Found in Translation

For the past year, I have been working as part of a team to translate a senior teacher's book on iaido from Japanese into English. I undertook the task firstly out of respect for the author, and also for the translation team leader whom I consider a valued colleague. I had no idea when I started that this project would become so deeply complicated.

To begin with, let me point out that I am not terribly fluent in Japanese. I manage; and if I understand a topic of conversation, I can hold up my end (having a few drinks helps). I do okay in the dojo, and fairly well with directions (and if you knew what that meant in Japan, you might actually be impressed). My reading is probably at the level of a third-grader. I can read hiragana as well as I can read English, and, with some allowance for the endless calligraphic variations, katakana almost as well. But my kanji-reading is limited, with exceptions for theatrical, dance and budo kanji. I console my sense of inadequacy by reminding myself that Japanese kids spend many, many hours mastering this combined writing system, and that I am a full-time worker who came to study Japanese only in my 30's. I can barely make my way through a newspaper article, but I can read manga fairly well (not that I want to). I can watch a subtitled Japanese movie and snicker at the choices the English language editors make, because I understand well enough to hear the differences. I can do the same for an English language movie subtitled in Japanese.

So this project has taken over a great deal of my spare time, and I have only made incremental progress. I have not worked on any other articles or longer writing pieces (a blog post from time to time is all I can manage) because, whenever a block of time presents itself, there it is: the folder that contains some pages that are variously marked up, scratched at, and otherwise wrinkled and stapled to my notes in which I am trying to figure out what the author is trying to say.

Stylistic inconsistency has not helped, either. Sometimes a kanji is used in a sentence, but the same word was written in hiragana in the previous paragraph. Multiple typefaces add to the confusion (though I cannot, in all honesty, say that it's really an impediment; I just keep asking myself: why this typeface? Or that one? And wonder if the author has a reason for making the change).

But, as I expect any translator might tell you, the really cool part is getting inside the author's head. Japanese is very complex. Of course, in English, there are multiple words to express the same idea, and the choices the author makes, for example using "ecstatic" instead of "joyful" to describe, say, a character's emotions in a fictional work, tells us a great deal about the character, and also the author herself. It's the same in Japanese; and when an author of a certain age writes a book on an esoteric subject, many factors come into play. Not only specialized kanji (which I have some understanding of, in this case), but the use of archaic terms, sometimes written in archaic kanji. Lately, my colleague and I have puzzled over an archaic combination that every dictionary we consulted translates as "lacquer tray." We know that is not what he means. But, in this case, the only way to understand whatever concept the writer is pointing to is to ask him. Happily, we can.

Other words that translate as "elegant" or "graceful" have also come up. To some, they may seem strange in the context of a book that on its face describes different ways of attacking or counterattacking an opponent with a sword. Beyond the fairly straightforward technicalities, it is these words that provide the most interest for me. In keeping with the sensibility that my teacher shared with me, Japanese swordsmanship is more than solo or paired kata depicting attacks and responses. History, philosophy, and aesthetics also come into play, and, in my estimation, are just as important, if not more, than the technical aspects. As my teacher once remarked, "If I just want to kill someone, I'll go buy a gun." While in all honesty it's not that difficult to learn to cut with a sword, iai takes a lifetime to begin to understand.

The author of the book I am working on is of my teacher's generation. In fact, they knew each other and trained together under the same master a very long time ago. The author is about 85 years old now, about the same age my teacher would have been, were he still alive. When I look at the author, I see my teacher. I find it intriguing that their sensibilities are also similar. That they both had similar ideas about koryu training is what keeps me coming back to my "chore." I find it comforting to get into the author's head by way of translating an admittedly small part of his book; a reminder that my teacher was not alone in his approach to training, and that I might be on the right track as well.