#&. arc. love dares us to change our way of thinking about ourselves ( young / new york. )

[trickstercaptain]

NEW YORK ARC.

This arc is heavily affiliated with musecraft / harringtontm, as well as my own muses on immobiliter / scoopstrooptm, and involves Jack moving to New York in his early twenties, following Christophe’s betrayal and trial that ends with him imprisoned behind bars. For a fresh start, Jack crosses the Atlantic and, with the help of his new roommates Steve and Robin, rents an apartment in the city. 

Jack is single ship with Steve in this arc. 

[how2to18]

WE KNOW HOW those who practice, publish, and promote literary translation think of ourselves: some incredibly tiny fraction of books published in the United States are literary translations (surely far, far less than the “three percent” statistic we often cite), and they are mostly done by small indies whose resources are dwarfed by what a major commercial publisher would spend on any mid-list American author. In spite of that, we persist, because translation is a life-enriching opportunity to enter a community of peers and realize a true literary vocation. As we never get tired of saying, translation is the closest form of reading, and it gives you all the thrills of creativity without the terror of the blank page. Not only that, but we in the translation scene are at the vanguard of those who are rejuvenating the English language and the American imagination, and our work will serve poets and politicians alike for years and years to come.

That’s a largely generalized but probably not overly cartoonish summary of prevailing sentiments in the translation community — but what does the rest of the American literary field think of translation? What do those authors who do not have any strong interest in, affinity for, or history with translation think about it as a practice, and (dare I say) an art form?

Answers of a sort are provided in Crossing Borders, a collection of essays on literary translation as well as short stories that prominently feature the practice. Let’s deal with the fiction first. Its authors range from celebrated, like Joyce Carol Oates and Lydia Davis, to the lesser known. (Notably, just one of the creative writers here is a foreigner that has been translated into English.) Although a few of these writers have translated, most of the fiction contributors have no real experience with the practice.

What emerges in the fictional contributions to Crossing Borders is a vision of the English-language translator as an individual who engages with a foreignness that is largely defined by places over which the US psyche experiences guilt. That is, by places in which we’ve fought hot wars or have damaged in our cultural battles, mostly in Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia. A number of these stories revolve around an interpreter who makes communication possible either with inhabitants of some vague Eastern European locations or with traumatized immigrants from these regions to the United States. Other fictional translators broker relationships between the Anglosphere and Southeast Asian nations like Cambodia that have been the field of battle in the United States’s postcolonial wars. In the stories, the translator/interpreter figures are generally of two kinds: they either facilitate communications for governmental interests abroad or they’re American loners, self-employed or finding a home of sorts in the academy.

This is all to say that the composite picture of the field that emerges in Crossing Borders is not one that I think many in literary translation would find accurate. While it is of course true that our nation’s foreign policy, past and present, often impinges on which regions of the world Americans find literarily fascinating, that dynamic is changing. Many other factors now come into play. Chief among them are the subsidies provided by foreign governments in an ever-expanding game of cultural imperialism. International literary festivals and prizes have become so powerful as to have rocketed a nation like South Korea to the center of the translation world in under a decade — with the help of the more quotidian practice of government bureaucrats arranging editor tours and doling out funds. And as the immense success of authors like the Finnish Sofi Oksanen, Norwegian Karl Ove Knausgaard, and Italian Elena Ferrante demonstrate, the forces of international media, conglomerated publishing, and national bookselling now have very much to say about what foreign people and places occupy the interest of American readers.

Nor are the book’s fictional depictions of literary translators especially flattering. The protagonists come off as sad, occasionally weird individuals without much going on, the kind of people who are incapable of understanding why they’re so socially maladroit. While it’s definitely true that translation tends to be done by those with an eccentric and independent bent to their personalities, the translators I know have a diverse array of interests and large and active social communities. They have lots of friends and professional peers, are often raising families, and would be at home among virtually any group of young professionals. I don’t see them as the awkward, isolated misfits that predominate in Crossing Borders — they’re fun-loving, charismatic, sophisticated, and plain cool. Perhaps the people we see in Crossing Borders are more typical of the translation community as it existed 30 to 40 years ago.

What of the literary textures of these stories, the way they bring to life exotic locales and languages? Tellingly, the only piece of fiction that seemed to make deep and integrated use of the particular history behind its setting was Svetlana Velmar-Janković’s “Sima Street,” which is also the only story in this collection that is translated from a foreign language into English. Joyce Carol Oates’s “The Translation” is also strong; there is a degree of emotional depth to its lead characters, and something real is at stake. But for the most part the stories here felt quite domestic — recognizably American people and arcs transplanted to a foreign location, with a little local color but not much more to set them apart.

One other exception here is Lydia Davis’s contribution, which is characteristically hybrid in its form (one could easily argue for its inclusion as an essay). Posed as a lesson in the French language, it elegantly inculcates in the reader an intense desire to know what happened to “le fermier” — we suspect it may have something to do with the text’s final words, “le meutre” (also its title). In its coy whimsicality and its subversive deployment of linguistic principles, it becomes — in just over six pages — a text that can easily support many readings and ideas. I don’t know exactly where it takes place, but it could be France (there’s something undeniably French to it), or maybe a Calvinoesque invisible France of Davis’s imagination. Similarly, Norman Lavers’s contribution — focusing on a Southeast Asian translator who is essentially rewriting Hamlet and transforming its genre in order to make it comprehensible to her culture — while perhaps not entirely successful as a story, has the benefit of entwining translation more deeply with its protagonist’s psychology and locale, while also thinking about the practice in more interesting ways.

If the fiction in Crossing Borders strikes this reader as a somewhat inaccurate representation of the discipline, the essays are pleasingly different. All written by veteran translators who are greatly esteemed in their field, they present a broad range of translation’s possibilities. The contribution of the late Chana Bloch explores the immense joys and challenges that come with rendering biblical writing, which is among the most formally difficult — and highly scrutinized — translation work available. Primo Levi’s short piece offers poetic commonplaces about the practice; although they won’t break new ground for those who know the field, they are eloquent and rousing. The essay from late Oulipian Harry Mathews strikes a defiant note by inviting translators to drag the art away from ideas of fidelity toward which a translator like Bloch strives; Mathews instead offers a vision of translation as a creative practice that hews closer to what one might call “equivalences” — something like the “translation” that happens when a book becomes a movie. And Michael Scammell’s chronicle of working with the legendarily irascible Vladimir Nabokov as a young man is a beautifully written, thickly descriptive look at the real life of a translator.

That said, there is something dated about the essays too. One can’t help but wonder what Crossing Borders might have looked like with younger, more international names gracing its table of contents. The most interesting people in translation are often young, and they aren’t all American. In recent years, many people under 40 — some even under 30 — have been directly responsible for translating, publishing, and championing authors who have taken the world’s most prestigious literary prizes. And with many of the world’s great writers now regularly touring, and living in, the United States — to say nothing of the translators who regularly spend years abroad — the world literary community is more tightly knit than ever. Any book that aspires to take stock of what is happening in translation right now should reflect these realities in its pages. A much more broadly based and up-to-date version of this collection could make a wonderful contribution to the field of literary translation. I’d love to see Crossing Borders 2.0.

¤

Veronica Scott Esposito is the author of four books, including The Doubles and The Surrender. Her writing has appeared in publications including The New York Times, the Times Literary Supplement, The White Review, and Music & Literature. She is a contributing editor with BOMB magazine, a senior editor at Two Lines Press, and edits The Quarterly Conversation, a journal of book reviews and essays.

The post All the Thrills Without the Terror: On “Crossing Borders: Stories and Essays about Translation” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[trickstercaptain]

         He was going to tell Steve. He needed to tell Steve. What the fuck was he waiting for? He had to tell someone. And who else but Steve?

         Everyone was crowded around Max in the Harrington family living room, discussing who was going to take turns overnight to watch her — understandable, of course, given what they’d all witnessed her go through, and knowing that the Kate Bush track playing in her ears was only a temporary fix until they could break the curse that Vecna had cast over her. But Jack recognised the discomfort in her crossed arms on the couch at the prospect of being fussed over, and he’d now had a glimpse at the horrors that gave her that glassy-eyed stare, too. Horrors that, if the timeline between stalking, terrorising, and killing his victims was the same for his first three targets, would soon be coming for him as well. Less than twenty-four hours between the first vision and being locked in Vecna’s trace, didn’t Max say?

          Jack’s grip on the handles of the carrier bag in his hand tightened, and he finally crossed the room to where Steve was perched on the end of the sofa, arms crossed, watching as Dustin took the lead in assigning them all three hour watches. He gently put a hand on Steve’s arm to draw his gaze and, with a pointed glance towards the hallway, asked him out of the living room for a word.

          As soon as Steve had shut the door behind them, Jack could feel his hold on his self-control start to weaken, slipping through his fingers like the water from Lover’s Lake. “ I saw the clock. At the cemetary. ” A sudden tightness, something that felt an awful lot like panic, formed in the centre of his chest. “ Just after we got Max out. I don’t think he’s happy. ” 

         He didn’t even wait for his boyfriend’s response. In truth, he didn’t think he could face whatever concern was reflected in Steve’s eyes and maintain his rapidly crumbling resolve. Instead, Jack moved at once towards a side table in the house’s entrance hall and began emptying out the carrier bag, full of at least half a dozen music tapes. He then lifted his jumper and unclipped his walkman from his jeans, placing it on the table beside them. His hands were shaking. “ These are all the ones I keep in your car. I might have left one or two back at Dustin’s house, I don’t think there are any important ones in our apartment but I can’t really remember and it doesn’t really matter anyway as we can’t drive all the way back to get them — — ” It was difficult to properly visualise their New York apartment when his mind was so preoccupied by its scramble to pick a favourite song from the ones available. “ I was looking for Bowie but I swear I had more, I don’t know if I left them in the car, I was trying not to draw attention to myself with the kids right there... ”

@harringtontm  

[trickstercaptain]

A PROMISED DRABBLE FOR @harringtontm!

                             Were teenagers always this bloody demanding? Here he was with the relatively straightforward job of babysitting Dustin, Max and Lucas --- particularly Max given what they'd all just found out --- until Steve and Robin returned from Pennhurst, and instead of remaining at Steve's parents' house like they'd all been instructed to do for Max's sake, Jack was instead driving them around town like some glorified taxi service. Except that taxi drivers actually got paid for their services --- and also knew the areas they were driving around in: Jack felt a part of his pride shrivel up and die every time he had to rely on Dustin or Max to tell him which way to go.

            It's actually that way to the trailer park. I'm fine, just drive. The graveyard is this way, Jack. Right. No left. No actually wait it is right.

             If this is what Steve had put up with for the past few years, before leaving Hawkins for New York City, Jack had discovered a newfound respect for his patience.

             But they'd made it to the graveyard ( Max's brother was buried here, or so Dustin had told him: he'd died at the town mall two years ago when a giant flesh-eating monster called the Mind-Flayer had attacked their super-powered friend Eleven. Not the strangest sentence he'd heard uttered in the past couple of days, funnily enough ). Jack had parked Steve's BMV up on the path with himself and Dustin still sat inside. Lucas had gotten out of the car, and was sat on the car bonnet watching Max with concern that they all felt. Jack was convinced that driving her anywhere when this Vecna wizard monster thing could... Vecna her at any point was a terrible idea --- but who was he to argue with them?

             “ Don't they drive on the wrong side of the road in England? ”

             “ Mm? ” Jack turned his head from where he'd been watching Max out of the car window, meeting Dustin's gaze. It was an oddly normal topic of conversation considering the very not normal things he'd heard over recent days, and Jack found that he was weirdly glad for it. “ I wouldn't call it wrong. Everything is just the opposite way round. The driver's seat is where you're sat, we drive on the left, most of our cars are manuals ---- sorry, stick shifts. But I wouldn't worry. I've lived here long enough now to know not drive Steve's car into oncoming traffic. ” Not that there was much in the way of traffic here. There wasn't much in the way of anything. There was a sort of quiet here in Hawkins that Jack wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get used to, evil dark wizards on the loose or not.

                           You could drive for miles here without seeing a single soul. Jack was suddenly very glad he hadn't grown up somewhere like this.

               The long pause that followed Jack's answer made him think that they'd both returned to their pensive silence by Max's brother's graveside. But then he heard Dustin's voice again. “ Soooo... why did you move here? To New York? ”

               “ Dunno. Fresh start? ” Jack shrugged, hoping he hadn't come across as too abrupt. He absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. “ I just... needed to start over. ” And he'd done so in more ways than one. What had started as just a means of getting away from London and Teague and everything he associated with them both had become a life out here in New York that actually made him happy. He turned to face Dustin properly this time. “ Do I get to ask a question now? ”

               “ Yeah, sure. ”

               “ How did you and Steve become friends? ” He'd witnessed how close they were at Christmas: as close as brothers for sure, at least in terms of how frequently they bickered and how easy it was to tell that there was a lot of affection for the other lingering underneath. But, personality wise, they couldn't have been more different: Dustin was into Star Wars and comic books and the weird dice game he kept talking about ( and had been disappointed at Christmas that Jack had never played before ), whereas Steve thankfully hadn't shown interest in any of that. It made Jack wonder what had originally brought them together.

                Dustin answered without even pausing to think about it. “ I found an interdimensional creature from the Upside Down in my trash, and when I adopted it as a pet and it accidentally ate my cat, Steve helped me out. ”

                “  — — Right. ” Of course it was that. Of course it wasn't something ordinary and straightforward like he helped me out with my science project, or he babysat me every Saturday when I was eight. Jack nursed the throbbing at his temple with his fingers, eyes drifting back towards his door window. Steve had said that he'd wanted to tell him about all of this on several occasions since they'd started dating, even with the scary disclosure forms from the government he'd been forced to sign. Jack was beginning to see why: the number of new things he'd learned on this trip about his boyfriend continued to multiply by the hour, and was prompting him to look at Steve in almost a completely new light.

                It wasn't a bad thing, not by any means. If Steve had captured his curiosity before ( even inexplicably at times: there had always been something about Steve Harrington that had held Jack's attention, like a riddle he was tantalisingly close to solving but was lacking in the final piece of the puzzle ), Jack was positively fascinated by him now. It was simply a lot to take in that his boyfriend had fought monsters before --- not just once, but several times.

                “ I know it's a lot to take in. Steve's been really worried about you. ”

                “ I've told him he doesn't need to be. ” The compassion in Dustin's voice caused something to constrict in his chest. There was more than enough going on without them needing to worry about his ability to adapt. He was fine. He'd seen plenty of dangerous situations in his life before. They just hadn't involved supernatural forces outside of his control.

                There was another long silence. “ You do know he's crazy about you, right? ”

                “ What? ” It was easier to pretend that he hadn't heard Dustin, that he was trying to keep an eye on Max like Steve would want him to while he was busy trying to figure out their next steps at Pennhurst. The last thing either of them ultimately needed right now was deep contemplation on the state of their relationship, after all. There were too many other things to think about right now, things far more pressing than the truths Jack might uncover through self-reflection on the fact that he was staying here in Hawkins despite the danger, that the only reason he hadn't returned to New York was because he hadn't wanted to leave Steve and Robin.

                 “ Well, he doesn't stop talking about you for starters. Like, even when you were just roommates, all I'd hear on the phone from him was about this cool British dude that he was sharing an apartment with. And then you started dating and he was telling me about how thrilled he was that you liked him too and how much I needed to meet you. He really cared what I thought of you when you visited last December, too. ”

                “ What did you think of me? ” A small smile pulled up the corner of his lip as he glanced back over at the passenger seat, curiosity now piqued.

                “ I thought you were awesome. ” Jack's smile softened, and then widened. “ Steve dating you is a good sign that he's finally stopped caring what other people think of him. ” 

                “ I thought you just said I was awesome, Dustin. ”

                “ I only mean that like --- you don't care what people think of you, right? ” Jack slowly, suspiciously shook his head, brow still arched. “ Well, Steve has had that problem where he does care. Back in high school especially. I told him he'd be happier if he stopped caring and just dated someone he enjoyed being around. He took my advice, because he's a lot happier with you. ”

               He's a lot happier with you. It was hard sometimes to imagine what Steve had been like before he'd moved to New York --- he was an ex-jock who'd played on all the school sports teams, making him somebody that Jack probably wouldn't have even talked to had he by some weird twist of fate gone to school here. He'd come from rich parents, who Jack had met and thought little of at Christmas, and according to Robin his last serious relationship had fucked him up more than he would ever outwardly let on. But to find out from somebody who knew Steve better than he did that he'd somehow been sadder before the move, before meeting him, filled him with emotions that he couldn't quite explain. That he didn't want to explain, because the last thing he needed during this trip was to be too distracted by his relationship with Steve that he didn't pay enough attention to the literal monsters that were trying to invade this town.

               “ Steve doesn't stop talking about you either. ” Jack caught the way Dustin's eyes lit up as he spoke. “ In the runup to the Christmas trip, I really wanted to make a good impression. Didn't want you to think I was... I don't know, stealing him from you or something. ”

               “ Son of a bitch. I knew he'd said something to you to make you nervous. ”

               “ Hold on, nervous is a strong word. I wasn't nervous. ”

               “ You did seem kinda nervous when you first walked through our door, Jack. ” Rolling his eyes, Jack bit back his next retort, momentarily regretting ever giving the kid the ego boost. “ But I know you're not stealing him from me. Although it does suck sometimes to be the one left behind. ”

               Jack caught that sentence, too, his brief annoyance quickly forgotten. If the two of them were as close as brothers, it must have been difficult for Dustin to see his big brother leave him behind --- and then to see him so happy, thriving even, away from him. His own remark about stealing Steve away clearly hit closer to the mark than Jack had initially thought. Shifting in the driver's seat, Jack's gaze wandered around the car's interior, thinking hard on his next words. “ Well, now Steve and I share a room, there's an empty room in our place in New York with your name on it. ” He turned to meet Dustin's gaze with a small smile. “ After this is all over, I'll buy a name tag and stick it to the door if you want. ”

              “ Yeah? ”

              “ Yeah. I'll drive here and pick you up if you need me to. I know Steve would too. ”

              “ And you won't drive on the wrong side of the road? ”

              “ I won't drive on the wrong side of the road. ” They both laughed, and if Jack didn't know any better, it felt like a moment had passed between them. They hadn't needed the breakthrough, but it still seemed like a palpable shift.

                             Silence, comfortable this time, fell between them, lulling Jack into the false sense of security that the conversation was over.

              “ Do you love him? ”

              Dustin might not have intended it, but the words struck at an exposed nerve, and Jack visibly hesitated. His gaze skittered towards the car window, and he felt a faint flush creep up his neck.

              “ I know for a fact that Steve's in love with you. I haven't seen him act this way around anyone before. ”

              He said it so casually. Jack's gaze continued to focus on anything but his companion in the passenger seat, before his dark eyes settled on Max up on the hill. “ Don't you think she's been up there a while now? ”

             “ What? ”

             “ Max. ” Jack had opened the car door before Dustin had time to protest. “ We're meant to be keeping an eye on her, right? It doesn't take this long to read out a letter. ”

             “ Seriously, dude?! I just asked you a really important question and now you’re concerned? ” 

             Jack ignored him. It was as good an excuse as any. He could feel Max's letter for Steve in the pocket of his jacket. He means so much to her that she'd written him a letter in the event of her death. Instead of talking about Jack's love life, they should have been focusing on Max from the start.

             “ Just give her some time, man! "

             With the roll of his eyes, Jack turned to Lucas, who was still sat on the car bonnet. “ She's had time. You all have. ” And without further hesitation or pause, Jack headed up the hill to check up on her. He could have been wrong, she might have been fine and it might have just been a bloody long letter, but he'd deal with her terse complaints when they happened --- for now, it was an excuse to walk away from the feelings uncovered in the driver's seat of Steve Harrington's car.

                                                              —

             “ Dustin?! Dustin! Jack? Do you copy? Did it work? Is Max OK? ”

             Robin's voice crackled through the radio. At some point in all of the chaos and panic of the last few ten minutes, Dustin had handed it to him.

             “ Yeah. She's OK. ” Jack was pacing by one of the nearby graves, having opted to give Lucas and Max some space. In all honestly, he'd needed the space too. He ran a hand through his hair. “ Can't believe that actually worked. You're a genius. ”

             Music. She needs to listen to her favourite song. In the midst of the relief that they'd finally made a breakthrough, that they'd finally found out what could stop Vecna from claiming Max and therefore any other victims, Jack was struck by what an oddly poetic remedy it was.

             “ I'll remember you said that next time you claim you’re better than me at murderer mystery games, Jack. We're on our way back to Steve's now. ” 

             “ I am better than you. But oh, uh, we're not at Steve's. Long story. We'll meet you both back there. ”

            Jack lowered the radio's antenna, surveying the hill. Time to round up the children, he supposed. It struck him how pale Max looked, despite her insistence to them all ( save Lucas, he suspected ) that she was OK. How could she be OK after something like that? The sight of her trapped in some sort of trance, eyes rolled into the back of her skull, was not an image likely to leave his subconscious any time soon. And that was before she’d been pulled into the air. He could understand the terror in Sarah’s eyes now as she’d described her own innocent experience with one of Vecna’s victims.

            Feeling a sudden pressure and wetness in his nose, Jack raised his sleeve to wipe it away. The last thing he needed was to develop a cold in addition these constant headaches.

            When he pulled his hand away, he saw a blood stain on the jumper sleeve.

                          Headaches. Nosebleeds. Constant nightmares.

            He'd been woken up with a bad dream the first morning after they'd arrived back in Hawkins. Thanks to the supernatural horror show he was now a part of, Jack hadn't slept much since.

            That was when he heard it. Two chimes of a grandfather clock.

                                It was here. Right here. It was so real.

            Jack whirled around, ears following the tick tick tick of the clock hands. His feet soon followed, taking him to a grave a short distance away. In place of the headstone was the grandfather clock in question, protruding out of the ground at an odd, unnatural angle. Jack rounded on it, his dark eyes scanning the clock face, the unremarkable decoration, the pendulum... looking for anything that might explain why Vecna was so fucking obsessed with these things.

                                           Why Max, and now him?

            Assuming that this was Vecna. Why him? He didn't even live here in Hawkins. With any serial killer, monstrous or not, there was normally a link between their victims, and between themselves and their victims. What link did he have? He wasn't from here. What, then, did Vecna want with all of them?

                                  “ Jack. ”

            He couldn't decipher where the voice was coming from, but he knew instinctively who it belonged to. Jack kept his focus on the clock, reaching out with his fingers ---- but before he could touch it, a swarm of spiders emerged from behind the swinging pendulum, spreading across the clock face. Jack jerked his hand back.

                 “ If you’re not easily afraid, Jack, then why are you always running? ”

             The dirt beneath his feet suddenly began to give and, as Jack stepped back, it curled upwards, unfurling like a rug being rolled up. He continued to jump backwards as yet more spiders emerged from the dark chasm it left behind.

              Jack glanced up from the spiders to find the clock gone, replaced once more by a headstone --- but on it read a name that made his blood run ice cold.

                                             Maria Isobel Sparrow                              27th February 1942  -  15th April 1970

              The earth continued to roil underneath him, to the point where he felt about to trip, and then ------

                          “ Jack? ”

               He jerked out of the vision at once, turning around to find Dustin with his hand on his arm. “ We'd better get back to Steve's before he realises we were gone. ”

                “ Too late for that. ” Jack waved the handheld radio at Dustin before he reached down to tug his jacket down over his bloodied jumper sleeve, trying to ignore the way his hands were trembling. He reached up to wipe away any dried blood that might have remained on his face, ushering Dustin towards Steve's car. “ But yeah, let’s go ”