Disconnected Tales: Contrasting Ken Liu’s Original and Translated Works

While I was growing up, the Chinese realm of my life was wholly separate from the English one. The two only overlapped when I struggled to find the Chinese word for an object I knew in English. In one memorable instance in fifth grade, I pointed to a plug and struggled for ten minutes, failing to conjure up the proper Chinese noun.

Ken Liu’s original fiction shares some of that same disconnection.

As a Chinese person, I am used to reading about the Chinese experience in Chinese. When read in English, the natural experience turns into a cultural performance put on for the Western audience. Reading Liu’s “The Paper Menagerie” feels as if the entire story was tinged with the sort of mysticism associated with the ‘Far East’. The fantasy elements seemed like unnatural, deliberate uses of ethnicity, intended to provoke a specific reaction from an audience that looks upon Chinese culture as if it were something to be gawked at in a zoo.

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Image from npr.org

The addition of Chinese words and sentences in the piece may make it seem more authentic, but to me, it was simply awkward. I would constantly try to switch to the convention and flow of the Chinese language, attempting to read the few parts written in Chinese the way I would read a typical Chinese sentence. The English context simply doesn’t afford the leisure of doing so, however, and the smattering of Romanized Chinese plopped starkly into the middle of a completely English piece is ineffective and jarring.

A much smoother and more entertaining read is Liu’s translation of “Balin” by Chen Qiufan. Since Chen had been writing in Chinese for a Chinese audience, the reading experience seems much more natural and lacks the discomfort of cultural performance. Despite this, the translation did bring me out of the story at times. Certain words and phrases stand out (“joss sticks”; “it was like discussing music theory with a cud-chewing cow”), as these nouns and expressions are idiosyncratic to the Chinese written language. At these points, I couldn’t help but re-translate the English text and imagine what the original Chinese would have sounded like.

Personal feelings regarding the mechanics of language and translation aside, Liu’s writing in his original fiction is plain and straightforward. Even at the most emotional moments in the story, his descriptions are precise statements of fact intended to provoke feeling as an afterthought. Emotions aren’t described by Liu; they manifest in the actions of the characters. While he is the director that sets everything in motion, the quality of experience depends entirely on the interpretation of the reader. We are given the reins to characterize each of his figures throughout his story.

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Image from twitter.com/ShimmerProgram

In contrast to Liu’s own directness, Chen’s fiction is descriptive to the point of scientific precision. In a sense, Chen’s words read as Chinese. I cannot say that I have read as many Chinese works as I have English, but in my limited scope I have found vivid descriptions of colour and other sensory details to be more common in Chinese writing. Liu’s translation therefore seems clinically faithful to Chen’s original writing, and he seems to have preserved a lot of Chen’s authorial voice.

Yet Liu’s presence as translator is acutely felt. The traces of his sentence style and spacing act like a gloss of varnish over the short story. He favours short sentences and statement-like descriptions, again leaving the reader to make independent judgments that are guided only by snapshots of the scene. Not having read Chen’s original text, I cannot tell if these choices are Liu’s own preferences coming out in his translation, or aspects already existent in the original.

Reading Ken Liu’s original and translated works has been a puzzling experience, as I reconcile my culture with my education. It has made me realize that many beloved genres, such as fantasy, can take on a completely other dimension when presented in a different language. While I do not anticipate reading more Ken Liu anytime soon, I will most definitely be looking into Chen Qiufan’s original works in Chinese.

-Contributed by Stephanie Gao

The “M” Word: Looking At the Intersection of Myth and Modernity

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Illustrated by Mia Carnevale

There always seems to be some sort of mysticism surrounding the notion of “myths”. Often, they can seem inaccessible. They’re something of the past, locked away in a box only Classics majors have the keys to, and not really something you think about on a day-to-day basis.

But that’s wrong, because myths are hauntingly transcendent and say a giant “fuck you” to time, place, and language. Don’t be disillusioned—myths are as contemporary as “Harry Potter”, and just as relevant.

We live in a world so saturated with myths, both new and old, that we often don’t recognize mythology for what it is: a primordial truth about humanity. However, that definition sounds awfully lofty and pompous, so it is super cool for twenty-first  century authors to incorporate myths into fiction.

Averno by Louise Glück is a poetry collection that uses the myth of Persephone and Hades as a point of reference to explore larger-than-life topics like death, the soul, and the breakdown of a relationship. It offers unconventional takes on the kidnapping of Persephone by Hades, telling the story both from the kidnapper’s perspective and, refreshingly, from Persephone’s.

Glück’s poetry feels personal and domestic, concentrating on scenes of nature, which adds to the borderless aspect of her writing. She switches between the first and second person with ease, inviting you into her narrative that seems to draw on her own life and experiences. She makes myths feel intimate, by grounding her collection in a central household myth that is able to translate perfectly from an ancient Greek context into a very tangible contemporary one.

When you first read Anne Carson’s Antigonick, it seems a little strange to see seemingly unrelated pen and watercolour drawings printed on vellum in the middle of a modern translation of Sophocles’ tragedy “Antigone”. But the more you think about it, the more it makes sense in an abstract, magical-realism sort of way. When Haimon and Kreon are arguing, we see birds exploding out of a chimney, signifying conflict within the household. Some drawings are more abstract than others, composed of watercolour lines and blurs that remind me of Chinese ink paintings, while others are simply absurd (a horse knocking over a dining table), yet all of them connect to the tragedy in some inexplicable way.

Another point of note in Antigonick is the lack of punctuation. Carson’s prose seems poetic in form, using the spacing and positioning of words on the page to signify starts and stops. The main themes and conflicts of the play are clearly presented in a poetic form, and although there is a distinct archaic taste to the text (“thou, thee”), there is also displacement through the insertion of modern concepts and turns of phrases.

As someone who has studied the Fagles translation of the play last year, I thoroughly enjoyed Carson’s take, which presents the text graphically and bluntly. You are no longer required to parse through the text to get to the themes, and in a sense this work is an English lecture in and of itself.

If you are a first time reader of Sophocles, however, I would recommend a more literal translation of the play, as Antigonick is a piece of art that requires foreknowledge of the source material.

Mythology is awesome, which is great because it’s everywhere. Really, read The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell if you don’t believe me. But mythology is also varied, and is definitely not limited to the Greek canon. So after you check out these two beautiful works of fiction, be sure to branch out. Maybe you’ll have an epiphany somewhere along the way.

-Contributed by Stephanie Gao

Crimson peak: A Gothic Romance

cpGhosts are real, that much I know.

Well, okay, I don’t know, but Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska) can certainly tell you a thing or two about ghosts.

Crimson Peak is Guillermo del Toro’s newest gothic romance film, and it possesses all of his trademark film-making techniques but with a distinctive late-1800s twist. The plot seems like something out of a gothic novel, with the basic premise being reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher”.

Edith Cushing, an aspiring American author and the daughter of a successful businessman, falls in love with the mysterious Sir Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston), an English baronet. Their romance is complicated by the pointed glares Thomas’ older sister, Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain), keeps sending their way. Throughout the Sharpe’s estate, which seems almost alive, there is a permeating feeling of wrongness, which the audience feels as well, given how fast Thomas is taken with Edith.

And therein lies the main weakness of the film.

Perhaps the plot is too Romantic. Thomas Sharpe plays the stereotypical role of the dashing male hero who woos the female protagonist, despite her somewhat humble origins. From the moment the two meet, the speed at which Thomas reads and takes an interest in Edith’s manuscript is astounding. Perhaps Thomas can teach me his ways to aid me in my readings for class?

He then proceeds to stare soulfully into her eyes, notice her presence in every frame, and even stand outside of her house, in the rain, waiting for her father to leave in order to catch her alone.

All that within just hours of meeting her.

Although this does successfully give the audience a sense of foreboding and even foreshadows the tragic nature of their relationship, the love story between the two seems to exist only to drive the plot forward.

However, del Toro must be commended for his brilliant use of coloured lighting to build upon the tension and suspense of the plot. The constant interplay between amber and cool turquoise lighting reflects the conflict between Edith and Lucille, and by extension the conflict between the mortal and supernatural.

Edith and her American home are painted in warm orange tones that liven up the atmosphere, whereas Lucille and the Sharpe mansion are both drowned in a cool dark turquoise that infringes upon yet emphasizes Edith’s glow. The bloody red colouring of the ghosts is a nice horrific touch. But more, the colour adds significance to the purpose of the ghosts as figures caught between the light and the dark. Red is a warm colour, but its connotations are gory and chilling, like the turquoise, and the very opposite of the benign cast of orange. The ghosts are frightening in form, too, but once you reflect on their function and true purpose, are they really the antagonists here?

Crimson Peak’s cinematography also stands out in its combined use of sound and timing to create anticipation. The visual and auditory cues are predictable at times, but they call back to the style of old horror flicks. The close-ups on characters, the slow crescendo, the introduction of a horror element, the breathless pause, the abrupt zoom straight into the maws of a ghost—are all inexhaustibly thrilling in the way roller-coasters are. The fun isn’t lost despite the routine.

Overall this film was a worthwhile watch, even for someone who is deathly afraid of anything horror-related (i.e., me). Before entering the cinema, my biggest concern was that the film would be a simple translation of “The Fall of the House of Usher”, but instead it brought its own cinematic magic to the table. Watch, if not for del Toro’s imagery-laden visuals, then definitely for a few glorious moments of a view of Hiddleston’s bum.

-Contributed by Stephanie Gao