The unbearable heaviness of
translating myself

Translators are mediums. They bring words to a familiar language to the reader from an unknown language that is, for the non-savior, a cemetery of words. They bring back to life images, sounds and emotions trapped within the confines of one language into another. 

I learned to read and write English and Spanish at the same time and I’ve developed a relationship with both languages. I write in Spanish because it is my mother tongue and it’s the language in which I’ve produced most of my work as a writer and a filmmaker. English is the second language I’ve worked in. 

Not long ago, I had a public reading of my work and I wanted to read the newest material, still in process, to test it, to hear me talking about it in public. So I picked some fragments of a book called Biografía oficial del niño que soy  (Official Biography of the Kid I Am), a working title so far. And I decided to translate it myself. 

I’d like to make a distinction about my craft when I write in Spanish (my mother tongue) and when I write in English. In Spanish, my narrative voice is fully permeated by the modes and constructions of the Argentinean Spanish, and it reflects obliquely my family lexicon, in words of Natalia Ginzburg. What I mean by this is that when I write in Spanish my mother tongue and its baroque spirals of saying come before the narration. The modes of the language impregnate every phrase, in a way that I can’s escape the tricks and the turns of phrase of Spanish. On the other hand, when I write in English, I worry about the right syntax and the right use of the language so my narration becomes more matter-of-factly. It feels like I’m two different storytellers in the different languages.

So where I am translating something I wrote in Spanish into English, I am somehow becoming the filter of those “family sayings” into a universally understandable concept. The intricacy of Spanish becomes and obstacle and it pushes me to clarify thoughts and put them in a clear order. 

While I was translating my work into English I moved many sections, I edited some excretions and reordered ideas. 

I want to use an example on little decisions I’ve made while translating. I think this simple line helps a lot. 

El espacio vacío entre dos párrafos es un abismo que han cruzado juntos.

The “literal” translation for this sentence would be: 

The empty space between two paragraphs is an abyss they’ve crossed together.

It’s the idea of crossing a bridge what came first. But as I was translating the idea of crossing and abyss in English became soft. I think you have to “jump over” an abyss, otherwise if you only try to cross you might fall. So the line became: 

The empty space between two paragraphs is an abyss they’ve jumped over together.

In that way, I felt the line had more movement, I could feel the younger self and the older self jumping over an abyss hand in hand. This phrasal verb became a very active image and more propelling than just crossing. 

Sometimes, when you translate, the second language enriches the idea. This is another example of that:

¿Qué sentido tiene recordar una vida tan insignificante como la suya? Ninguno. Por eso quería hacerlo. Por el completo sinsentido de hacerlo. 

The “literal” translation would be: 

What sense does it make to remember a life as insignificant as his? None. Thats why he wants to do it. For the total nonsense of doing it.  

But the idea of nonsense and no sense became a playful way to make the sentence more poetic and richer. 

What sense does it make to remember a life as insignificant as his? No sense. Thats why he wants to do it. For the total nonsense of doing it.  

When you are translating yourself and its not a published text as this was the case, the two texts are communicating vessels; if you pour some ideas on one side, it will affect the other. It could  became an eternal flow as you have to go back and forth. And that’s a big risk.