” Greek poetry from his friend, Muriel Bradbrook (1909-1993), a Professor of English at Cambridge. After thanking her for the gift, he offers his personal response to the intercultural translations.

Dear Muriel,

What a nice thing for a man half drowned in compulsory leisure [due to poor health] . . . It has set me a problem. I find I get a good deal of pleasure out of many of these poems, but am at a loss to say why. One is not getting the “numbers” – and so far as I can judge from the notes the metres of the originals would not much please me.

Nor am I much in sympathy with many of the poets’ moods. The pleasure is like – at least rather like – what I get out of most translations of Chinese lyric. But that isn’t a solution, but merely another problem of the same sort. Anyway, thanks very much indeed.

Advice to Budding Translators

So many good works of literature remain to be translated so they can benefit those unfamiliar with their original tongue. Several years ago, I wrote a column entitled “C.S. Lewis’ School of Translation,” assembling some of the great writer’s wisdom.

I recently encountered a curiously brilliant observation on the subject of translating poetry in C.S. Lewis’ English Literature in the Sixteenth Century. Although he refers here to advising others, it would be wise for any of us who are considering the task to reflect long on Lewis’ acumen.

Most of us, I suspect, would advise a mediocre poet, if he must translate, to avoid the greater originals and choose the less, as if these would be easier. But this is probably a mistake.

The great poets have so much wealth that even if you lose two-thirds of it on the voyage home you can still be rich on the remainder: slighter art, when it loses the perfection of its original form, loses all power of pleasing.

As I think about it, this advice likely applies to prose as well. If you or I someday attempt to translate a work, we should consider working with the richest possible source material. That way, even if it loses value in the process, the quality that remains will still possess value for our translation’s readers.

Even if we do not pen “a new work of art.”

Writing During the New Year

On By robstroudIn Advice to Writers, C.S. Lewis, Classics Worth Revisiting, Great Authors, Literature, Poetry, The Future, Writing23 Comments

A new year is dawning, and the future is yours to write. For writers, these optimistic words possess doubled promise.

Metaphorically, 2021 offers all of us a fresh beginning. We can build on the good aspects of our lives, and abandon behaviors that result in less desirable outcomes. Some people do that in the form of making “new year resolutions.”

The new year offers those who write—a large number of those who actively follow Mere Inkling—a new opportunity to pursue our literary dreams. For example, we can begin scheduling regular times for studying the art, and even (I realize this is shocking) for writing itself!

Certainly, many of life’s experiences remain beyond our control, but how we choose to respond to them is not. And it is not too challenging to imagine that these unpleasant days of social isolation might contribute to inherently personal pursuits such as writing.

While I was working on an upcoming post about “quotations,” I encountered the volume illustrated at the top of this column. It represents the first two pages of A Year Book of Quotations: From the Writings of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with spaces for Autographs and Records (New York: 1896).

Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear, and with a manly* heart. (Hyperion).

These pages commended themselves to me as an ideal exemplar of the point I am attempting to make. New Year’s Day is an ideal time to begin new writing practices. While the hobby of collecting “autographs” may have declined through the years, the value of keeping written “records” has not.

The very structure of this journal invites a reader to preserve their unique insights. And, while the space in the book itself is limited, the blank lines serve to remind us that a few minutes devoted to the keyboard or pen each day can be worthwhile.

Longfellow’s Influence on C.S. Lewis

The epic poetry of Longfellow (1807-1882) was highly regarded during his lifetime. Following the death of his second wife, he wrote less poetry and focused on translating foreign authors into English.

In a 1915 letter to his father, Lewis commented on Rudyard Kipling’s militant promotion of the First World War. As he concluded his thoughts on the subject, he wrote, “I conceive that Kipling is one of those writers who has the misfortune in common with Longfellow, of always being known and liked for his worst works.”

There is one poem in Longfellow’s works—a piece inspired by his translation of a Swedish poet—that greatly impacted a very young C.S. Lewis. In “Tegner’s drapa,” Lewis encountered the essence of “Northernness” which would fuel his imagination the remainder of his life.

The entire poem is available here, but it was the ode’s opening that sparked the flame.⁑ Lewis describes the incident in his autobiography, Surprised by Joy.

It will be clear that at this time—at the age of six, seven, and eight—I was living almost entirely in my imagination; or at least that the imaginative experience of those years now seems to me more important than anything else. . . . I had become fond of Longfellow’s Saga of King Olaf: fond of it in a casual, shallow way for its story and its vigorous rhythms.

But then, and quite different from such pleasures, and like a voice from far more distant regions, there came a moment when I idly turned the pages of the book and found the unrhymed translation of “Tegner’s Drapa” and read,

I heard a voice that cried,
Balder the beautiful
Is dead, is dead.

I knew nothing about Balder; but instantly I was uplifted into huge regions of northern sky, I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described (except that it is cold, spacious, severe, pale, and remote) and then, as in the other examples, found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it.

In 1927, Lewis penned a lengthy letter to his brother, which included an entertaining discussion of American authors. He highlights the nationalistic bragging to which many Americans succumb. He encourages Warnie to recall the days when the two of them boasted about the accomplishments of Northern Ireland.

If you cast back your mind, when we were at Wynyard we were in exactly that phase: it gave us a pleasure at which I still blush to din into people’s ears the fact that Belfast had the largest gantry in the British isles or had launched the largest ship afloat.

But we have outgrown it: it would now give me no appreciable thrill to convince the fellows of Magdalen that my father was the largest batata⁂ in Europe. If the analogy between peoples and individuals were sound, I suppose we should have to forgive the Americans for being in a state which we once passed through ourselves.

After discussing several others, Lewis confesses, “Hawthorne I admire beyond words: and ‘I have a sneaking affection’ for Longfellow.”

In retrospect, all of us who appreciate the writer C.S. Lewis became, owe a profound debt to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

And, if Longfellow’s collection of quotations—with spaces for Autographs and Records—encourages any of us to renew our commitment to becoming better writers, we have another good reason to be grateful.

* Yes, the pronouns are a bit dated, but we all know what Longfellow meant.

⁑ You can find direct inspiration for Longfellow’s poem in his translation of the poetry of Esaias Tegnér (1782-1846).

⁂ In case you are like me, and didn’t know, a batata is a sweet potato. It may also have been used as slang for Irish people, referring to being potato eaters. One can just imagine the two young men touting such a grand accomplishment by their father. (If anyone knows the precise meaning Lewis intended for the word, please let us know!)