Explanatory essays - The Power of Knowle: Essays That Explain the Important Things in Life - Sykalo Eugene 2025

The Multifaceted Role of Translation in Comparative Literature
Comparative literature and cross-cultural analysis

Translation is the art of carrying a story across a river without drowning it. Sounds romantic, right? But let’s be real: it’s less a graceful ferry ride and more like smuggling contraband in a leaky boat. You’re trying to move something alive—something that breathes in one language—and make it breathe in another without it choking. Take Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. In Spanish, it’s this lush, fever-dream tapestry of Macondo, where time loops like a drunken uncle telling the same story at every family reunion. Gregory Rabassa’s English translation? It’s a miracle, sure, but it’s not the same. The humidity of the original, the way the words stick to your skin like sweat, gets a little lost. And yet, somehow, it’s still magic. That’s the paradox of translation—it betrays and it saves, all at once.

I’m obsessed with this tension. It’s like watching someone try to explain a dream they had last night. You get the gist, but the colors, the weird edges, the way it felt? Gone. Or, at least, shifted. When I first read Haruki Murakami in English, I was floored by the surreal loneliness of his worlds—those empty Tokyo streets, the cats whispering secrets. But then I learned how his translators, like Jay Rubin or Philip Gabriel, wrestle with his minimalist Japanese. They’re not just swapping words; they’re rebuilding entire vibes. A single kanji can carry a universe of nuance, and English, with all its blunt edges, sometimes feels like a sledgehammer trying to sculpt a snowflake. I mean, who even has the audacity to think they can pull that off?

Let’s talk about what translation does to comparative literature, because this is where it gets juicy. Comparative lit isn’t just about stacking books from different countries side by side like they’re in a cultural Thunderdome. It’s about how those books talk to each other, how they clash or flirt or misunderstand one another. Translation is the translator at the party, half-drunk, trying to introduce Tolstoy to Toni Morrison without anyone storming out. And it’s messy! Think about how The Tale of Genji, written by Murasaki Shikibu in 11th-century Japan, gets read next to, say, Jane Austen. The Heian court’s delicate, almost suffocating etiquette doesn’t exactly vibe with Austen’s sharp-tongued drawing rooms. But translation makes that conversation possible, even if it’s awkward.

Here’s the thing, though: every translation is an act of interpretation, and that’s where the trouble starts. Edward Seidensticker’s version of Genji leans into clarity, making it accessible for Western readers who might not know a zither from a koto. But then you’ve got people like me, whining that it flattens the poetic haze of the original. Meanwhile, Arthur Waley’s earlier translation goes so far into poetic liberties it’s practically fanfiction. Both are valid, both are flawed, and that’s the point. Translation isn’t about finding the “right” words—it’s about choosing which scars to show. And when you’re comparing texts across cultures, those scars become the story.

I’m going to let you in on a little obsession of mine: the translator as a ghost. Not in some woo-woo supernatural way, but think about it—they’re haunting the text, leaving fingerprints all over it, but you’re not supposed to notice them. When I read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment in Constance Garnett’s translation, I was 19, chain-smoking cheap cigarettes, and convinced Raskolnikov was my soulmate. That book wrecked me. But years later, I found out Garnett’s version sanded down some of Dostoevsky’s jagged edges to make him more “palatable” for Edwardian England. Like, what? You’re telling me my existential crisis was shaped by a Victorian lady’s politeness? That’s wild. And it’s why translators like Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky get so much hype—they try to keep the chaos, the fever of the original. But even they’re making choices, curating the vibe. No one escapes the ghost trap.

This is where comparative literature gets spicy. You can’t just read Crime and Punishment next to, say, Albert Camus’s The Stranger and pretend you’re getting the “pure” Dostoevsky or Camus. You’re getting their translators’ versions, filtered through their biases, their eras, their coffee intake that day. It’s like comparing two cover songs instead of the originals. And yet, that’s what makes it so alive. The imperfections, the slippages—they’re proof that literature isn’t a museum piece, it’s a living thing, always shifting under the weight of new eyes and new tongues.

Let’s pivot to something that makes my blood boil: the assumption that translation is just a technical skill, like fixing a car. People talk about “accuracy” as if it’s a math problem. But accuracy is a myth! You can’t pin a language down like a butterfly. Take Sappho, the ancient Greek poet whose fragments are like shards of a shattered vase. Her work survives in bits, and every translator has to decide how to piece them together. Anne Carson’s translations are stark, almost brutal, letting the gaps speak for themselves. Others fill in the blanks with flowery guesses. Who’s right? No one. It’s not about rightness; it’s about what the translator wants to say about Sappho’s world. Carson’s Sappho feels like a woman screaming into the void; others make her a dreamy romantic. Both are true, both are lies. And when you put Sappho next to, say, Emily Dickinson in a comparative lit class, you’re not just comparing their words—you’re comparing the ghosts who brought them to you.

This makes me think of how translation can screw with cultural power dynamics. Historically, Western translators have had a bad habit of “domesticating” texts, making them cozy for their readers. Think of old translations of Rumi, the Persian poet, turned into Hallmark-card mysticism for suburban yoga moms. It’s not just a loss of nuance; it’s a kind of colonialism, flattening a culture to fit a Western lens. Modern translators are pushing back—people like Sholeh Wolpé, who brings Rumi’s wild, ecstatic edge back to life. But it’s a fight. And when you’re comparing Rumi to, I don’t know, Walt Whitman, you’ve got to ask: whose voice is actually in the room?

Okay, I’m getting a little ranty, so let’s slow down. There’s something deeply human about translation that I can’t stop thinking about. It’s not just about words; it’s about carrying a culture across a border, knowing you’ll drop something along the way. I remember reading The Odyssey in high school, Robert Fagles’s translation, and feeling like I was on that ship with Odysseus, the sea pounding my bones. Years later, I read Emily Wilson’s version, the first by a woman in English. It’s sharper, less heroic, more human. Odysseus isn’t just a cunning warrior; he’s a guy who’s tired, who lies to survive. Wilson’s translation made me see him differently, and suddenly, comparing him to, say, Okonkwo in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart felt like a gut punch. Two men, two worlds, both undone by their own hubris—but only because the translators let their flaws shine.

This is what gets me: translation shapes how we feel about other cultures. It’s not just about understanding; it’s about empathy, or the lack of it. A bad translation can make a character feel alien, a culture feel “exotic.” A good one? It’s like meeting someone at a bar and realizing you’ve both been through the same kind of heartbreak, even if you’re from opposite sides of the planet.

I could go on forever, but let’s talk about the internet for a second, because it’s changed the game. Back in the day, translations were gatekept by publishers and academics. Now, you’ve got fan translators on X or Reddit swapping versions of manga or K-pop lyrics in real time. It’s chaotic, unpolished, sometimes straight-up wrong—but it’s alive. It’s like the Wild West of comparative literature. You’ve got people arguing over whether the Korean word “aegyo” in a BTS song should be translated as “cute” or “charm” or something else entirely. And those arguments? They’re the heart of it. They’re people wrestling with meaning, culture, identity, all in public. It’s not clean, but it’s real.

This makes me think of how translation can be a political act. When you translate, you’re choosing what to amplify, what to mute. Think of the recent wave of Indigenous literature translations, like The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline being translated into Spanish or French. It’s not just about getting the words right; it’s about carrying a colonized people’s story into a new linguistic space without stripping its soul. That’s power. That’s responsibility.

I’m not going to wrap this up with some grand statement about the “importance” of translation. Honestly, that feels like a cop-out. Instead, I’ll leave you with this: translation is a human act, full of love and error and ego. It’s why we can read Borges and Kafka in the same breath, why we can argue about whether Proust’s madeleines taste better in French. It’s flawed, it’s beautiful, and it’s how we keep the world’s stories from dying in their own languages. So, next time you pick up a translated book, don’t just read it—wonder about the ghost who brought it to you. What did they see in those words? What did they miss? That’s where the real story starts.