The Task of the Translator - Benjamin

+ 1he Task of the Translator An 1ntroduction to the :1 ranslation of Baudelaire's TABLEAUX PARISI'ENS In the appreciation of a work of art or an art form, consid~ eration of the receiver never proves fruitful. Not only is any reference to a certain public or its representatives misleading, but even the concept of an "ideal" receiver is detrimental in the theoretical consideration of art, since all it posits is the existence and nature of man as such. Art, in the same way, posits man's physical and spiritual existence, but in none of its works is it concerned with his response. No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener. Is a translation meant for readers who do not understand the original? This would seem to explain adequately the divergence of their standing in the realm of art. Moreover, it seems to be the only conceivable reason for saying "the same thing" repeatedly. For what does a literary work "say"? What does it communi- cate? It "tells" very little to those who understand it. Its essential quality is not statement or the imparting of information. Yet any translation which intends to perform a transmitting function cannot transmit anything but information-hence, something in- essential. This is the hallmark of bad translations. But do we not llJumi'fllltions generally regard as the essential substance of a literary work what it contains in addition to information-as even a poor trans- lator will admit-the unfathomable, the mysterious, the "poetic," something that a translator can reproduce only if he is also a poet? This, actually, is the cause of another characteristic of in- ferior translation, which consequently we may define as the in- accurate transmission of an inessential content. This will be true whenever a translation undertakes to serve the reader. However, if it were intended for the reader, the same would have to apply to the original. If the original does not exist for the reader's sake, how could the translation be understood on the basis of this premise? Translation is a mode. To comprehend it as mode one must go back to the original, for that contains the law governing the translation: its translatability. The question of whether a work is translatable has a dual meaning. Either: Will an adequate trans- lator ever be found among the totality of its readers? Or, more pel"tinently: Does irs nature lend itself to translation and, there- fore, in view of the significance of the mode, call for it? In principle, the first question can be decided only contingently; the second, however, apodictically. Only superficial thinking will deny the independent meaning of the latter and declare both questions to be of equal significance .... It should be pointed out that certain correlative concepts retain their meaning, and pos- sibly their foremost significance, if they are referred exclusively to man. One might, for example, speak of an unforgettable life or moment even if all men had forgotten it. If the nature of such a life or moment required that it be unforgotten, that predicate would not imply a falsehood but merely a claim not fulfilled by men, and probably also a reference to a realm in which it is ful- filled: God's remembrance. Analogously, the translatability of linguistic creations ought to be considered even if men should prove unable to translate them. Given a strict concept of transla- tion, would they not really be translatable to some degree? The question as to whether the translatio:rt of certain linguistic crea- tions is called for ought to be posed in this sense. For this thought 7° The Task of the Trmslauw is valid here: If translation is a mode, translatability must be an essential feature of certain works. Translatability is an essential quality of certain works, which is not to say that it is essential that they be translated; it means rather that a specific significance inherent in the original mani- fests itself in its translatability. It is plausible that no translation, however good it may be, can have any significance as regards the original., Yet, by virtue of its translatability the original is closely connected with the translation; in fact, this connection is all the closer since it is no longer of importance to the original. We may call this connection a natural one, or, more specifically, a vital connection. Just as the manifestations of life are intimately con- nected with the phenomenon of life without being of importance to it, a translation issues from the original-not so much from its life as from its afterlife. For a translation comes later than the original, and since the important works of world literature never find their chosen translators at the time of their origin, their translation marks theif stage of continued life. The idea of life and afterlife in works of art should be regarded with an entirely unmetaphorical objectivity. Even in times of narrowly preju- diced thought there was an inkling that life was not limited to organic corporeality. But it cannot be a matter of extending its dominion under the feeble scepter of the soul. as Fechner tried to do, or, conversely, of basing its definition on the even less con- clusive factors of animality, such as sensation, which characterize life only occasionally. The concept of life is given its due only if everything that has a history of its own, and is not merely the setting for history, is credited with life. In the final analysis, the range of life must be determined by history rather than by na- ture, least of all by such tenuous factors as sensation and soul. The philosopher's task consists in comprehending all of natural life through the more encompassing life of' history. And indeed, is not the continued life of works of art far easier to recognize than the continual life of animal species? The history of the great works of art tells us about their antecedents, their realization in the age of the artist, their potentially eternal afterlife in succeed- ing generations. Where this last manifests itself, it is called fame. IllumirJlltions Translations that are more than transmissions of subject matter come into being when in the course of its survival a work has reached the age of its fame. Contrary, therefore, to the claims of bad translators, such translations do not so much serve the work as owe their existence to it. The life of the originals attains in them to its ever-renewed latest and most abundant flowering. Being a special and high form of life, this flowering is gov- erned by a special, high purposiveness. The relationship between life and purposefulness, seemingly obyious yet almost beyond the grasp of the intellect, reveals itself only if the ultimate pur- pose toward which all single functions tend is sought not in its own sphere but in a higher one. All purposeful manifestations of life, inc1uding their very purposiveness, in the final analysis have their end not in life, but in the expression of its nature, in the representation of its significance. Translation thus ultimately serves the purpose of expressing the central reciprocal relation- ship between languages. It cannot possibly reveal or establish this hidden relationship itself; but it can represent it by realizing it in embryonic or intensive form. This representation of hidden significance through an embryonic attempt at making it visible is of so singular a nature that it is rarely met with in the sphere of non linguistic life. This, in its analogies and symbols, can draw on other ways of suggesting meaning than intensive-that is, an- ticipative, intimating-realization. As for the posited central kin- ship of languages, it is marked by a distinctive convergence. Lan- guages are not strangers to one another, but are, a priori and apart from all historical relationships, interrelated in what they want to express. With this attempt at an explication our study appears to re- join, after futile detours, the traditional theory of trans1ation. If the kinship of languages is to be demonstrated by translations, how else can this be done but by conveying the form and mean- ing of the original as accurately as possible? To be sure, that theory would be hard put to define the nature of this accuracy and therefore could shed no light on what is important in a trans- lation. Actually, however, the kinship of languages is brought out by a translation far more profoundly and clearly than in the The Task of the Translator superficial and indefinable similarity of two works of literature. To grasp the genuine relationship between an original and a translation requires an investigation analogous to the argumenta- tion by which a critique of cognition would have to prove the impossibility of an image theory. There it is a matter of showing that in cognition there could be no objectivity, not even a claim to it, if it dealt with images of reality; here it can be demon- strated that no translation would be possible if in its ultimate es- sence it strove for likeness to the original. For in its afterlife- which could not be called that if it were not a transformation and a renewal of something living-the original undergoes a change. Even words with fixed meaning can undergo a maturing process. The obvious tendency of a writer's literary style may in time wither away, only to give rise to immanent tendencies in the lit- erary creation. What sounded fresh once may sound hackneyed later; what was once current may someday sound quaint. To seek the essence of such changes, as well as the equally constant changes in meaning, in the subjectivity of posterity rather than in the very life of language and its works, would mean-even al- lowing for the crudest psychologism-to confuse the root cause of a thing with its essence. More pertinently, it would mean denying, by an impotence of thought, one of the most powerful and fruitful historical processes. And even if one tried to turn an author's last stroke of the pen into the cc;up de grace of his work, this still would not save that dead theory of translation. For just as the tenor and the significance of the great works of literature undergo a complete transformation over the centuries, the mother tongue of the translator is transformed as well. While a poees words endure in his own language, even the greatest translation is destined to become part of the growth of its own language and eventually to be absorbed by its renewal. Translation is so far removed from being the sterile equation of two dead languages that of all literary forms it is the one charged with the special mission of watching over the maturing process of the original language and the birth pangs of its own. If the kinship of languages manifests itself in translations, this is not accomplished through a vague alikeness between adaptation 73 Illuminations and original. It stands to reason that kinship does not necessarily involve likeness. The concept of kinship as used here is in accord with its more restricted common usage: in both cases, it cannot be defined adequately by identity of origin, although in defining the more restricted usage the concept of origin remains indis- pensable. Wherein resides the relatedness of two languages, apart from historical considerations? Certainly not in the similarity be- tween works of literature or words. Rather, all suprahistorical kinship of languages rests in the intention underlying each lan- guage as a whole-an intention, however, which no single lan- guage can attain by itself but which is realized only by the totality of their intentions supplementing each other: pure lan- guage. While all individual elements of foreign languages-words, sentences, structure-are mutually exclusive, these languages sup- plement one another in their intentions. Without distinguishing the intended object from the mode of intention, no firm grasp of this basic law of a philosophy of language can be achieved. The words Brot and pain "intend" the same object, but the modes of this intention are not the same. It is owing to these modes that the word Brot means something different to a German than the word pain to a Frenchman, that these words ate not interchange- able for them, that, in fact, they strive to exclude each other. As to the intended object, however, the two words mean the ve~y same thing. While the modes of intention in these two words are in conflict, intention and object of intention complement each of the two languages from which they are derived; there the object is complementary to the intention. In the individual, unsupple ... rnented languages, meaning is never found in relative indepen- dence, as in individual words or sentences; rather, it is in a con- stant state of flux-until it is able to emerge as pure language from the harmony of 'all the various modes of intention. Until then, it temains hidden in the languages. If, however t these lan- guages continue to grow in this manner until the end of their time, it is translation which catches fire on the eternal life of the works and the perpetual renewal of language. Translation keeps putting the hallowed growth of languages to the test: How far 74 The Tark of the T'ftmrlatt» removed is their hidden meaning from revelation, how close can it be brought by the knowledge of this remoteness? This, to be sure, is to admit 'that all translation is only a some- what provisional way of coming to terms with the foreignness of languages. An instant and final rather than a temporary and pro- visional solution of this foreignness remains out of the reach of mankind; at any rate, it eludes any direct attempt. Indirectly, however, the growth of religions ripens the hidden seed into a higher development of language. Although translation, unlike art, cannot claim permanence for its products, its goal is un- deniably a final, conclusive, decisive stage of aU linguistic crea- tion. In translation the original rises into a higher and purer lin- guistic air, as it were. It cannot live there permanently, to be sure, and it certainly does not reach it in its entirety . Yet, in a singularly impressive manner, at least it points the way to this region: the predestined, hitherto inaccessible realm of reconcilia- tion and fulfillment 'of languages. The transfer can never be total, but what reaches this region is that element in a translation which goes beyond transmittal of subject matter. This nucleus is best defined as the element that does not lend itself to translation. Even when all the surface content has been extracted and. trans- mitted, the primary concern of the genuine translator remains elusive. Unlike the words of the original, it is not translatable, be- cause the relationship between content and language is quite dif- ferent in the original and the translation. While content and language form a certain unity in the original, like a fruit and its skin, the language of the translation envelops its content like a royal robe with ample folds. For it signifies a more exalted lan- guage than its own and thus remains unsuited to its content, over- powering and alien. This disjunction prevents translation and at the same time makes it superfluous. For any translation of a work originating in a specific stage of linguistic history represents, in regard to a specific aspect of its content, translation into all other languages. Thus translation, ironically, transplants the original into a more definitive linguistic realm since it can no longer be displaced by a secondary rendering. The original can only be raised there anew and at other points of time. It is no mere coin- 75 Illuminations cidence that the word "ironic" here brings the Romanticists to mind. They, mo~e than any others, were gifted with an insight into the life of literary works which has its highest testimony in translation.' To be sure, they hardly recognized translation in this sense, but devoted their entire attention to criticism, another, if a lesser, factor in the continued life of literary works. But even though the Romanticists virtual1y ignored translation in their theoretical writings, their own great translations testify to their sense of the essential nature and the dignity of this literary mode. There is abundant evidence that this sense is not necessarily most pronounced in a poet; in fact, he may be least open to it. Not even literary history suggests the traditional notion that great poets have been eminent translators and lesser poets have been in- different translators. A number of the most eminent ones, such as Luther, Voss, and Schlegel, are incomparably more important as translators than as creative writers; some of the great among them, such as Holderlin and Stefan George, cannot be simply subsumed as poets, and quite particularly not if we consider them as translators. As translation is a mode of its own, the task of the translator, too, may be regarded as distinct and dearly differ- entiated {rom the task of the poet. The task of the translator consists in finding that intended effect [Intention] upon the language into which he is translating which produces in it the echo of the original. This is a feature of translation which basically differentiates it from the poet's work, because the effort of the latter is never directed at the language as such, at its totality, but solely and immediately at specific linguistic contextual aspects. Unlike a work of literature, translation does not find itself in the center of the language forest but on the outside facing the wooded ridge; it calls into it with- out entering, aiming at that single spot where the echo is able to give, in its own language, the reverberation of the work in the alien one. Not only does the aim of translation differ from that of a literary work-it intends language as a whole, taking an individual work in an alien language as a point of departure- but it is a different effort altogether. The intention of the poet is spontaneous, primary, graphic; that of the translator is derivative, The Tark of the Trll12rllltor ultimate, ideational. For the great motif of integrating many tongues into one true language is at work. This language is one in which the independent sentences, works of literature, critical judgments, will 'never communicate-for they remain dependent on translation; but in it the languages themselves, supplemented and reconciled in their mode of signification, harmonize. If there is such a thing as a language of truth, the tensionless and even silent depository of the ultimate truth which all thought strives for, then this language of truth is-the true language. And this very language, whose divination and description is the only per- fection a philosopher can hope for, is concealed in concentrated fashion in translations. There is no muse of philosophy, nor is there one of translation. But despite the claims of sentimental artists, these two are not banausic. For there is a philosophical genius that is characterized by a yearning for that language which manifests itself in translations. "Les langues imparfaites en cela que plusieurs, manque la supreme: penser etant ecrire sans aceessoires, ni chuchotement,mais tacite encore l'immortelle pa- role, let diversite, sur terre, des idiomes empeche personne de proferer les mots qui, sinon se trouveraient, par une frappe unique, elle-meme materiellemerit la verite." • If what Mallarme evokes here is fully fathomable to a philosopher, translation, with its rudiments of such a language, is midway between poetry and doctrine. Its products are less sharply defined, but it leaves no less of a mark on history. If the task of the tr