Several sociologists explored this innovative field, commonly known as Sex and Language since it is known that in constructing gender identity, language has a defining role. Thus, it becomes important to recognize the different approach that a writer and the translator has in relation to gender difference since it can create problems in the translation of the text.
In Italian there is no gender neutral and all words have a spe- cific gender attribution; in English this distinction does not exist; and there are no few words that point to the gender of nouns, pronouns, adjectives, and articles. In another instance, Weaver managed with difficulties the challenge posed by the feminine gender in the story of Marcovaldo. For example, to translate the word for female rabbit coniglia he chooses to eliminate the word and only use the generic terms of male e female. This can also be seen in the collection of short stories entitled Gli idilli difficili, where un impiegato and una impiegata clerk become a man and a woman in the translation.
Features of the Technical Translation To understand the process of translation, it is important to showcase a few examples that indicate the challenges faced by translators, but also to disclose the ones tackled by William Weaver. Among the selected ones, there is the issue of the morphosyntactic Guarnieri. In the following paragraph taken from On the Carpet, we notice how the Italian syntax follows a predictable pattern: a subject, a verb and object.
However, the order can change if one wishes to emphasize a certain word or element. In fact, the whole first page of the short story written by Calvino creates an atmosphere of delayed sensuality, one that recalls the movements of classical ballet. We find the same verb at the end of the story, but this time Weaver, translates it with twirling, a verb that in English has differ- ent meanings such as twisting, curling, bending, winding. In English, Weaver was able to recreate the same effect with the use of the following words: losing, pleasant, sensations, distinct, others, confusing, comes, blades, grass, perse- vere, purpose, perhaps, edges, times, silence, served, as, conjectures, series, stages, lesson, tiniest, sheaf, diffused, impressions.
All of these words appear in the English text according to a clear strategy on the part of the translator to convey the sensuality and eroticism chosen by Calvino for this story. Weaver shows his mastership in being able Guarnieri. This is, in part, due to the verbal richness of the English language. Another relevant aspect to underline in the translation of the vocabulary is the so-called lexical equivalence according to Bruno Osimo 83 ; something very important to preserve in order to achieve textual accuracy.
In this story, there are words that are translated in a rather generic way, something that goes under the name of under- translation. For example, the word scrutare, which in Italian means to look at intently is translated with to examine. To translate it with the verb scrutinize would have seemed more appropriate since to inves- tigate as a synonym is closer to the original meaning. We also have an example of an over-translation with turbare translated with upset which indicates a type of disruption that conveys sadness.
In Italian, the verb instead offers more interpretative solutions: it does not only imply sadness but it can be a synonym of confusion, trouble, disorder, agitation and anxiety. One can be worried but not necessarily sad. Obviously an error that Weaver does not commit is to confuse the so called false-friends; words that formally appear similar to Ital- ian, but instead mean something different.
Another word is biblioteca, which is translated with library, since libreria in Italian is the bookstore. Pavimento should not be translated with pavement but with floor since pavement means sidewalk and concrete. Furthermore, the word gentile could be translated with genteel, but kind is its correct equivalent.
The American translator instead chooses its Latin equivalent which creates an awkward outcome — an erudite word which generates a different atmosphere. What is needed in a good translation is not just the equiva- lence, but finding words can be associated with a word in a particular context. Both times when Guarnieri. The first one refers to hard labor unskilled , always remunerated, while the second term usually refers more to a profession, an activity where personal ability is at stake.
The phrase tavolo da lavoro is translated with you are at your desk, omitting completely the verb linked to work. The word lavoro can be found in Palomar and Marcovaldo. In the first one, the expression per un lavoro delicato is translated with a delicate job; while in the Marcovaldo this word is often translated with work. In many dictionaries the word is translated with flower-bed.
A close reading of the story in Marcovaldo, we notice how the translation differs, given the fact that aiuola usually refers to a piece of land in which one can grow flowers, vegetables, or seeds. It appears an exaggeration to choose bed of dirt, while path seems a clear example of an under-translation. These numerous translation examples are presented to dem- onstrate in concrete terms what it means to be a skillful translator. Nonetheless this also shows how Weaver used his creativity and artistic talent for his translations.
Weaver demonstrates that his practice is a combination of creativity, training and inspiration. A translation cannot be considered only like a second-hand copy of the original, born out of a mechanical process, but instead it should be considered as a creative act and as a work of re-interpretation. From dialect, ways of sayings which in Italian are plenty, every novel has had its own main dif- ficulties. Palomar, The Cosmicomics, and in The Castle, it was the syntactical aspect. Every word is intentional and calibrated. The translator has to grasp his whole essence in order to return it to the public in its full integrity.
Many translators of Calvino chose to make the integrity and essence of his poetics a priority respecting both form and content. Colquhoun Boston: Beacon Press, Of the Fiabe italiane we have three different translations, the one by Louis Brigante Italian Fables. The book, Ultimo viene il corvo was translated by Archibald Colquhoun and Peggy Wright, with the title, One afternoon and other stories London: Collins, The story, La speculazione edilizia, was translated with the title, Plunge into real estate by S.
Carne-Ross in by Pocket Books. New York: Vintage International, , and the collection of essays, Prima che tu dica pronto Numbers in the dark and other stories. London: Jonathan Cape, NY: HBJ, Invece temo non sia altro che un bol en plastique, una scodella come esempio di prodotto in serie. Ho ripiegato su un gioco dassonanze salvando solo il ritmo del verso. Ho capito bene il pistone e il cilindro? Penso che sarai in vacanza e non so quando vedrai questa lettera.
Ti ringrazio per tutto quello che potrai dirmi e ti auguro un buon agosto, tuo Italo Calvino. He then collaborated with Quadri and Solmi in translating Queneau. Works Cited Anselmi, G. M, Fenocchio, G. Tempi e immagini della letteratura, vol. Bruno Mondadori. Milano, Bondi, M.
Fortunati V. La cultura italiana e le letterature straniere Guarnieri. Third Volume. Ravenna: Longo editore, Bowker, L. Computer-Aided Translation Technology. A Practical Introduction. University of Ottawa Press, Ottawa. Calvino, I. Barenghi, M. Milano: Mondadori, I Meridiani, Print Calvino. Milano: Mondadori, II. Torino: Einaudi, New York: Harcourt Brace, Una pietra sopra. The Uses of Literature. Patrick Creagh. Harcourt Brace, Marcovaldo, or The Seasons in the City. Derrida, J. Derek Attridge. London: Routledge, Eco, U. Dire quasi la stessa cosa.
Milano: Bompiani, Even-Zohar, I.
Federici, F. Amsterdam: Rodopi: Frasson-Marin, A. Geneva-Paris: Editions Slatkine: Glissant, E. Poetica del diverso. Roma: Meltemi. Guarnieri, G. Summer- Fall Holmes, J. Papers on Literary Translation and Translation Studies. Amsterdam: Rodopi, Monaco, R. Newmark, P. A Textbook of Translation. NY: Prentice Hall, Nida, E. The Theory and Practice of Translation. Leiden: Brill, Osimo, B. Manuale del traduttore. Milano: Hoepli, May 15, Thorne B.
Rowley, Mass: Newbury House, Tymoczko, M. Translation and Power.
Da Wikipedia, l'enciclopedia libera.
Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, Weaver, W. Biguenet, J, Schulte, R. Chicago: Chicago University Press, Paola Masino wrote prolifically during the Fascist dictatorship and was a prominent figure in the Italian cultural and intellectual environment of her time. Her first novel Monte Ignoso was awarded the Viareggio Literary Prize and her short stories were published in the most prestigious Italian literary magazines of the time. Her official narrative production includes three nov- els, Monte Ignoso Bompiani, , Periferia Bompiani, and Nascita e morte della massaia Bompiani, , three collections of short stories Decadenza della morte Casa editrice Alberto Stock, , Racconto grosso e altri Bompiani, and Colloquio di notte published posthumously by La Luna in , as well as a book of poetry, Poesie Bompiani, Un agnellino venne a leccargli il volto; lui mosse appena il capo.
Allora venne ad annusarlo il cane Argo. Argo sembrava inquieto e non contento del sonno del pastore. Tutte le pecore ora gli si venivano raggruppando intorno e gli ag- nelli cercavano ognuno la propria madre. Laio mosse di nuovo il capo come se stesse per svegliarsi. Sulla strada maestra, lontanissima alle loro spalle, passavano carri trainati da bovi. Lo sciacquio cresceva di minuto in minuto, per la foce si spandeva nel flume che tutto ne risonava palpitando. Le vene minime della corrente, i piccoli gorghi a riva sotto i cespugli di crescione, le cascatelle tra i ciottoli, furono cancellati dalle onde sabbiose risalenti il corso delle acque.
E finalmente Rozier.
I due volti della bellezza
The sheep, scattered along the banks of the river, looked like the white curls of a kind, sleepy river god stretched across the valley. Laio, like the river, stretched out in the grass and stared at the sky going silver. His eyes were bright, a reflection of the luminous sky; he closed his eyes slowly, and he lay asleep. A lamb came to lick his face, but Laio barely moved.
His dog Argo came to sniff him. The dog seemed concerned, unhappy his master was asleep. A sheep bleated and ran from the bank; others followed, scattering. Far away, a peasant woman cried out. Sea gulls, escaping from the sea, flew low over the ground, screeching. The dog chased their shadows, then stopped, faced the river, and howled. The sheep gathered around Argo, the lambs searching for their mothers. The sky had turned ashen over the mountains and the pewter-colored sea, the undercurrent like veins of blood.
Only over the river had the sky kept its spring-like glow, mirror- ing the tender grass. Laio moved his head slightly, as if about to wake up. The dog was still facing east, howling now and then. On the main road, far behind them, in the distance, carts went by, pulled by oxen. Somewhere, another dog answered. The air was so thin it carried the sounds. Even the surf breaking on the invisible shore could be heard, and it grew louder and louder as the waters rushed from the plain into the river.
The river echoed and throbbed, seemed to swell, its surface tightening, now the same pewter-color as the clouds rising so suddenly from the sea, speeding towards the mountains, with a low rumbling thunder. The waves carried sand upstream, erasing the small veins in the current, the tiny whirlpools under the watercress, the little cascades between the rocks. The sheep were quiet, muzzles raised. Then, a purple lightning flashed across the sky and the clouds crashed together, echoing in the mountains. Alla nuova curva anche Argo scompare.
In un angolo della cucina, seduto sul mucchio delle patate, sta un uomo vecchissimo e sconosciuto, con pochi fili bianchi di barba per il mento. Attizza il fuoco prima che muoia. Si volge al vecchio. Il vecchio sorride con malizia e sussurra: - Oro. The sun is blazing and the quartz sparkles. The dust dries in a hot cloud behind the meander- ing sheep vanishing around the bend.
At the next curve, Argo disappears as well. Still he runs. He almost smells the hay in the pens, hears the murmur of the spring on the rocks behind the hut and sees the rosemary bush next to the door. He calms down and goes inside. In a corner of the kitchen, he sees a stranger, an old man sitting on a mound of potatoes. He has a few white whiskers on his chin, and he sits with his legs apart, leaning forward a little, trying to blow on the fire in the hearth on the opposite side of the room.
Poke the fire before it dies. Laio always obeys his elders, so he goes to the fireplace to set a log on the burning coals. Laio tries again. He takes the fire in his hands, tries to pull it apart. But he realizes the fire is as cold as ice, as hard as metal. Even gold needs fire. Why not set me on fire? Burn me. Io sono un vecchio tronco, subito ardo. Bruciami, bruciami. Sentirai che buon profumo spando, e che calore. I giovani devono nutrirsi dei vecchi, i figli usare i padri. Gli risponde un gran rombo che fa tremare il monte e una luce lo investe e lo trascina lontano.
Gocce pesanti e chicchi di grandine misti piovendo diritti con violenza, gli bucavano gli oc- chi. Fulmini di un colore marcio traversavano il cielo da occidente a oriente, salivano dal mare a ferire i monti che gemevano dalle viscere profonde. The young must feed on the old; sons must use their fathers. His answer is a sharp thunderclap that shakes the mountain, then a flash of lightning that hits him and hurls him aside.
He looks back, and his hut, struck by lightning, has burst into flames, is being consumed, the carbonized pieces floating up, like burning paper, falling on him, all around him, and as they fall, the pieces are turning yellow, round, shiny: large gold coins that hurt as they strike his face like rain. With this pain, Laio awoke. Big heavy rain drops and hail were falling, a violent downpour, stinging his eyes and his hands. Flashes of lightning, the color of rot, crisscrossed the sky from west to east, rising from the sea to batter the mountains, making them moan from deep within their bowels.
Laio jumped up: he ran toward his flock huddled beneath a poplar tree, and he yelled and waved his arms to drive them away from the tree and onto the main road, as he searched for cover. They were barely on their way when the rain began spinning in sudden gusts from the whirling winds that made the clouds crash together with a terrible noise. The rain fell straight down, a solid wall. It was more like being submerged in a lake, where some new law made breathing possible. They pressed to the ground, trying to hide in the furrows. Argo, too, unable to help, huddled with them, bark- ing pitifully.
Now and then, Laio heard the sweet bleating of the lambs, growing ever weaker. Groping around in the dark, he picked up two, tucking one inside his cloak, setting the other on his shoulders. But now walking was exhaust- ing. The ground was saturated, a muddy mire, and he sank in Rozier. Andava avanti senza pensiero, accompa- gnato dal sibilo della serpe, dal battito pauroso del cuore dei due pecorini.
Solo allora si accorse di un fragore mo- notono che accompagnava quello della pioggia, ma come di fianco, irregolare e minaccioso. Il lampo venne. Laio aveva fin qui conosciuto Dio onnipotente e giusto, ma ora stava perplesso davanti a quello sperpero di potenza, a quella indecifrabile giustizia. Dio, mi senti, o forse sei troppo lontano? Che cosa ne fanno del mio armento, la tempesta e il mare? Hanno un corpo da vestire di lana? The blood from its wings filled his mouth and tasted sweet. A little further, he stepped on a snake that wrapped itself around his ankle, hissing, but Laio did not try to shake it off.
He kept going, not thinking, accompanied by the hissing of the snake and the frightened heartbeats of the two lambs. Only then did he hear the dull crashing alongside the rain, but this was all to the side, something sporadic, menacing. Lightning lit up the landscape. This section of the river bank was manmade, with boulders stacked inside metal wire to hold back the wild waves rushing down the rocky gorge.
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He pleaded for another flash of lightning and the lightning came. It broke through the clouds, came down so close, screaming and burning, that Argo yelped and ran from his master. Where was the flock? The shepherd poked him gently with his staff, and he knew the lamb was dead. They were all dead. Until now, the shepherd had believed in a just and omnipotent God, and he stood bewildered before such a misuse of power, such indecipherable justice. Can you hear me, God, or are you too far away? What good is my flock to the storm and the sea? Do they have a body that needs to be dressed in wool?
Lord, how will my sheep find the entrance to your fields without me? Why punish us so? Who can answer? Do you want this lamb as well? But no one answered, and he started walking again. Forse io ora dovrei darti anche questa? Ma nessuno rispose e Laio riprese a camminare. Grondava acqua e barcollava. Poi si volse indietro a chi gli aveva aperto e disse: - Hai una stuoia, una coperta o un sacco, una pelle vecchia, qualche cosa per coprire questa mia bestia? E guarda come infanghi tutto. Quando riscendo a valle te la riporto.
La voce taceva. Laio non si muoveva e non guardava, stava nella propria desolazione come in una nebbia. Stava piegato in avanti ad ascoltare con terrore la voce cattiva e tuttavia con le mani rattrappite continuava a dividere le patate sane dalle germogliate. E fu una buona lana davvero.
Fu anche mio padre, quando serviva a qualche cosa. Hai promesso. Laio ora batteva i denti dal ribrezzo e sentiva le ginocchia Rozier. He walked until he hit a wall. He was dripping wet and unsteady on his feet. He went to the table, took the lamb from inside his cloak and set it down. Get out. For the love of God -- that I can do. But only if you promise never to bring it back. Just give it to me. There, in the corner, on a pile of potatoes, sat a very old man with a few white whiskers on his chin. Terrified, he was leaning forward to listen to the evil voice and meanwhile his stiff old hands divided the good potatoes from the bad.
And a real old goat as well. And my father besides, back when he was still worth something. La voce riprese, avvicinandosi: - Su, pastore, che cosa aspetti? Prendi quanto hai chiesto e vattene. Pareva che fosse meno vecchio, fuori dalla casa del figlio, si moveva con un certo vigore e senza lamenti. Il vecchio certo doveva conoscere i luoghi e sapere dove voleva andare se moveva con tanta certezza.
Il vecchio con gesti brevi indicava a Laio il passo e i pericoli. Il vecchio accettava tutto con naturalezza, ma non parlava. Laio volle seguirlo, invece cadde di schianto in terra chiamandolo. They looked each other in the eye, as if trying to recognize each other. Then the shepherd bowed his head and let the old man leave first.
Laio picked up the lamb. Besides, going back to the hut would be useless; better to find some village and ask for work there. If the old man walked so decisively, he had to know where they were going. They walked all night without a word, across washed-out paths, across ditches and landslides. With brief gestures the old man showed him where to go and what to avoid.
Finally, by dawn they reached the main road and rested in a hayloft. The shepherd made a pallet for his companion and lit a small fire between two stones where the old man could dry himself and warm up. And what was there to say? When daylight broke and the rain had slowed, the old man awoke and prepared to leave. Laio stood to follow, but then collapsed to the ground, calling out.
Who knows where it is.
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But at least I wanted you, a father to love and comfort. Ieri io aspet- tavo te. Mi volevi per figlio? Allora il vecchio rise: - E poi mungermi, Laio? Laio non capiva: - Mungerti, padre? Quanto Dio ha stabilito. Cattivo Dio. Dio che stabilisce ci sia un figlio che regala via suo padre. Un padre. Difficile da capire. Forse capire non si deve. Solo ubbidire si deve. Ubbidire alla legge. Le dieci leggi. E se il padre ha detto: - Dormi - Laio deve dormire e se il padre dice: - Svegliati. Laio si sveglia.
Doveva essere passato molto tempo. Un poco di sole entrava nel fienile e in quel poco sole stava il vecchio, che sorrideva con arguzia: - Alzati. Lo seguiva. Oh, poor flock of mine, what are you doing at the bottom of the sea? Yesterday, I was the one waiting for you.
You wanted me for a son? Love you! Help you cross the meadow. Feed you. Evil God. A father. Obey the law. The Ten Commandments. Time had passed. Outside, under a sky of fluffy clouds sat a crimson cart drawn by white oxen. The old man climbed in and gestured for Laio to sit beside him. They set off, along a wide winding road through the young Rozier. I bovi si mossero. Laio si meravigliava, il suo compagno rispondeva con un cenno del capo, donne e bambini, misteriosamente avvertiti, uscivano dai casolari per guardarli.
Forse qualcuno potrebbe darmi lavoro. Lasciami scendere a chiedergliene. At the first bend in the road, they came out of a grove of pop- lars, and they climbed, surrounded by dwarf vineyards and fields of corn and alfalfa. Farmers, hearing the cart, stopped their work to see who was going by, and they shielded their eyes from the ever- rising sun, and seeing the old man, they greeted him with humble words of respect and devotion.
Laio was surprised; his companion responded with a nod; women and children, somehow aware of their presence, came out of their homes to watch them pass. Maybe one of them might give me work. Let me go ask. Now the fields returned, stretched out in a valley cut by stands of poplars and thickets of cane, here and there, water spar- kling behind them. The sun was almost in the middle of the sky and the old man slumped over more and more from the heat.
Oh no, there's been an error
Soon they were in a gentle meadow, following a river that flowed from the mountains to the sea, under a sky of the palest green, the air smelling like mint. The shepherd thought of the day before, of Argo and his sheep that drowned, and he covered his eyes with his hands. When he looked again he saw flocks of sheep grazing on pasturelands. Laio stood up in the cart. He looked to the right, to the left, as though searching, seeing. A dog ran to meet them, and he almost called out, but he stopped and a tear rolled down his face. Let me milk one of these sheep and give you a little milk.
Un cane corse loro incontro e lui fece per chiamarlo, ma si trattenne e una lacrima gli scendeva per il volto. Lascia che io munga una di queste pecore e ti dia un poco di latte. I contadini sanno che, da ora in poi, debbono a te chiedere opere, tetto e nutrimento. Non era per questo che ti ho chiamato padre: non voglio che possa essere per questo. Prendi dunque la guida del carro e sii il padrone, Laio.
Mi aveva preso tutto quel che conosceva essere mio. Se fosse venuto a saperlo mi avrebbe ucciso. Madama Butterfly. Luci mie traditrici. La scala di seta. La traviata. Concerto di Capodanno I prossimi eventi Gli appuntamenti della settimana. Pina Bausch, gli anni veneziani. La Fenice per i giovani La diffusione del patrimonio che abbiamo avuto il privilegio di ereditare e che abbiamo il compito di promuovere tra i giovani scopri. Regala un biglietto Regala un biglietto per uno spettacolo al Teatro La Fenice!
Premio Venezia Concorso Pianistico Nazionale rivolto ai giovani pianisti neo-diplomati dei Conservatori d'Italia scopri. E che certi errori sono anche bellissimi da fare e da ripetere. Che pure se Lisbona non avesse avuto nulla da vedere, il viaggio valeva la pena di farlo solo per loro. Writing in other languages has always amused me. Then, in , I discovered the beauty of the Maltese language and its familiar exoticism. Three years later, I followed this up by learning French, whose sentences would have brought me away, first to Paris for my doctoral studies, and then again to the island.
I also gave Serbian a try, last time I was in Belgrade. The two weeks there were useful at least to manage to read the signs in cyrillic in a bakery, make the order and get the right celestial food. And what about my first love, what about my mother tongue? Since then I translated from English, French and Maltese prose and poetry, thanks to all the writers who entrusted me with their work. Sette minuti alle otto, il treno arriva racimolando fiacchezza e briciole di pane tostato ancora sulle labbra.
Spinge lontano il silenzio, ne occupa il posto appena per pochi secondi e poi riparte, lasciando che il primo si faccia di nuovo largo, e se non quello uno che gli somiglia. Qualche secondo dopo il suo arrivo sulla piattaforma di Stepney Green , linea verde, direzione Ealing Broadway , un treno si ferma. E preme sul silenzio, silenzio a cui lei si concede tutta. Resta immobile. Le persone le scorrono accanto come ratti, chi verso un vagone, chi verso un altro, chi in direzione delle scale. Due topini sbucano fuori di nuovo alla ricerca di quel pezzo di pane lasciato in sospeso, scovato prima che il treno si fermasse.
Come Salvo, le viene da pensare. Perfino quando giunse qui. Ombra , era questa la parola che usava. Dell , diciamo noi in maltese. Di lei serbo nella memoria lo sguardo di spettro, la voce avvolta in una tosse rauca e il bel corpo: una conchiglia imprigionata in un profondo blu, dove il suo cuore cercava rifugio. Eccola la mia Camilla. Camilla would also go on to become a short film in Translating poetry, on the other hand, came about as the result of an unexpected but welcome proposal which emerged in the summer of , by Nadja Mifsud.
Thanks to it, I was introduced to one of the more interesting voices in Maltese poetry. And so, I translated a few poems ahead of her participation in the Italian poetry festival Voci lontane Voci sorelle. And then, last summer poetry always keeps me company during the sultry Maltese summer , I went deep in the words of another Maltese poet, whose verses I will add here as soon as they are published. Provaci, almeno. E invece no. Ora, mettiamo che Parigi sia il posto dove sempre torno, e non vado mai.
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Mettiamo che per tornare serva sempre un motivo. E stavolta era pure validissimo: assistere alla soutenance — perfetta, incredibile, brillante — di Ludo. A Parigi non capito mai senza ragioni. Quello e il Centre Pompidou, dove invece i piedi li ho messi tutti e due, qualche ora prima di tornare a Malta.
Non sono riuscita a ritrovare il mio Matisse preferito e non so se mi piaccia la rigida seppur necessaria partizione cronologica tra arte moderna e contemporanea preferisco sempre i percorsi tematici ma capisco anche che sia difficile organizzare tutto quel ben di dio del moderno con le illuminazioni o spesso i deliri delle istallazioni contemporanee e quindi, alla fine, non sono uscita delusa mai, dal Pompidou non si esce mai delusi.
Ma era buona, e li valeva tutti. Due galette, due vittorie.