Or, Them Ole Translation Blues

No, you can’t start singing, “Oh, I got them ole translation blues…” First of all, because you don’t have time to sing, and secondly, there’s no such thing as “ole translation blues.” It’s not like love, or life, or being poor or getting old or one of those shared human experiences that we can all confess, at some point or another, to having felt blue about. No, translation blues are pretty rare and I defy you to find anything (else) about them on the internet. They’re not even ole by my standards, since this is actually the first time I’ve ever had them.

Maybe other people have had them but didn’t want to write about it. One of the symptoms of translator blues is that you’re so sick of words (yes, like Eliza Doolittle) that you can’t stand the thought of another keystroke. I’m only resisting because my cat is happily purring on top of my arm as I type, and I hate to disturb such a contented creature: I’m sure a warm cat purring on your arm while you type, even if it doesn’t help RSI, is good for translation blues.

So thanks to my cat I am able to venture into this unexplored, somewhat taboo territory that is a combination of burnout, wanting a vacation, wanting to sleep or read trashy novels or do anything that doesn’t have to do with unraveling words and trying to sound good while you’re at it. A number of things brought on this attack of the blues, besides just the usual job attrition of doing something repetitive for months and years on end. A few outside incidents that make you wonder if you’re not doing something utterly thankless and pointless, or whether you ought to take up your case with some human rights organization, after all.

Two things came in the mail this morning that drove home the nail. One was a FedEx parcel from New York with five copies of a recent translation I did. Never mind which one; I’ve done so many recently to try to fill the exchange rate gap between dollar and Swiss franc that I’ve forgotten which order they come in. Still, seeing the lovely cover of the book, with two smiling young people, I recalled that the last time I checked, a week or ten days ago, there had still not been a single review for this novel anywhere on line. Not even the usually unavoidable Kirkus or Publishers’ Weekly. Nothing. Not even one Amazon reader. And I worked so hard on that book; I’d been skeptical at first, not really sure where it was going, and then the more I worked on it, the more I liked it, saw where the author was trying to take me (as a reader); I overcame immense difficulties of language, a generation gap, minefields of slang and double entendre. I thought I’d done a good job, that the author/publisher/outside world would be pleased, and all there has been: silence. Resounding, thudding, clamorous silence. All that work for silence.

The other, sharper barb, also from New York (what is it with that place? Was it jealous because I just spent two days in Paris?) was in the form of a, yes, form letter (note to any nitpicking translators out there: deliberate repetition) from an organization that provides grants to translators and their publishers in order to promote more works in translation in the United States. I had written to them, submitting an exhaustive application dossier, including a (brand new, bought by me) copy of the book in question; I had taken the bus to France, to mail it from there, as the cost of mailing registered parcels is much cheaper in the Republic than in the Swiss Confederation, but still it set me back ten or fifteen euros, plus the bus fare. I was quite hopeful for this grant, as the book had already been excerpted in a journal, and in the meantime I had even found a publisher. But no. My pet project did not cut the mustard with the powers that be in New York City. I looked at the names of the judges and had a moment of politically incorrect seething about cosseted nitpicking academics and their snooty preferences for inaccessible, edgy, experimental, ethnic, male, onanistic Bolañesque or nihilistic Houellbecqian fiction. My sweet little project, a fictional biography of a poetess – get real, Alison. Or try wasabi next time, maybe it’s easier to cut.

And of course the ever-worrying threat of indigence. I have lived relatively successfully, financially, as a freelance literary translator for the last three years, but now for the first time my Swiss franc account is almost as low as my euro account. And we all know where the euro is headed. Euro as in Neurosis. During those two days I just spent in France I looked at every euro coin that left my palm as if it were an endangered species. Well, at least if they bring back the franc notes, we might get those lovely portraits of Saint-Exupéry and Delacroix again. Or Victor Hugo – remember the little blue and yellow Victor Hugo five-franc note? Sigh.

Still, I’m not too worried, I have a major project lined up that will be paid in Swiss francs. What was it the Monty Python said: the cold antiseptic sting of the Swiss franc? Nothing like it to get you over a case of translation blues.

Back to work.