João Guimarães Rosa's windmills

"An American reader must learn Portuguese, too, if he is to experience fully Rosa's poetic power and wit", said Barbara Shelby in her preface to her translation of Primeiras Estórias (1962) as The Third Bank of the River and Other Stories (1968). The statement was obviously meant for readers of other nationalities. It's just that Shelby's American perspective was more pronounced in her presentation of the Brazilian master, evident in her comparison of João Guimarães Rosa to American masters. If Alison Entrekin's translation (or "reconstruction") of Grande Sertão: Veredas would ever see the light of day, then that could be another glimpse at the poetic power and wit of JGR. Meanwhile, the short stories and sketches in The Third Bank of the River could also reveal flashes of linguistic genius and panache. It could possibly tide over the infinite patience of a fan waiting for three to five years for a more reckless and disruptive translation of the masterpiece.

I was only just four stories in to the collection and already I could say that Shelby tried her best to render in English JGR's supposedly pyrotechnical prose full of notorious neologisms and word plays. It had the same confidence as the more recent Englishing of JGR's stories in The Jaguar (2001) by David Treece. I counted a half dozen overlapping stories between The Jaguar and The Third Bank. Perhaps I would make a side by side reading of them; that would make for a more enriching reading. In any case, an encounter with the first four stories in this collection already validated for me JGR's abiding interest in the dark and quirky sides of men and women and how they could be represented in complex and surreal and madcap words and formulations. The epiphanies and revelations of human nature and deep feelings were as sublime as Joyce's.

When they got home he no longer wanted to go outside. The yard held a lost nostalgia, a vague remorse; he hardly knew what. The childish thoughts in his little head were still in the hieroglyphic stage. Nevertheless he went out after supper. And saw it—the unostentatious, sweetly unexpected surprise. The turkey was there! Oh, no, it wasn't. Not the same one. It was smaller, much less turkey. It had the coral color, the sumptuous train, the ruff, and the gurgling gobble, but its painful elegance lacked the hauteur, the rotundity, the taut, globular beauty of the other. Even so, its coming and its presence were some consolation.

Everything was softened by melancholy, even the day; that is, the coming of twilight. Nightfall is sorrowful everywhere. The stillness stole out from where it was kept. The boy was soothed in a half-frightened way by his own despair; some inner force was working in him, putting down roots to strengthen his soul.

The turkey advanced to the edge of the forest. There it caught sight of—what was it? He could hardly make it out, it was getting so dark. Well, if it wasn't the other turkey's cut-off head, thrown on the trash heap! The boy felt pity and ecstasy. [from "The Thin Edge of Happiness"]

"O, there’s a . . . fib!" Imagine a child's disappointment after witnessing a live turkey and a beheaded one.

Quirkiness and innocence were the order of the day: the characters were either innocent children with exploratory or adventurous consciousness (as in "The Thin Edge of Happiness") or adults suddenly let loose or unhinged ("Tantarum, My Boss"; "Much Ado"). And there was still JGR's snappy folk dialogues and aphoristic tendencies:

All eternity, all certainty, was lost; in a breath, in the glimmer of a sigh, that which is most precious is taken from us. ["The Thin Edge of Happiness"]

* * *

I did just what he said, as there wasn't any help for it; to handle a lunatic it takes a lunatic and a half. The blue of those big eyes of his went right through me; he may have been crazy, but he knew how to give orders. His beard was pointing up in the air—that crisscross tangled beard of his without a single white hair lying straight. He waved his arms around like a windmill. He was better than a free sample. ["Tantarum, My Boss"]

Like Quixote confronting windmills, JGR's old man, Tantarum, was prone to actions hard to explain for evident madness or semi-madness. They just went up and about and did things out of logic or hard to fathom.

* * *

João Guimarães Rosa was one of the literary heroes of this blog. I first encountered his novel The Devil to Pay in the Backlands in the university library, drawn to the novel's kick-ass title. Needless to say, my life of reading was never the same again, and this after reading a supposedly flawed and unfaithful translation.

In the 10 years of this blog's existence, I have written more than 10 blog posts on him, one of which was an investigation of the supposed deletion of "The Slaughter of the Ponies" section in The Devil to Pay in the Backlands (this post). After reading Gregory Rabassa's memoirs, If This Be Treason, which I acquired in 2010 via Bookmooch, I became interested in this section of Grande Sertão that Rabassa said was excluded in the translation. I had to order The Borzoi Anthology of Latin American Literature, Volume II from a bookseller-friend in the U.S. just to verify Gregory Rabassa's claim in his memoirs.


 


There was a reference to this section in "'Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth': Mistranslating Grande Sertao: Veredas into Oblivion", a journal article by James Remington Krause (Chasqui, November 2015). The article could be found at this link (see footnote 9). Krause did not cite my 2010 blog post as a source of his 2015 article. Does referencing blog posts—examples of so-called "gray literature", write-ups that were not peer-reviewed—undermine the scholarship and rigor of academic articles? Book blogging is "dead", indeed.

A Goodreads reviewer, Nathan "N.R." Gaddis, also made the same serendipitous discovery in his review of The Devil to Pay in the Backlands, mentioning the Borzoi Anthology, Rabassa, and "the slaughter of the ponies" section. He was even inspired to type in the whole extract from the novel, in the two English versions. Found here.

I'm tempted to cite a JGR aphorism.

My next post: João Guimarães Rosa as a master aphorist.

Bibliography of Philippine novels in English translation, 2

I once made a list of Philippine novels that have been translated into English in 2014 (see this post). I have updated this list. The complete list (as of December 2018) could be viewed in this spreadsheet in Google Docs. Further additions will be reflected in the same spreadsheet.

Several things could be observed from this list.

1. The translation of Philippine novels into English is a recent phenomenon.

Out of 25 novels in English translation, only six were published in the previous century. These six novels were written in either Spanish or Hiligaynon languages. The remaining 19 appeared in the 21st century (2006-2018). To date, the translations were produced from four source languages: Tagalog or Filipino (10), Spanish (6), Cebuano (5), and Hiligaynon (4). Vernacular Philippine languages with strong novelistic tradition still have to be represented.

2. Filipino male novelists were translated more than female novelists.

No surprise there. There were 16 translated novels by male writers (64%) while there were only 9 by women writers (36%).

3. The translated books are relatively hard to access, even for those living in the Philippines.

All novels in the list, except for the first three Spanish novels, were originally published in the Philippines. José Rizal's novels were originally published in Berlin and Ghent while Pedro Paterno's Nínay was published in Madrid.

More than half (13) were mainly published by academic publishers. This means that they were not stocked in mainstream bookstores. I had a hard time seucring a copy of the two 2018 translated titles. The two university publishers (Ateneo de Naga University Press and University of San Carlos Press) do not have an online bookstore from which to order books. They do have Facebook pages where I can send a direct message, wait for a relatively long time for the reply, give my order, pay in a bank or a cash transfer service, and wait for the book sent through courier.

As to availability as ebooks or hard copy, I think only Rizal's novels (the recent Penguin editions) were prominently available.

4. Filipino novels serialized in weekly magazines in the last century were a goldmine of possible materials for translation.

At most 10 novels in the list were first published in weekly serials in Philippine magazines in the 20th century. These were mainly the works of Ramon L Muzones and Magdalena Jalandoni in Hiligaynon, Austregelina Espina-Moore in Cebuano, and Macario Pineda and Rosario de Guzman Lingat in Tagalog. Lazaro Francisco's Ilaw sa Hilaga (Light in the North), whose translation is set to appear soon, was first serialized in 1931-32.

Patricia May B. Jurilla, in Bibliography of Filipino Novels: 1901-2000 (The University of the Philippines Press, 2010), listed a total of 365 titles of novels in Tagalog/Filipino. This was a gross underestimation because she included only those that came out in book form.

Soledad S. Reyes, in Narratives of Note: Studies of Popular Forms in the Twentieth Century (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2012), made an estimate of the total novels in Filipino that appeared in magazine installments and in book form.

In the twentieth century, more than a thousand of novels in Filipino came out, some in book form, many as serialized novels [in weekly magazines and komiks]. The number of novels in English which came out mostly in book form was much smaller.

At present there is no comprehensive bibliography of all the published novels in Filipino. But it is safe to assume that serialized novels published weekly in several magazines—Liwayway (from 1922), Sampagita, Ilang Ilang, Hiwaga, Bulaklak, Aliwan, Tagumpay—and those that came out in book form, especially in the first four decades of the twentieth century, would reach more than a thousand. Liwayway alone would have published a total of 800 novels between 1922 and 1980, at ten novels per year. [emphases added]

Those novels awaiting translation were a veritable goldmine for would-be translators.

5. The list can be longer.

Strictly speaking, the two entries for Isabelo de los Reyes [El Folk-Lore Filipino (vol. 1) and Ang Diablo sa Filipinas ayon sa nasasabi sa mga casulatan luma sa Kastila) could hardly be called novels. The first is a hybrid compendium of folk-lore and other texts while the second is a mere short story. But I included them precisely to question the notion of a novel.

Even if we remove the two from the list, however, there may be others that could take their place. I know for a fact that one or more romance novels, published by the prolific imprint of Precious Hearts Romances (PHR), could qualify. I was hunting for a translated title in the PHR site that I "bookmarked" online but I lost the link.

Also, there are other extant translations that I need to get a copy of first (though this might be impossible) before I add them. I'm not sure if they were published in the first place or they contain complete translations or just extracts. They were:

a. Translations of novels of Lazaro Francisco by the scholar Mona P. Highley. They were probably just drafts. [Soledad S. Reyes mentioned about it in her introduction to Halina sa Ating Bukas (Welcome to Our Tomorrow) by Macario Pineda.]

b. Translation of the Tagalog novel Banaag at Sikat (Dawn and Sunrise) by Lope K. Santos (1879-1963). According to N.V.M. Gonzalez [in The Novel of Justice], Mariano C. Javier wrote a critical reading and a complete English translation of this novel in A Study of the Life and Works of Lope K. Santos, with Special Reference to Banaag at Sikat (Unpublished Master's Thesis; University of the Philippines, 1960).

c. Translation of Jovito S. Abellana's novel in archaic Cebuano language, Aginid: Bayok sa Atong Tawarik (Aginid: Ode to Our History) (1952). According to Resil B. Mojares [in his critical introduction to the translation of Vicente Gullas's Lapulapu: The Conqueror of Mangellan], Aginid is a hybrid text consisting of a poem (bayok) written in baybayin (ancient alphabet), with interlinear translation into Romanized Cebuano. Its Pale Fire-ish quality makes me curious. Mojares's extended analysis of Abellana's work and critique of the text's provenance made me want to get a copy of the translation by Romola O. Savellon, A Translation and Critical Analysis of the Dance-Epic "Aginid Bayok sa Atong Tawarik" by Jovito Abellana (Cebu City: Cebu Normal University, 2010), Cultural Heritage Monograph Series on Indigenous Culture. Despite being packaged as a historical artifact, Mojares says that "Aginid should not be read as a folk document or historical chronicle but a piece of imaginative literature, an admirable, artistic fiction which should be justly recognized as such in studies of Cebuano literature.

I own 23 of the 25 titles and read 20 from the list so far. The two titles I lack (Jalandoni's The Lady in the Market and Gangcuangco's Orosa-Nakpil, Malate) were out of print.


PHILIPPINE NOVELS IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

5 wounds, ca. 2018

"Where are Asia's Nobel Prize-winners?", asked the Filipino novelist N.V.M. Gonzalez in 1985. A prelude to his thoughts on "what literary prizes are for".

To Robert Frost the test of time is irrelevant. There is, in Frost's view, an "immortal wound" that is inflicted upon us by a good poem. He must have had the novel also in mind. Frost said this much, in a single-minded stand against being carried away by much-publicised literary trends.

Given the right circumstances, Gonzalez believed that prize-giving can be reminders that we might become "some writer's right kind of reader, soon to be 'hurt', to be 'immortally wounded – and ever grateful". But he eventually discarded his idea about prize-giving since "the Nobel committee misses the mark on occasion" because "to begin with, it doesn't, or can't, for some reason or other, collectively get 'wounded'".

Surely, the problem of accessing the novels in a language the gatekeepers understand is a key consideration for being considered for the prize.

The keepers of the garden gate would perhaps do well to remember that it would be unfair to quibble over whether certain credentials of entry, if in their original, are available in agreeable translations. Something truly substantial should be the basis for consideration [for the Nobel Prize].

Whatever that "something truly substantial" is, it could not be discovered unless one understands the letters on the page. Consider Kawabata Yasunari:

Kawabata appeared on the list of candidates for the first time in 1961.

But at that time, the translation of his works into foreign languages was limited to “Thousand Cranes,” which was released in serial form from 1949, and “Snow Country,” the novel that was published in serials between 1935 and 1947 and cemented his status as a leading author in the Japanese literary world.

The academy did not award the prize to Kawabata [from 1961 to 1967] as it deemed that it “cannot accurately evaluate his accomplishments due to a paucity of available translations of his novels.” [from: The Asahi Shimbum, via the complete review]

All of which brings me to the exemplary books I read during the previous year. All Asian works (from the Philippines and Japan), written by mostly dead (except for one) novelists.

They are fictional works that have impacted me by "wounding" me, the way Frost would never get over a good poem, and perhaps akin to how Kafka was stabbed and wounded, in his oft-quoted violent axing of the inner frozen sea.

1. The Locked Door and Other Stories (2017) by Rosario de Guzman Lingat, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (review)

Like her novels, Lingat's short stories were products of a discerning imagination. In this collection, her female protagonists navigate a social, economic, and cultural landscape inhospitable to women's desires and ambitions. But they resisted and persisted. These narratives were conflict-ridden, oftentimes reflecting the social unrest simmering in the background. They contained motifs and images that stirred the already troubled atmosphere. 

2. Territory of Light (2018) by Yūko Tsushima, translated from the Japanese by Geraldine Harcourt (review)

Tsushima would have been a very worthy Nobel laureate from Japan. In Territory of Light, the play of light and shadows was palpable, providing succor to a female character faced with domestic and societal pressures. The well-controlled mood, the nuance of feelings,

3. Driftwood on Dry Land (2013) by T.S. Sungkit Jr., translated from Cebuano by T.S. Sungkit Jr. (review)

This epic novel, influenced a lot by the oral tradition, straddles between two kinds of time: mythic time and historical time. But its ingenuity is in relying much on the former, making it similar to the style and content of folk tales like "the epic and the bayok". According to Resil Mojares, these narratives "are constructed out of a repetitive, limited set of verbal formulas and units of action, which is what allows the poem to be spontaneously composed, extemporized, as it is performed. In the epic Mindanao bayok, the language is highly figurative, elliptical, and improvisatory. Typically the action take place in mythic (rather than historical) time and construes place, person, and action differently from modern narratives". By his creative combination of both mythic and historical times, Sungkit provided density (history) to an otherwise light (mythic) narrative and produced a hybrid text characterized by its close attention to the dispossessed people, and hence the celebration of a marginal, off-center literary-historical tradition.

4. The Cry and the Dedication (1995) by Carlos Bulosan

If we go by hurt and feels, then this posthumously published (unfinished) novel was certainly wounding. Flawed, sometimes erratically written, it conjured character personas for the author who could be considered spiritually exiled in America. It was not something I enjoyed reading but something I couldn't get out of my mind. Its Dantesque approach (going to the underground and experiencing various circles of hell) might be sloppy and contrived but the "hurtful" ideas it generates on nationalism, revolution, and the aesthetics of resistance are worth pondering.

5. Ilaw sa Hilaga (Northern Light) (1997) by Lázaro Francisco (review) 

A unique form of socioeconomic novel, if there was one, complete with analysis (in microcosm) of competition, trade, and foreign investment and its impact on local (rural) development. The specter of collective suicidal tendencies was satirized here, one wherein the elite of society ran headlong toward its self-demise due to being seduced by colonial mentality of Filipinos during the early decades of American occupation. A translation of the novel is underway.


Note: Quotations from N.V.M. Gonzalez were from “Among the Wounded”, in The Novel of Justice: Selected Essays 1968-1994 (National Commission for Culture and the Arts, 1996). Words of Resil Mojares were from “In Search of Lapulapu: A Critical Introduction”, in Lapulapu: The Conqueror of Magellan, a novel by Vicente Gullas, translated by Erlinda K. Alburo (University of San Carlos Press, 2018).

Reading in 2018

I managed to read 25 books this year, which is a slight improvement from the previous. Not surprisingly, I tended to focus on Filipiniana books.

I've also been catching up with writing blog posts in the last few days though overall the whole year had been inconsistent in terms of posting. Yet I still never felt the need to pause or make this space go dormant in the near future.

My best book of the year was Thomas Bernhard's collected memoirs, Gathering Evidence, which I classify as fiction here just because I want to consider it as such. It was actually a reread so I decided I will not include it anymore in my round up of my best reads in a separate post. Bernhard's memoirs is a cornerstone of my reading life, and it was wonderful to be reacquainted again with his black humor.


FICTION

Gathering Evidence by Thomas Bernhard, translated from German by David McLintock (reviews)

The Locked Door and Other Stories by Rosario de Guzman Lingat, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (review)

Of Dogs and Walls by Yūko Tsushima, translated from Japanese by Geraldine Harcourt

Apdo ng Kalungkutan (Bile of Loneliness) by Angel L. Enemecio, translated from Cebuano to Filipino by Jennifer Nadela Inez

Territory of Light by Yūko Tsushima, translated from Japanese by Geraldine Harcourt (review)

Halina sa Ating Bukas (Welcome to Our Tomorrow) by Macario Pineda

Isang Milyong Piso (One Million Pesos) by Macario Pineda

Driftwood on Dry Land by T.S. Sungkit Jr., translated from Cebuano by T.S. Sungkit Jr. (review)

The Star of Panghulo by Patricio Mariano, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (review)

Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar, translated from the French by Grace Frick in collaboration with Marguerite Yourcenar

Mga Patay na Bituin (Dead Stars) by Paz Marquez-Benitez, translated from English to Filipino by Virgilio S. Almario

Halimuyak ng Mansanas (Scent of Apples) by Bienvenido N. Santos, translated from English to Filipino by Michael M. Coroza

Kung Ipaghiganti ang Puso (If the Heart Is Avenged) by Deogracias A. Rosario

Ang Beterano (The Veteran) by Lázaro Francisco

Beijing Comrades by Bei Tong, translated from Chinese by Scott E. Myers

Bahay ni Marta (House of Marta) by Ricky Lee

The Cry and the Dedication by Carlos Bulosan

Ilaw sa Hilaga (Northern Light) by Lázaro Francisco (review)


POETRY / POETRY AND PROSE

Jaime Gil de Biedma in the Philippines: Prose and Poetry by Jaime Gil de Biedma, translated from Spanish by Alice Sun-Cua, José Mª Fons Guardiola, and Wystan de la Peña (review)

Dancing Embers by Sándor Kányádi, translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar

La India Elegante y El Negrito Amante at Ilang Maikling Tula (La India Elegante y El Negrito Amante and Some Short Poems) by Francisco Balagtas


PLAY

Bedtime Stories: Mga Dula sa Relasyong Sexual (Plays on Sexual Relationships) by Rene O. Villanueva


NON-FICTION / MANIFESTO

Food Rules: An Eater's Manual by Michael Pollan

Under Three Flags: Anarchism and the Anti-Colonial Imagination by Benedict Anderson

Mga Rebolusyonaryong Dekalogo (Revolutionary Decalogues) by Andres Bonifacio, Gregoria De Jesus, Apolinario Mabini, and Emilio Jacinto

   
     

       
         

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

 
 

     

     

Patricio Mariano's romantic upheavals

The Star of Panghulo by Patricio Mariano, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2018)

The Star of Panghulo, the translation of a 1913 novel by Patricio Mariano (1877-1935), was not the best book I read this year. It was a minor novel, but it certainly graced the best book cover I encountered this year. For a synopsis of the novel, I don't think I could improve upon what's in the Wikipedia page of the novel. It's a tale of contrasts: two women, two men, two love affairs.

Here we have Soledad S. Reyes doing the translation once again. This was her sixth translated novel from the Philippines since Macario Pineda's The Gold in Makiling in 2012, making her the record holder for the most prolific novel translator in the country.

I could not fault Soledad S. Reyes for which author she translates next. Other than her curation of Rosario de Guzman Lingat's novels and stories, the rest of the writers she translated were male. She seemed to be interested in how Filipino male writers of the first half of the 20th century portrayed women in their fiction. Hence, the novel (and several stories) of Macario Pineda, and then The Golden Dagger by Antonio G. Sempio, and then this novel. The latter two novels were hardly radical in their approach to the novel.

It would have been ideal if Reyes translated the works of better Tagalog novelists instead. For example, other novels by Macario Pineda, or those of Lázaro Francisco. Better yet, she could always select for her translation project the works of other women writers themselves. And why not take a look at the works of some excellent contemporary writers? I could not fault the translator for her chosen project, but how I wish she took some risks.

In any case, the novel in question, set in 1872, provided ample details about life in rural areas in the vicinity of Manila. The translator likely captured the cadence and richness of the Tagalog language in those days.

—Oh, what a terrible fate befalls a poor man,—Pedro interjected, appearing to mumble the words to himself. —Had I been a man of means, your father's violent objection to our love would not have reared its ugly head; and perhaps your parent would not have vilified my honor because of their desire to acquire tons of silver in exchange for your beauty ...

Since the quality of Tagalog as language had evolved between 1913 and 2018, Reyes was attuned to the register of the old Tagalog which must have proved to be slippery when it comes to rendering it in the English. The translator's project was clearly aimed at characterizing portrayal of women in a society steeped in patriarchy, class conflicts, and tradition. It was an era that idealized beauty of the fair sex.

Lucia was like the flower called alexandria, newly sprung in bloom; a flower grown in the country, a Filipina in whose veins flowed Spanish blood because one of her ancestors was the son of a Spaniard; Berta was the bud of sampagita, a flower native to the country, the flower inducing passion among the modest, delicate hearts of the Filipino race, the flower that embodied the love of the best of Filipino womanhood.

The sentimental mannerisms and romantic notions were here in abundance. It idealized Berta, the "star of Panghulo", not only for her beauty but for her compassion and devotion for the poor. In spite of her poverty, "no one would dare mock or cast aspersion upon her, terrified as these potential character assassins were of the barrio folk's collective revenge". The barrio folk had put Berta on the pedestal for her hard work and charity for the poor.

In contrast to the meek and kind Berta, Lucia was portrayed as a liberal woman who was in a lonely relationship with an abusive husband. In those days, the woman's code was to endure being with her husband no matter what. Both Lucia and Berta were subject to the "traditional values" of self-abnegation, how women should behave in order to retain her honor. Lucia for not breaking up with her husband, Berta for not openly declaring her love for a man lest she be labeled as a loose woman.

—Please forgive me, my love,—Pedro said, after I had regained my consciousness. —Forgive me if, because of the deep emotional wound caused by your refusal to say anything yesterday to convince me of your love, I have caused this upheaval. I know the gravity of my sin, that is why I am laying my heart bare, this heart that has caused untold misery; slash it, for each drop of tear flowing from your eyes is my life itself. Here is my treacherous heart. Drain each ounce of its blood to wreak vengeance and so drive away some of your bitterness ...

The syrupy dialogues in the story would probably constitute its greatest novelty. While definitely a flawed novel through and through, The Star of Panghulo was a historical product of the times. At times the narrator displayed some playful, modernist tendencies, at times the characters proclaimed some feminist ideas, but always the narrative was true to the stereotypical conception of women, the premium given to traditional mores, and the abiding patriarchy that shaped human relationships in the novel's time period.