Alex Zucker—
Translating Tomáš Zmeškal’s Love Letter in Cuneiform was a joy, to be honest, because of his sense of humor and the play and playfulness within the text itself. One example of this that also demonstrates how literary translation is not simply a reproduction in English of the original work, but, by necessity, a creative act in itself, comes in Chapter 11 of the novel, titled, in English, “Second Vision of Immortality.”
In this brief chapter, falling just slightly past the halfway mark of the book, an unnamed narrator recounts how the officials of an unnamed city form a committee to reconstruct and restore to full operation a device housed in a tower of the city hall whose purpose is unknown to them, despite that once upon a time it was “the pride of our ancestors.” The narrator explains:
Generations ago, people traveled from all across the continent to look at it. Bunches of tourists clustered in front of city hall with their oldfangled optical imaging apparatuses, capturing visual likenesses of the exterior of the device. In those days it wasn’t yet possible to capture sound and image simultaneously, and even on the few occasions when they succeeded, everything came out flat. There was no common way to produce a natural three-dimensional reproduction. Then people sat down and observed the image on a flat screen from a distance, with no way to step into it and take part in the action unfolding before them. Amazingly, they didn’t seem to find it boring. Vilém, a historian I came to know while working on the reconstruction of the device, explained that people in those days would look at the flat images in special books. Apparently, friends would get together, look through the books, and narrate them as they went along. Usually the pictures showed their family or friends and the places they had visited. A whole complicated etiquette developed around this custom, which today only a handful of specialists understand. After long and cautious deliberations it was finally decided the device would be repaired, in spite of the fact that its purpose remained unclear. Master architect Matthias Heinz and I were selected as cochairmen of the Committee for the Restoration of the Device to oversee its reconstruction and, eventually, full restoration.
It isn’t necessary to know in order to enjoy the story, but readers who’ve been to Prague will immediately recognize this device as the astronomical clock on Old Town Square, one of the city’s most popular sights. The narrator, however, is telling his tale from the vantage point of a hundred and fifty years or so in the future. Without giving away the plot—since the chapter is a mini-story unto itself—part of it turns on Zmeškal’s play on the words orloj, which is the Czech name for the timepiece (from the Greek hōrologion, like the English word “horologe”), and orel, which means “eagle” in Czech (from the Old Church Slavonic орьлъ), as well as a neologism, orlostroj, formed by blending the words orel (“eagle”) and stroj (“machine” or “device”).
The Committee for the Restoration of the Device proceeds to gather all the documentation it can find, in an attempt to ascertain the purpose of the device. Their analysis, however, leads them to contradictory conclusions, so finally they decide they need to inspect the device on site. As the group prepares to enter the tower, Zmeškal writes, in Czech (note that orlí is the adjectival form of orel):
Pod schody do věže stála na kamenném podstavci socha. Byla to postava muže s orlí hlavou a perutěmi. Ruce měl rozpažené, jako by se nás chystal obejmout. Oči měl zakryté páskou. Jak předvídavé, pomyslil jsem si, jak daleko a přesně viděli lidé před tolika staletími, kdy ještě ani neměli ponětí o současných možnostech genetického výtvarného umění.
Pozdější průzkum této sochy historičkou Eleonorou odhalil částečně její smysl, jediná Eleonora si totiž povšimla, že když jsme z věže odcházeli, měla socha své paže s perutěmi v poněkud jiné poloze, než když jsme do věže vcházeli, a posléze na to upozornila i nás méně pozorné. To se opakovalo i další dny. Někdy měla socha rty roztaženy v úsměvu, někdy byl její výraz zklamání, jindy si rty kousala a perutě měla ovinuty kolem sebe. Poněvadž ani podrobný výzkum neodhalil v soše žádný skrytý mechanismus, byl to kompaktní bronzový odlitek, přijali jsme změny tvarů a výraz sochy za jedno z mnoha dalších tajemství stroje a všeho, co k němu příslušelo. Eleonora našla v archivech zmínku, že se kdysi věži radnice říkalo Orlí věž. Jedno z nejstarších pojmenování stroje, které se zachovalo, zní orlí stroj. Badatelé se přou o původ tohoto názvu. Snad nejprůkaznější se zdá být výklad, že v šeru dávnověku byla na tomto místě část opevnění, snad citadela zvaná Orlí hnízdo, a z toho se pak vyvinul název Orlí věž. Etymologie, věda či umění o původu názvů v tomto případě tápe. V přepisu se to v minulosti psalo jako orlostroj, je tedy zřejmé, že se tím myslel orlí stroj. Nyní jsme již chápali, proč je tato socha člověka-orla důležitá, byl to symbol původní Orlí věže a orlího stroje. Naši předci ho vytvořili jako symbolického strážce. Při dalším výzkumu nám Eleonora řekla, že se v této souvislosti několikrát objevilo jméno, které je možná i starší nežli orlostroj, a to orloj. Nikomu z nás to nic neříkalo. Historické záznamy nám nikterak nepomohly. Slovo orloj je dnes neznámé a snad znamená orlí stroj. Možná že někde došlo k chybnému výkladu slov, kdoví. V každém případě jsme se rozhodli slovo orloj nepoužívat, protože nelze spolehlivě říci, k jaké věci vlastně patřilo nebo jakou věc popisovalo. Zrovna tak nám není známo, co by vlastně věc zvaná orloj měla dělat. Podle všeho došlo velmi pravděpodobně k chybě při opisování z jedné listiny do druhé, a proto onen nezvyklý a patrně chybný název – orloj.
Here is the first draft of my translation from spring 2014, with the relevant words highlighted:
A statue stood on a stone pedestal under the stairs that led up to the tower. It was the figure of a man with an eagle’s head and wings. His arms were outstretched as though he were about to embrace us. His eyes were covered with tape. How prescient, I thought. People centuries ago had no conception of the current potential of genetic art, yet how accurate and far-reaching their vision was.
Subsequent research on the statue by the historian Eleonora at least partially revealed its meaning. She was the only one to notice that as we were leaving the tower the statue’s arms and wings were in a different position than when we entered, and she brought it to the attention of those of us who were less attentive. It happened again other days as well. Sometimes the statue’s lips were stretched into a smile, other times it wore an expression of disappointment, while yet others it bit its lips, wings wrapped around its body. As a thorough examination revealed the statue to be a solid bronze cast, with no mechanism hidden within it, we took the statue’s changes of position and expression to be one of the many mysteries of the machine and everything pertaining to it. Eleonora found a mention in the archives of the fact that the city hall tower had once been known as the Eagle’s Tower. One of the earliest names of the machine she discovered was the eagle machine. Researchers disagree on the origin of the name. Perhaps the most convincing theory is that at the dusk of antiquity there was a fortress on this site, a citadel called the Eagle’s Nest, and the name Eagle’s Tower is a remnant of that. In this instance etymology, the science or art of words’ origins, gropes for an explanation. In the past it was written as eaglemachine — in other words, evidently, eagle’s machine. Now at last we understood why the statue of the man-eagle was so important: It was a symbol of the original Eagle’s Tower and eagle’s machine. Our ancestors had placed it there as a symbolic guardian. After further research Eleonora told us there was another name that appeared several times in the same context that was perhaps even older than eaglemachine, which was orloj. It meant nothing to any of us. The historical records were of no avail. The word orloj is unknown today, though perhaps it means eaglemachine. Maybe there was a misinterpretation somewhere along the way, who knows. In any case we decided not to use the word, as we couldn’t safely say what it actually related to or which thing it described. Just as we don’t know what in fact the thing called an orloj was supposed to have done. From all indications there was most likely an error in copying the word from one document to another, which led to the unusual and plainly mistaken name orloj.
In summer 2014, having agreed to do a public reading from my translation in progress and having chosen this chapter to read from because of its humor, I worked up a second draft of this section, which read as follows:
A statue stood on a stone pedestal under the stairs that led up to the tower. It was figure of a man with a cock’s head and wings. His arms were outstretched as though about to embrace us. His eyes were covered with tape. How prescient, I thought. People centuries ago had no conception of the current potential of genetic art, yet how accurate and far-reaching their vision was.
Subsequent research on the statue by the historian Eleonora at least partially revealed its meaning. She was the only one to notice that as we were leaving the tower the statue’s arms and wings were in a different position than when we entered, and she brought it to the attention of those of us who were less attentive. It happened again other days as well. Sometimes the statue’s lips were stretched into a smile, other times it wore an expression of disappointment, and at others it was biting its lip with its wings wrapped around its body. As a thorough examination revealed the statue to be a solid bronze cast, with no mechanism hidden inside it, we took the statue’s changes of position and expression to be one of the many mysteries of the device and everything pertaining to it. Eleonora found a mention in the archives of the fact that the tower had once been known as the Cock’s Tower, while one of the earliest names of the device was the cock’s device. Researchers disagreed on the origin of the name. Perhaps the most convincing theory was that at the dusk of antiquity there was a fortress on this site, a citadel called the Cock’s Nest, and the name Cock’s Tower had evolved from that. In this instance etymology, the science or art of words’ origins, gropes for an explanation. In the past it was written as cockdevice — in other words, obviously, cock’s device. Now at last we understood why the statue of the man-cock was so important: It was a symbol of the original Cock’s Tower and cock’s device. Our ancestors had placed it there as a symbolic guardian. After further research Eleonora told us there was another name that appeared several times in the same context that was perhaps even older than cockdevice, which was clock. It meant nothing to any of us. The historical records were of no avail. The word clock is unknown today, though perhaps it means cockdevice. Maybe there was a misinterpretation somewhere along the way, who knows. In any case we decided not to use the word, as we couldn’t safely say what it related to or which thing it described. Just as we don’t know what in fact the thing called a clock was supposed to have done. From all indications there was most likely an error in copying the word from one document, which led to the unusual and plainly mistaken word clock.
I wrote to Zmeškal:
I’d like you to look at my attempt to find a solution to your clever reimagining of the astronomical clock. To be honest, my first thought was to suggest we just drop the chapter from the translation, but I thought about it, played with some different ideas for about an hour, and finally came up with what I’m sending to you. I’m not sure whether it really works or not. I’ll show it to someone who doesn’t know Czech and see what they think, but I thought you might also have some ideas, based on other translations of your book.
I think it holds up pretty well except for the cock’s device/cockdevice. It just doesn’t mean anything, or won’t mean anything, to most readers, I’m afraid. Otherwise I like the clocktower/cock’s tower play. There really are places around the world known as Cock’s Tower, so that’s all right. And of course the cock/clock idea is fun. But I don’t know . . . of course the word clock is part of our everyday language, while orloj is not part of everyday Czech.
Well, we’ll see.
Just twenty minutes after writing that email, another, even better solution suddenly sprang to mind, which I sent to Zmeškal straightaway:
Eleonora found a mention in the archives of the fact that the tower had once been known as the Cock’s Tower, while one of the earliest names of the device was the cock’s works. Researchers disagreed on the name’s origin, but perhaps the most convincing theory was that at the dusk of antiquity there was a fortress on this site, a citadel called the Cock’s Nest, and the name Cock’s Tower had evolved from that. In this instance etymology, the science or art of words’ origins, gropes for an explanation. In the past it was written cockworks — in other words, obviously, cock’s works. Now at least we understood the importance of the man-cock statue: It was a symbol of the original Cock’s Tower and cock’s works. Our ancestors had placed it there as a symbolic guardian. After further research Eleonora told us there was another name that appeared several times in the same context that was perhaps even older than cockworks, which was clock. It meant nothing to any of us. The historical records were of no avail. The word clock is unknown today. Maybe there was a misinterpretation somewhere along the way, who knows. In any case we decided not to use the word, as we couldn’t safely say what it related to or which thing it described. Just as we don’t know what in fact the thing called a clock was supposed to have done. From all indications there was most likely an error in copying the word from one document to another, which led to the unusual and plainly mistaken name clock.
The next day, Zmeškal wrote back:
Jo, clockwork je lepší. Jinak je přirozené, že čtenáři to nebudou znát. Když jsem byl v Bernu ve Švýcarsku, zjistil jsem že tam mají podivuhodný orloj a nikdy předtím jsem o něm neslyšel a to je vlastně za rohem. Ta etymologie, z který si střílím je problém i v češtině protože to je z horologie/horology. Ovšem uvádí se tam také téma proklaté nesmrtelnosti a proto je důležité aby tam ta kapitola zůstala. Kdyby bylo více času tak by samozřejmě bylo lepší tam uvést něco z Amerického kontextu. Kdyby to bylo v Anglii tak třeba narážku na Big Ben, ale americký kontext neznám, a aluze k americkému kontextu by asi stejně nebyly přirozené. Alespoň bude mít čtenář o čem přemýšlet.
Yeah, clockwork is better. Anyway, it’s natural that readers won’t recognize it. When I was in Bern, Switzerland, I found out they had a remarkable astronomical clock, which I’d never heard of before and it was just around the corner. The etymology I’m playing on is a problem in Czech too, since it comes from horologie/horology. Of course, there’s also the theme of accursed immortality, so it’s important to keep the chapter in there. If there were more time [before the reading I was going to do], of course it would be better to use something from the American context. If you were in England, maybe a reference to Big Ben, but I’m not familiar with the American context, and anyway an allusion to an American context wouldn’t be natural. At least it will give the reader something to think about.
I still wasn’t entirely satisfied with my translation, so I ended up making a few more changes before the reading, including changing my description of the statue to make it a man with a rooster’s head, rather than a cock’s. Having made the change of bird from “eagle” to “cock,” I decided also to take advantage of the fact that English offers both “cock” and “rooster” as words for male chicken, rather than conform word by word to the original, and besides, I liked the sound and imagery of it better. Finally, after one more draft plus editing, in the version published by Yale University Press in March 2016, the section reads as follows:
Under the stairs that led up to the tower was a statue on a stone pedestal, a figure of a man with a rooster’s head and wings. His arms were outstretched; as if about to embrace us. His eyes were covered with tape. How prescient, I thought. People centuries ago had no conception of the possibilities of present-day genetic art, yet how accurate and far-reaching their vision was.
Subsequent research on the statue by the historian Eleanor at least partially revealed its meaning. She was the only one to notice that as we were leaving the tower the statue’s arms and wings were in a different position than when we had entered, and she brought it to our attention. The same thing happened on the other days we visited. Sometimes the statue’s lips were stretched into a smile, other times it wore an expression of disappointment, and at still others it was biting its lip with its wings wrapped around its body. As a thorough examination revealed the statue to be a solid bronze cast with no mechanism concealed within it, we took the statue’s changes of position and expression to be one of the many mysteries of the device and everything related to it. Eleanor discovered in the archives a reference to the fact that the tower had once been known as the Cock’s Tower and one of the earliest names for the device was the cock’s works. Researchers disagreed on the name’s origin, but the most convincing theory was that in the twilight of antiquity there had been a fortress on this site, a citadel called the Cock’s Nest, and the name Cock’s Tower had evolved from that. In this instance etymology, the science or art of words’ origins, gropes for an explanation. In the past it was written cockworks—in other words, obviously, cock’s works. Now at least we understood the importance of the man-cock statue: It was a symbol of the original Cock’s Tower and cock’s works, which our ancestors had placed there as a symbolic guardian. After further research Eleanor told us there was yet another name appearing several times in the same context that was perhaps even older than cockworks, which was clock. It meant nothing to any of us. The historical records were of no avail. The word clock is unknown today. Maybe there was a misinterpretation somewhere along the way, who knows? In any case, we decided not to use the word, as we couldn’t safely say what it related to or what it was meant to describe. Just as we don’t know what in fact the thing called a clock was supposed to have done. From all indications there was most likely an error in copying the word from one document to another, which led to the unusual and plainly mistaken name clock.
Most of the authors I translate don’t speak English fluently enough to have an opinion on my translations, but in this case Zmeškal emailed back that he was “overjoyed” to see my solution to this challenge, which I admit was extremely gratifying. If I have the chance to translate another of his books, I’m sure that readers and I alike will have more of the same to look forward to.
Alex Zucker is an award-winning translator of Czech including Love Letter in Cuneiform.
Further Reading:
Burning With Passion: Selected Poems from Catullus