Lydia Davis is a writer and translator. In her first book of essays (Essays One, which I haven’t read), Google tells me her subjects are the craft of writing, literary influences, the visual arts, found arts, religion, and translation theory. In Essays Two, she focuses on translation theory and practice. In a lead-off essay, Ms. Davis explains her love for the translation process. From there, she discusses specific English translations from French (Proust, Leiris, and Flaubert), how she learned Spanish, Dutch, and Norwegian, and observations from visits to various parts of France. Along the way, she discusses her own theory and style of translation, comparing it to other well-respected translators of canonical novels, in particular Proust and Flaubert. There is also an interesting essay on translating older English—particularly nineteenth-century North English and Scottish dialogue—into more modern English.

I do not usually read books of essays, but I chose to read this because I am a writer—ironically, mostly essays—and like many of my contemporaries, my novels (there are presently four) may someday be picked up and translated into languages other than English (fat chance. Maybe if I pay). I was interested in the various philosophies that motivate particular translations and translators. In particular, one essay, her translation of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, caught my eye because of all the novels Ms. Davis discusses, Madame Bovary is the only one I’ve read, and it just so happens in her translation. 

What did I hope to get out of these essays? I thought I might pick up some stylistic nuances—in English—by exploring different approaches to translation. Particularly as regards Flaubert, who has been translated many times, Ms. Davis does not disappoint, giving numerous examples of differences between her translation and others’, even showing us changes in her own work as she revised her opinion for later editions. This has helped me as a writer in at least one specific way. Ms. Davis points out that, beginning with a lyrical passage in the original, the translation can be more literal, but less lyrical in English, or the translator can try to retain the lyricism of the original and possibly sacrifice some literalness. Her examples help me to understand the difference, in English, between lyrical and non-lyrical language that nevertheless—and in perfectly good English grammar—faithfully represents the original.  

What struck me was that her non-lyrical examples were, nevertheless, examples of perfectly good style, even if they did not reflect the poesis of the original.

In my Kindle edition of Bovary, Ms. Davis includes an introduction in which she discusses the novel, Flaubert, and her translation. There is material here that is duplicated in the essays volume or vice versa—I do not know which came first.

At one point in her introduction, Ms. Davis points out that in the first love scene between Rudolphe and Emma, Flaubert waxes lyrical about Emma’s reverie—giving it 20 or so lines—followed immediately by the short sentence: “Rudolphe, cigar between his teeth, mended with his penknife one of the bridles which was broken.” The reader is left to surmise that while Emma still lies on her back in reverie, Rudolphe has gotten up and is standing next to his horse. Davis calls this an irony in the “… juxtapositions Flaubert creates between the ‘poetic’ and the brutally commonplace.” Flaubert, she says, “undercuts his own lyricism.” 

Me thinks she has missed a point… This is a brilliant Flaubert commentary on men, women, and affairs, especially adulterous ones… Emma is experiencing post-coital reverie, what my girlfriend and I call “basking in the glow.” Emma is in love with Rudolphe (always a bad idea where adultery is engaged). Her mind floats on the experience’s aftermath. By contrast, for Rudolphe, Emma is but one more successful seduction. Sex being over (hopefully, the cad gave her at least one good orgasm. We never know in these novels), one moves on to other tasks—fixing the bridle being necessary for the ride home, after all.

All in all, a book that helps one appreciate the art of translation and a pat on the back to the translator community. There were a few useful insights for me here. She spends far more pages on Proust (whom I haven’t read) than on Flaubert, but all of it together enlightened me at least a little.