Tag Archives: Vietnam

Last Night I Dreamed of Peace: A Terrible Translation

It’s possible the diary of Thuy Tran, a Vietnamese doctor serving in the National Liberation Front army, is a good read in Vietnamese. In English it is… terrible. I tried hard to remind myself of the real life behind the narrative voice, of the fear and sacrifice, of her youth… but despite the evocative form (reading a diary feels like – maybe because it is? – an invasion) the writing is so terrible it’s distracting. I appreciate, too, that Thuy wasn’t a writer by trade and so my expectations for knock-em out sentences shouldn’t be high, but at a certain point – and I’d suggest this book reaches that point and then well passes it – bad writing (and by that I mean repetitive sentences, poor diction, exaggerated/universalizing statements) gets in the way of any appreciation of content.

I’m inclined to give Thuy more credit and blame the translator. I’d say, from my limited experience evaluating translations, that this is terrible translation. Randomly selected sentence: “These simple letters cannot diminish my longing. My heart lacks the warming fire of the Party” — lots of talk of anguish, transportation of feeling, longing – her heart/head are frequently “filled with many thoughts”.

Okay. So I didn’t like the writing.  Content? I was interested in her story of rising the ranks of the Party, of administering medical care in the jungle, of hating the “American imperialists.” All neat. I was far less interested in her jealousy and various crushes. I know its unreasonable to expect a diary to put limits on these kinds of entries, but all the same, by the end I was pretty fed up with her.

So. There you go.

On another note, I received a comment from a reader on my “The White Bone” entry to the effect that I didn’t do enough research into elephants, and that I considered humans to be far too unique, especially in my characterization of what elephants can and cannot do. I do appreciate the comment. I did try to be as careful as possible to limit my criticism to those things elephants cannot – to the best of my knowledge do – for instance, creating art. I rescind my comments about elephant burial practices to the extent that elephants do bury their dead, but do not, as far as I can tell, speculate on the afterlife of those elephants living with She-woman in the sky (as the novel suggests). I could have added elephants do not understand their world through the Biblical story of Adam and Eve (as the novel suggests), or practice monogamy (again, as the novel suggests). My criticism of the book was not intended as a criticism of elephants. Quite the contrary, I didn’t like the book because it reduced the complexity of elephant mindscape to that of humans.

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Book I'll Forget I Read

The Quiet American: Some brilliant sentences

                                         

Perhaps the title for this post is misleading: I don’t mean to suggest that Graham Greene’s The Quiet American is bad writing peppered with brilliant sentences; rather, the novel is well written on the whole, but there are some sentences that made me stop and gape: such brilliance with images, such tidy and punchy sentences. I made mental notes of them all so that I could include them here (reading in the tub is not conducive to underlining, nor, I think, is reading for ‘pleasure’), but (of course) I’ve forgotten them now and the book is packed away for its return to the library.

I realized about twenty pages in that I knew the plot. After consulting others I realized I’d seen the film (the Michael Cain version). Happily, my often failing memory served me well in this instance, as I couldn’t remember what was *going* to happen, but as events unfolded I experienced a rather uncanny recognition that I had known what would take place. I wonder if that is what my middling years will be like? A constant sense of displaced familiarity?

In any case. Fowler is terrific as the caustic, apparently disengaged and whole self-serving anti-hero. Pyle doesn’t come across as much of a character, just a symbol for American arrogance and American quasi-innocence in international policy. A perfect book to read against current global conflicts as the book brings into sharp relief assumptions made about foreign populations (not the least their docility, childishness and happiness at the arrival of the ‘liberators’) and crimes perpetrated under the claim of good will, or worse still, good intention.

I admit to being surprised by the turn of the ending. I suppose I’d accepted the reliability of Fowler as narrator, and hadn’t expected – though in retrospect the novel gives every reason for me to do so, an altogether too trusting reader – his betrayal not just of Pyle, but of the reader, too.

Finishing The Quiet American means I’ve read one book in each of the ten categories. Celebration! I’m having a very good time with 10-10-12. I’d never have read The Quiet American without it, and despite my misgivings about the reliability of Fowler, I enjoyed it a great deal.

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, American literature, Fiction