Translation is a three-legged race

Translation is a three-legged race
The author and translator
attached at the hip
hopping awkwardly along
or competitively
attempting to move forward
jostling one another
running into other author–translator pairs
along the course
crumpling in an awkward heap at the finish line
Are they bound together with a rope?
Or is it more of a sack-race scenario?
In which case do they each put a leg in the
sack and hop along
or is the translator a sack-racer
and the sack is the original text
and the translator must hop the text along
the course
reach the finish line
again collapsing in an undignified heap
Did I win? she gasps, looking around
The other translators all lie panting on the grass
swathed in burlap
If you made it to the finish line
that means you finished the book
It was published
The problem with the three-legged race
metaphor
is that whilst the translator is always
tethered
to the author
The author is free to compete in all manner
of track and field events
on their own
They only need the translator
if they wish to be known outside their
language
Of course this creates greater dependence
on the monocrop translators
The translators and the authors compete in
three-legged races
among the rippling fields of wheat
They trample over the soybeans
get tangled in the stalks of corn
Perhaps translation into English is a three-
legged race through a corn maze
Whoever hops their way through the
labyrinth of cornstalks
will be published
But some of the translators may tire of the process
Shake off their attachments
Run for the exit, with which they are more
familiar with since this is their cornfield,
after all
The poor authors emerge hours later
exhausted, parched, disoriented
They find the translators yukking it up by
the cider press
eating corndogs
Oh, there you are, they say dismissively
We were wondering if you’d make it out
of that monocrop maze

Illustrations from the book by Daisy Rockwell.

Translation is like hosting a huge goddamn wedding

So, she says
I’m going to host a wedding, she says
Why? he asks
You have no children, he points out
You’re not even the legal guardian
of any potential bride and groom
Hush up, she says
I’m working on a metaphor, she explains
This is a metaphor for maximalism, you see
Okay, he says
I’m listening, he adds
So I’m going to host a wedding
It’s going to be the biggest goddamn
wedding you’ve ever seen
Language, he says
Stop riding me, she remonstrates
This is a work in progress, she explains
Okay, he says
You do you
I’m all ears
Go for it Lay it
on me,
he extemporizes
So the bride and the groom
Or the bride and the bride
Or the groom and the groom
Or whatever
Okay, he says
I’m still talking, she snaps
Sorry, he adds
It doesn’t really matter – the genders,
she explains
Because what matters is that they come
from hugely different backgrounds
Different cultures maybe
Different languages
Different castes
Different religions
But the wedding must be huge
Two hundred fifty people from each side
A buffet of massive proportions
Suitable for every taste and dietary restriction
Veg non-veg
Gluten-free nut allergies paleo vegan spicy bland
I get it, he intervenes
Everyone must be happy
Okay, he says
The buffet in this metaphor is the
translation, she explains
Okay, he says
The wedding guests are the readers, she submits
You can’t please everyone, he ventures
But I will try, she asserts
The huge goddamn wedding party represents
the maximalist approach to imagining audience
Good luck with that, he allows
For me, I prefer an intimate dinner party
after a visit to the courthouse
What is that a metaphor for, she asks
Minimalism, he explains
My audience can take it or leave it
Once my job is done

Excerpted with permission from Mixed Metaphors: The Art of Translation, Daisy Rockwell, Bloomsbury India.