In Other Words (16 page)

The confusion makes me think of a certain geometric
motif, a kind of optical illusion, that is found in the floors of churches, or old palazzi. It's a series of squares in three colors, a simple but complex design that is deceptive to the eye. The effect of this illusion is astounding, disconcerting—the perspective shifts, so that you see two versions of the same thing, two possibilities, at the same time.

Searching for clues, I note that with the adverbs
sempre
(always) and
mai
(never) one often uses the simple past:
Sono stata sempre confusa
(I've always been confused), for example. Or,
Non sono mai stata capace di assorbire questa cosa
(I've never been able to grasp this thing). I think I've discovered an important key, maybe a rule. Then, reading
È stato così
(
It Has Been Like That
[
The Dry Heart
]), by Natalia Ginzburg—a novel whose title provides another example of this theme—I read, “
Non mi diceva mai che era innamorato di me.… Francesca aveva sempre tante cose da raccontare … Aspettavo sempre la posta”
(He never told me he was in love with me.…Francesca always had lots of stories to tell.… I was always waiting for the mail”). No rule, only more confusion.

One day, after reading
Niente, più niente al mondo
(
Nothing, Nothing More in the World
), a novel by Massimo Carlotto, I underline, like a lunatic, every use of the verb
essere
in the past. I write all the sentences in a notebook:
“Sei stato dolce.” “C'era ancora la lira.” “È stato così fin da quando era giovane.” “Ero certa che tutto sarebbe cambiato in meglio.”
(“You were sweet.” “The lira was still in use.” “He's been like that since he was young.” “I was sure that everything would change for the better.”) But this labor turns out to be useless. I learn only one thing, in the end: it depends on the context, on the intention.

By now the difference between the imperfect and the simple past troubles me a little less. By now I know that one says, at the end of a dinner,
È stata una bella serata
(It's been a lovely evening), but that it was (
era
) a lovely evening until it rained. I know that
sono stata
in Greece for a week, but that
ero
in Greece when I got sick. I understand that the imperfect refers to a sort of introduction—an open-ended action, without boundaries, without beginning or end. An action suspended rather than contained, confined to the past. I understand that the relationship between the imperfect and the simple past is a precise, complex system, to make time gone by more tangible, more vivid. A way of recounting something abstract, of perceiving something that isn't there.

Needless to say, this obstacle makes me feel, in fact, very imperfect. Although it's frustrating, it seems fated. I identify with the imperfect because a sense of imperfection has marked my life. I've been trying to improve myself forever, correct myself, because I've always felt I was a flawed person.

Because of my divided identity, or perhaps by disposition, I consider myself an incomplete person, in some way deficient. Maybe there is a linguistic reason—the lack of a language to identify with. As a girl in America, I tried to speak Bengali perfectly, without a foreign accent, to satisfy my parents, and above all to feel that I was completely their daughter. But it was impossible. On the other hand, I wanted to be considered an American, yet, despite the fact that I speak English perfectly, that was impossible, too. I was suspended rather than rooted. I had two sides, neither well defined. The anxiety I felt, and
still feel, comes from a sense of inadequacy, of being a disappointment.

Here in Italy, where I'm very comfortable, I feel more imperfect than ever. Every day, when I speak, when I write in Italian, I meet with imperfection. That curving line leaves a trail, it accompanies me everywhere. It betrays me; it reveals that I am not rooted in this language.

Why, as an adult, as a writer, am I interested in this new relationship with imperfection? What does it offer me? I would say a stunning clarity, a more profound self-awareness. Imperfection inspires invention, imagination, creativity. It stimulates. The more I feel imperfect, the more I feel alive.

I've been writing since I was a child in order to forget my imperfections, in order to hide in the background of life. In a certain sense writing is an extended homage to imperfection. A book, like a person, remains imperfect, incomplete, during its entire creation. At the end of the gestation the person is born, then grows, but I consider a book alive only during the writing. Afterward, at least for me, it dies.

I
receive an invitation to go to Capri, to a literary festival. It consists of a series of conversations between Anglophone and Italian writers, and takes place in a small piazza overlooking the sea, with a view of the rock formations known as the Faraglioni. Every year the festival is devoted to a subject that the writers will discuss with one another. This year, it is “Winners and Losers.” Before the festival, the participants are asked to write a piece on this subject, to be printed in a bilingual catalog. Since I'm an Anglophone writer, the assumption is that I will write this piece in English, and it will then be translated into Italian. But, having been in Italy for almost a year, I am now so gripped by the language that I try to avoid English as much as possible. I write the piece in Italian, and so an English translation is needed.

I would be the natural translator, but I don't have the least desire to do it. I'm not interested, at the moment, in going back. In fact, it frightens me. When I express my reluctance to my husband, he says, “You should do the translation yourself. Better you than someone else, otherwise it won't be under your control.” Following this
advice, and having a sense of duty, I decide, in the end, to translate myself.

I imagined that it would be an easy job. A descent rather than an ascent. Instead, I'm astonished at how demanding I find it. When I write in Italian, I think in Italian; to translate into English, I have to wake up another part of my brain. I don't like the sensation at all. I feel alienated. As if I'd run into a boyfriend I'd tired of, someone I'd left years earlier. He no longer appeals to me.

On the one hand, the translation doesn't sound good. It seems insipid, dull, incapable of expressing my new thoughts. On the other, I'm overwhelmed by the richness, the power, the suppleness of my English. Suddenly thousands of words, nuances, come to me. A solid grammar, no hesitations. I don't need a dictionary; in English I don't have to clamber uphill. This old knowledge, this skill, depresses me. Who is this writer, so well equipped? I don't recognize her.

I feel unfaithful. I fear that, against my will, reluctantly, I have betrayed Italian.

Compared with Italian, English seems overbearing, domineering, full of itself. I have the impression that English has been in captivity and, having just been released, is furious. Probably, feeling neglected for almost a year, it's angry at me. The two languages confront each other on the desk, but the winner is already more than obvious. The translation is devouring, dismantling the original text. I'm struck by how this bloody struggle exemplifies the theme of the festival, the very subject of the piece.

I want to protect my Italian, which I hold in my arms
like a newborn. I want to coddle it. It has to sleep, eat, grow. Compared with Italian, my English is like a hairy, smelly teenager. Go away, I want to say to it. Don't bother your little brother, he's sleeping. He's not a creature who can run around and play. He's not a carefree, strong, independent kid like you.

Now I realize that I'm describing my relationship with Italian in another way, that I've introduced a new metaphor. Until now the analogy had always been romantic: a falling in love. Now, as I translate myself, I feel like the mother of two children. I notice that I've changed my relation to the language, but maybe this change reflects a development, a natural journey. One type of love follows the other; from a passionate coupling, ideally, a new generation is born. I feel an emotion even more intense, more pure, more transcendent for my children. Maternity is a visceral bond, an unconditional love, a devotion that goes beyond attraction and compatibility.

As I translate this short piece into English, I feel split in two. I can't deal with the tension; I'm incapable of moving like an acrobat between the languages. I'm conscious of the unpleasant sensation of having to be two different people at the same time—an existential condition that has marked my life. I know that Beckett translated himself from French into English. That would be impossible for me, because my Italian remains much weaker. They aren't equal, these two brothers, and the little one is my favorite. Toward Italian, I'm not neutral.

As for the translation into English, I consider it an obligation, nothing more. I find it a centripetal process. No mystery, no discovery, no encounter with something outside myself.

I have to admit, though, that traveling between the two versions turns out to be useful. In the end, the effort of translation makes the Italian version clearer, more articulate. It serves the writing, even if it upsets the writer.

I think that translating is the most profound, most intimate way of reading. A translation is a wonderful, dynamic encounter between two languages, two texts, two writers. It entails a doubling, a renewal. I used to love translating from Latin, from ancient Greek, from Bengali. It was a way of getting close to different languages, of feeling connected to writers very distant from me in space and time. Translating myself, from a language in which I am still a novice, isn't the same thing. I've struggled to complete the text in Italian, and I feel I've just arrived, tired but thrilled. I want to stop, orient myself. The reentry is too soon, it hurts. It seems like a defeat, a regression. It seems destructive rather than creative, almost a suicide.