I read two articles about translating this famous piece by Borges. I learned a lot about styles and philosophies of translation. The articles are both available online.
1. Hurley, Andrew. “What I Lost When I Translated Jorge Luis Borges.”
Inverse Journal. Feb. 1, 2019.
2. DeRobertis, Martina. “Borges and I: Comparing English Translations of ‘Borges y yo’.”
Columbia Journal of Literary Criticism. Essays, 2019.
I studied the translations of Andrew Hurley, Martina DeRobertis, James E Irby, and Kenneth Krabbenoft. Here is my translation:
Borges and I
Jorge Luis Borges
The other one, Borges, is the one that things happen to. I stroll through Buenos Aires and linger, perhaps mechanically now, in order to look at the arch of an entryway and the inside door. I see news about Borges in the mail, and I see his name on a short list of professors nominated for recognition or in a bibliography. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth century typography, etymologies, the taste of coffee, and the prose of Stevenson; the other one shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the affectations of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that our relationship is hostile; I live, I allow myself to live, so that Borges can plot out his literature, and that literature is my reason for living. It costs me nothing to confess that he has achieved certain worthwhile pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because the good no longer belongs to anyone, not even to the other one, but rather to language or to tradition. Besides, I am destined to be lost, most certainly, and only some instant of myself will be able to survive in the other one. Little by little I am going to give everything up to him, although I know his perverse habit of lying and glorifying. Spinoza understood that all things want to continue to be what they are. The stone eternally wants to be stone and the tiger a tiger. I have to stay in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the painstaking strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and I passed from the mythologies of the slums to games with time and the infinite, but those games belong to Borges and now I will have to think up other things. So my life is a running out and everything I am losing and everything belongs to oblivion, or to the other one.
I do not know which of the two is writing this page.
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Edits:
L2: I get news reports about Borges from the mail > I see news about Borges in the mail
L3: bibliographical dictionary> biographical dictionary > bibliography;
a short list of professors > a short list of professors nominated for recognition
L7: that Borges might be able to > that Borges can
L11: exaggerating > glorifying
L17: So my life is an escaping > So my life is a running out
L19: which of the two of us > which of the two
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Original
From
Biblioteca Digital Ciudad Seva
Borges y yo
Jorge Luis Borges
Al otro, a Borges, es a quien le ocurren las cosas. Yo camino por Buenos Aires y me demoro, acaso ya mecánicamente, para mirar el arco de un zaguán y la puerta cancel; de Borges tengo noticias por el correo y veo su nombre en una terna de profesores o en un diccionario bibliográfico. Me gustan los relojes de arena, los mapas, la tipografía del siglo XVIII, las etimologías, el sabor de café, y la prosa de Stevenson; el otro comparte estas preferencias, pero de un modo vanidoso que las convierte en atributos de un actor. Sería exagerado afirmar que nuestra relación es hostil; yo vivo, yo me dejo vivir, para que Borges pueda tramar su literatura y esa literatura me justifica. Nada me cuesta confesar que ha logrado ciertas páginas válidas, pero estas páginas no me pueden salvar, quizá porque lo bueno ya no es de nadie, ni siquiera del otro, sino del lenguaje o la tradición. Por lo demás yo estoy destinado a perderme, definitivamente, y sólo algún instante de mí podrá sobrevivir en el otro. Poco a poco voy cediéndole todo, aunque me consta su perversa costumbre de falsear y magnificar. Spinoza entendió que todas las cosas quieren perseverar en su ser; la piedra eternamente quiere ser piedra y el tigre un tigre. Yo he de quedar en Borges, no en mí (si es que alguien soy), pero me reconozco menos en sus libros que en muchos otros o que en el laborioso rasgueo de una guitarra. Hace años yo traté de librarme de él y pasé de las mitologías del arrabal a los juegos con el tiempo y lo infinito, pero esos juegos son de Borges y ahora tendré que idear otras cosas. Así mi vida es una fuga y todo lo pierdo y todo es del olvido, o del otro.
No sé cuál de los dos escribe esta página.
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Crib:
To the other one, to Borges, is to whom things happen. I walk through Buenos Aires and I slow down/pause/linger, perhaps mechanically now, in order to look at the arch of an entryway and the inside door; I have news reports about Borges from the mail, and I see his name on a short list of professors or in a bibliographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth century typography, etymologies, the taste of coffee, and the prose of Stevenson; the other one shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be exaggerated to affirm that our relationship is hostile. I live, and I allow myself to live, so that Borges can contrive his literature, and that literature justifies me. It costs me nothing to confess that he has achieved certain valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because the good does not any longer belong to anyone, not even to the other one, but rather to language or to tradition. Besides, I am destined to get lost/to lose myself, definitively, and only some instant of myself will be able to survive in the other one. Little by little I am going to cede everything to him, although I know his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying. Spinoza understood that all things ant to persevere in their state of being. The stone eternally wants to be stone and the tiger a tiger. I have to stay in Borges, not in myself (if it is that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others, or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and I passed from the mythologies of the surrounding slums to the games with time and the infinite, but those games belong to Borges and now I will have to think up other things. So my life is an escaping and everything I lose and everything belongs to oblivion, or to the other.
I don’t know which of the two is writing this page.
J. L. Borges—“Borges and I”
Threaded Mode
