Translators in an Italian dungeon

The Telegraph has an article on some of the more interesting working conditions I’ve heard of in the translation business: “Dan Brown’s Inferno: the hellish conditions endured by those translating author’s new blockbuster.” The guy’s latest “mysterious religious/artistic stuff happens but brave American academic is up to the task” novel is going to be released simultaneously later this month in multiple languages. To make this happen, the publisher(s?) brought all the translators to Milan and stuck them in an “underground bunker” to get the job done without sharing any details on it with the outside world.

When they arrived in February 2012, they were put into ‘lockdown’, as one official put it. Their mobile phones were confiscated and they were placed under strict instructions to reveal nothing of the plot of the book.

To prevent leaks to the outside world, the translators had limited access to computers, were banned from taking any notebooks or papers out of the bunker and had to hand in the manuscripts they were working on each evening.

Minibuses transported them to and from the hotels they were staying in.

They were accompanied by security guards and ate in a staff canteen in the headquarters of Mondadori, the Italian publishing giant that is owned by Silvio Berlusconi.

I can’t imagine doing a lot of work in a dark pit without access to the internet, but maybe a novel like this can be done that way. (Although I’d guess they’d need to have various paper reference materials on hand to confirm details from Dante’s work and whatnot). Maybe there was one connected terminal and a thuggish guard looking over their shoulders to make sure they didn’t write IT WAS THE ILLUMINATI ALL ALONG into a Gmail window.

Translators' view

Translators’ view

DVD sale

EDIT: I no longer have DVDs to get rid of. If you’d like to see any of these, you’ll be able to view many of them at the Niseko Freedom Inn, where they will be in the movie library for guests. (I’ve never been but it looks fantastic; it’s run by a guy I used to ski with up at Appi, back in the day.)

So I have a bunch of movies to get rid of. They are all region 2 (Japan) DVDs. I’d like to get ¥100 a piece for them, which is about what I could get by taking them down to Book Off; this way the person buying the things gets them for much less than Book Off would charge, though.

  • The Abyss (Special Edition)
  • The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension
  • Alien
  • Aliens
  • Alien 3
  • Alien Resurrection
  • Angel Heart
  • Blade
  • Blade Runner (Director’s Cut)
  • Blazing Saddles
  • Bullitt
  • Casablanca
  • The Deer Hunter
  • Desperado
  • Dirty Harry
  • Enter the Dragon
  • The Exorcist
  • Goldfinger
  • Invasion of the Body Snatchers
  • Lethal Weapon
  • Mad Max
  • Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (Mad Max 3)
  • Pink Floyd: The Wall
  • The Road Warrior (Mad Max 2)
  • O Brother, Where Art Thou?
  • Raising Arizona
  • Shaft
  • The Silence of the Lambs
  • Sling Blade

If you want any of these, shout at me at XXXXX or stick a comment below. We can figure out a time to meet, either near my office (handy to Kasumigaseki, Toranomon, Shinbashi) or somewhere along my commute (Kasumigaseki to Yotsuya, through Shinjuku, Nakano, Kichijōji, Mitaka out to Koganei). I’m happy to accept beer or coffee instead of cash, if that’s the way you roll. 

The Three Languages

This is a Brothers Grimm story I had never seen before today. It involves languages and was on a translation-related blog, Transubstantiation. It also has a pope; I hear there’s one of those around these days as well. (It also involves talking with animals, which is something that seems much more charming in a fairy tale than when you see some woman on a Japanese TV program telling pet owners what their goldfish are really thinking.)

* * *

An aged count once lived in Switzerland, who had an only son, but he was stupid, and could learn nothing. Then said the father: “Hark you, my son, try as I will I can get nothing into your head. You must go from hence, I will give you into the care of a celebrated master, who shall see what he can do with you.”

The youth was sent into a strange town, and remained a whole year with the master. At the end of this time, he came home again, and his father asked: “Now, my son, what have you learnt?”

“Father, I have learnt what the dogs say when they bark.”

“Lord have mercy on us!” cried the father; “is that all you have learnt? I will send you into another town, to another master.”

The youth was taken thither, and stayed a year with this master likewise. When he came back the father again asked: “My son, what have you learnt?”

He answered: “Father, I have learnt what the birds say.”

Then the father fell into a rage and said: “Oh, you lost man, you have spent the precious time and learnt nothing; are you not ashamed to appear before my eyes? I will send you to a third master, but if you learn nothing this time also, I will no longer be your father.”

The youth remained a whole year with the third master also, and when he came home again, and his father inquired: “My son, what have you learnt?”

He answered: “Dear father, I have this year learnt what the frogs croak.”

Then the father fell into the most furious anger, sprang up, called his people thither, and said: “This man is no longer my son, I drive him forth, and command you to take him out into the forest, and kill him.” They took him forth, but when they should have killed him, they could not do it for pity, and let him go, and they cut the eyes and tongue out of a deer that they might carry them to the old man as a token.

The youth wandered on, and after some time came to a fortress where he begged for a night”s lodging. “Yes,” said the lord of the castle, “if you will pass the night down there in the old tower, go thither; but I warn you, it is at the peril of your life, for it is full of wild dogs, which bark and howl without stopping, and at certain hours a man has to be given to them, whom they at once devour.” The whole district was in sorrow and dismay because of them, and yet no one could do anything to stop this.

The youth, however, was without fear, and said: “Just let me go down to the barking dogs, and give me something that I can throw to them; they will do nothing to harm me.” As he himself would have it so, they gave him some food for the wild animals, and led him down to the tower. When he went inside, the dogs did not bark at him, but wagged their tails quite amicably around him, ate what he set before them, and did not hurt one hair of his head.

Next morning, to the astonishment of everyone, he came out again safe and unharmed, and said to the lord of the castle: “The dogs have revealed to me, in their own language, why they dwell there, and bring evil on the land. They are bewitched, and are obliged to watch over a great treasure which is below in the tower, and they can have no rest until it is taken away, and I have likewise learnt, from their discourse, how that is to be done.” Then all who heard this rejoiced, and the lord of the castle said he would adopt him as a son if he accomplished it successfully. He went down again, and as he knew what he had to do, he did it thoroughly, and brought a chest full of gold out with him. The howling of the wild dogs was henceforth heard no more; they had disappeared, and the country was freed from the trouble.

After some time he took it in his head that he would travel to Rome. On the way he passed by a marsh, in which a number of frogs were sitting croaking. He listened to them, and when he became aware of what they were saying, he grew very thoughtful and sad.

At last he arrived in Rome, where the Pope had just died, and there was great doubt among the cardinals as to whom they should appoint as his successor. They at length agreed that the person should be chosen as pope who should be distinguished by some divine and miraculous token. And just as that was decided on, the young count entered into the church, and suddenly two snow-white doves flew on his shoulders and remained sitting there. The ecclesiastics recognized therein the token from above, and asked him on the spot if he would be pope. He was undecided, and knew not if he were worthy of this, but the doves counselled him to do it, and at length he said yes.

Then was he anointed and consecrated, and thus was fulfilled what he had heard from the frogs on his way, which had so affected him, that he was to be his Holiness the Pope. Then he had to sing a mass, and did not know one word of it, but the two doves sat continually on his shoulders, and said it all in his ear.

Here’s hoping for poems

Two years ago today, right now, I was walking around central Tokyo, probably. The quake hit, we were glued to the office television, I was glued to Twitter. No phones; no contact with home until later in the evening. A walk to the Conrad to see whether the brother in law was doing all right at his 26th-floor bartending job. (He was fine. The toppled bottles of pricy booze weren’t.) A walk back to the office; another walk to Yotsuya, where I crashed for the night at my wife’s family’s place. 

I don’t have a gripping tale of survival. I have no profound things to say about an event that touched me so slightly while it killed 19,000 to the north. I look at videos like this, two years later:

And all I can do is watch as the date creeps toward March 11 and talk to my monitor and tell the people get away, get off of the coast, take your children, run. I know they don’t and I feel a fist pressing into my stomach. And that afternoon the big circle expands to envelop most of the country. All those shores with their towns and schools and children.

Two years later. My daughter has just turned six and is set to enter elementary school in the fall. Baby number two is on the way and should be greeting the outside world in around six weeks. International school tuition is a big expense and I’ve signed on for an awful lot over the next 18 years. But it’s a future I get to worry about when grieving parents in the north cannot. 

A poet generally held to be Yamanoue no Okura wrote nearly 1,300 years ago:

. . . he uttered no more the words he had spoken with each new morning;
and his life came to its end.
I reeled in agony,
stamped my feet, screamed aloud,
cast myself down,
looked up to heaven, beat my breast.
I have lost my son,
the child I loved so dearly.
Is this what life is about?

This lengthy poem (translated by Steven D. Carter as “Longing for his son Furuhi“) and the two envoys accompanying it appear in book V of the Man’yōshū. My hope is that somewhere in Tōhoku a father or mother has created something that will commemorate what Japan lost two years ago today for thirteen centuries into the future. Nothing more important can come of this.

The new guy in Tokyo

So David Lee Roth has an apartment in Tokyo now, which is unexpected, I guess. There’s a good interview with him in Rolling Stone that paints him as a pretty interesting guy with interesting approaches to music at this stage of his lengthy career. He’s attending language classes to pick up Japanese and working on remixes of old Van Halen songs. This causes angst among fans of the classic sound, apparently, to which he responds:

We’ve had great success with it already. Alex [Van Halen] and I were laughing that anybody cares at all, much less there’s a rallying cry or whatever. You just don’t change the smile on the Mona Lisa? Well, the fuck you don’t.

The “Jump” remix is available at his website. Not sure it’s as compelling as the original was when I heard it at age 13 or 14, but he’s plainly willing to stretch out in totally different musical directions, which is nice to see. The “letters in the alphabet” advice he has for younger artists in that interview is great.

He also talks a bit about life in the Big Mikan. Sounds like he’s connected and enjoying it a lot.

I went to the Sumo tournament with Konishiki as my teacher, and we went not only to the tournament, but we went to the beya, which is the gym. And we had what in music is called an encounter, question and answer, back and forth. And I asked them, “What inspires you? What compels you?” And variously one would say, “I do not want to dishonor my parents.” Another said, “I would like to be a great champion.” We went around the circle, and one of them said to me, “Dave-san, what inspires you?” I said, “Fear and revenge.” They asked, “Revenge against who?” I said, “People who have a whole lot more talent than I do and then threw it away. Sometimes friends of ours have Maserati-style talent and they treat it like a fucking lawn mower.” And they all laughed.

Worth a read. (Unlike this blog, by the way, but I’m thinking of getting back into the game of writing things to go up here. The desire waxes and wanes, but right now I think it’s waxing. So more to follow.)