One Passage, Seven Translations—Natsuki Koyata

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok

On November 19, Day 2 of SCBWI Japan Translation Days 2022, Takami Nieda led participants in a translation workshop using a passage from 望むのは by Natsuki Koyata. This is a YA-appropriate novel that Nieda is translating as The Brief Colorful Year of Being Fifteen; her engaging synopsis and several pages of context for the workshop passage appear here.

Six translators submitted translations of the passage, which were then blinded and discussed in a session open to all participants. Below are the original passage by Koyata, the six submitted translations, and a sample translation by Takami Nieda. The two characters speaking are the teens Koharu (who speaks first) and Ayumu; Ayumu is a ballet dancer.

Original Passage

「それが何？　イメージと違ってがっかりって言いたいの？」口をついて出たその言葉は、しかし、その瞬間に小春の胸を貫いた。歩くんが都合のいい弱者でなかったことがどんなに自分を失望させたか、その失望がどんなに醜く、恥ずべきものだったか、小春はその痛みで初めて奥まで理解した。「あんたのイメージなんかどうだっていい」とそれでもなぜだか、自分自身を打ちのめしたくて言葉を継いだ。「これが現実のわたしだもん。あんたのイメージなんか、あんたのイメージする小春なんかぶっ殺してやる」

「殺せないよ。ぼくのイメージは本物だもん」たじろぎもせず、歩くんは返した。「ぼくのイメージはいつだって本物。いつだって現実だよ。脚はどの軌道を通るか、指先はどの高さまで達するか、イメージするからきれいに飛べる。イメージがすべてだ」そこで不意に、小春はぐらりと足元が揺らぐのを感じたが、「ぼくは白鳥だ。ぼくは王子だ」という屈強な宣言が、反対側から跳ね上げて小春を立たせた。「誰が気に入らなくたって、ぼくはイメージし続ける。そうして現実を作り続ける。つまらない幻想に、もうこれ以上振り回されたくないから」 

[Source: Nozomu no wa by Natsuki Koyata (Shinchosha, 2017)]

Translation A

“So, what? Disappointed I wasn’t like you thought?” Koharu spat.

Yet even as the words flew from her mouth, pain lanced across her chest. The hideous disappointment of Ayumu’s revelation, the sharp sting of shame, was like a physical blow.

“Who cares about what you think of me anyway,” she continued, inexplicably, somehow bent on making the situation worse. “This is who I really am. So whoever this imaginary version of Koharu is in your head, it’s time for her to die—bury her. She doesn’t exist.”

“You can’t just erase her,” Ayumu replied, unruffled. “What do you mean ‘not real’? My perception of you is a real thing—imagination is the beginning of reality. I can leap when I dance because I first imagine the arc of my legs, how my arms will extend. Perception is everything.” He paused.

“I become a regal swan. A prince.”

Koharu, who had begun to sag under the weight of his words, startled to attention at this sudden change of direction.

“If someone doesn’t like me,” he continued, “I continue with my image of myself anyway. This is how you create reality. I refuse to waste my time any more being boxed in by what is ‘normal.’”

Translation B

“So what are you getting at? Are you saying that you’re disappointed because I’m not who you thought I was?”

The words flew out of her mouth, but at the same time, they also pierced her heart. She had been disappointed when she realized that Ayumu wasn’t just some wishy-washy wimp, and this pain made her realize for the first time deep inside just how disgusting and disgraceful that disappointment was.

“I don’t care what your image of me is.”

But for some reason, she wanted to find words to continue bashing herself.

“This is the real me. Whatever image you have, I’ll destroy it – I’ll kill your Koharu.”

“You can’t. My images are real.”

Ayumu countered without hesitation.

“My images have always been real. The arc my feet will draw. The height my toes will reach. I can execute a jump well because I envision it. My images are everything.”

A sudden weakness in the legs caught Koharu off guard, but the defiant cries of “I am a swan. I am a prince.” bouncing up from the other side helped her stay on her feet.

“I’ll keep creating my images even if people don’t like it. This is how I create my reality. I’m tired of going around chasing some empty fantasy.”

Translation C

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying you’re disappointed that I don’t live up to your image of me?” The words that came rushing out of Koharu’s mouth somehow stabbed her chest in the same moment. The pain caused her to perceive fully for the first time how ugly and shameful her own dismay had been, over Ayumu not being some weakling who could make her own life easier. “What do I care about your image of me?” she added, feeling that she wanted to clobber herself. “This is the real me,” she said. “Your image is nothing. I’ll murder the Koharu in your image!”

“You can’t murder her. My images are real,” Ayumu replied, not even flinching. “My images are always real. They become reality. I can jump because I visualize the arc my legs will trace, the height my fingertips will reach. The mental image is everything.

“I am a swan. I am a prince!”

Koharu felt her legs tremble as she listened to him, but his firm declaration from across the way brought her to her feet.

“No matter who hates it, I am going to keep visualizing,” he told her. “I am going to keep creating reality. I am sick of being tossed around by silly fantasies.”

Translation D

“What’s that all supposed to mean? I’m not like you imagined and now you’re disappointed?” Those were the words that spilled out, and the instant Koharu said them they pierced her soul. She suddenly understood how letdown she was that Ayumu wasn’t some weakling she could walk all over. On top of that she was crushed to realize how malicious that disappointment was—how shameful. And the pain of that shame took the revelation even deeper. “Well, I couldn’t care less how you think of me.” Now she felt like she was lashing out at herself, not Ayumu. “This is me. It’s who I am. I’ll murder that Koharu you think you know. The one in your head.”

“You can’t kill her. My images are the reality,” Ayumu came back without flinching. “Every image I’ve ever had is reality. I know which direction your legs will take you and how high your fingers can reach. You can fly because I’ve imagined it. My images of you are everything.” At that moment Koharu felt her knees buckle, until she heard Ayumu declare, “I’m a swan. I’m a prince!” and the words flew over from him to stand her back up. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, I won’t stop creating images, or reality. I’m not going to let myself get sucked in to any more inane illusions.”

Translation E

“So what? Do you want to say that you are disappointed that the picture you had of me is wrong?” These words were pouring out of Koharu’s mouth but, at the same time, they penetrated her heart. For the first time, deep down, Koharu understood how disappointed it had made her that Ayumu is not a pitiful and weak person; how ugly and embarrassing this disappointment is, and the hurt. “I don’t care what picture you have of me,” and still, for some reason, carried on beating herself up. “Because this is the real me. I will kill your picture, the picture you have of me.”

“You can’t kill it. My picture is the real thing,” Ayumu argued without flinching. “My picture is always the real thing. Always reality you know. What trajectory my feet will take; what height my fingertips will reach; because I picture it, I will fly beautifully. Visualisation is everything.” At that point, Koharu suddenly felt her confidence waver. Ayumu made a strong statement, “I am a swan. I am a prince”, which made things clear to Koharu. “Even if someone doesn’t like it, I continue with the visualisation. That way I can create my own reality. Because I don’t want to be affected by a meaningless illusion anymore,” said Ayumu.

Translation F

“And so what? You’re disappointed ’cause I’m not the kinda girl you thought I was, is that it?”

The words flew out of her mouth before she knew it, but at the same time, it sliced through her own heart. As soon as it stung her, Koharu realized deep down just how much she’d been disappointed that Ayumu wasn’t the convenient underdog that she’d imagined him to be, and just how ugly that disappointment was, something to be ashamed of.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” she pressed on, somehow feeling the urge to keep beating herself up. “This is the real me. Who cares how you see me? That Koharu in your head? I’ll just kill her off.”

“You can’t kill her. How I see you is real,” Ayumu answered, without batting an eyelash. “How I see things is always real. It’s always reality. It’s because I visualize it in my head—the arc that my legs will trace, how high my fingertips will reach—it’s because I see all that, that I can do a clean leap.” Koharu’s legs suddenly felt wobbly, but what Ayumu said next, his iron declaration, made her shoot up straight.

“I’m a swan. I’m a prince.”

He went on, “No matter what anyone says, I’ll keep envisioning things. And that’s how I’ll create the reality. I’m tired of getting pushed around by useless illusions.”

Sample Translation by Takami Nieda

“What? You’re disappointed I wasn’t who you imagined, is that it?” she shot back.

As the words tumbled out of her mouth, something pricked her heart. It was the shameful sting of having assumed Ayumu was a pushover who needed protecting.

“Who cares what you think anyway?” She continued in spite of herself, “This is who I am, Ayumu. So that precious illusion of Koharu you have in your head has to die.”

“You can’t kill her. My perception is real,” he said, without batting an eye. “When I’m dancing, I just have to imagine the arc of my legs, the shape of my arms all the way down to my fingertips—that’s how I can land a perfect jump. It all starts with perception.”

Raising his arms, he continued, “I can be a swan. I can be a prince!”

Just as her legs wobbled beneath her, Koharu felt herself being propped up by his confident declaration.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks about me,” he said. “I’m going to keep on imagining and making my own reality. I’m tired of getting yanked around by people’s assumptions.”

One Passage, Ten Translations—Eiko Kadono

大どろぼうブラブラ氏 by Eiko Kadono, illustrated by Yutaka Hara. Source text for workshop with Emily Balistrieri at SCBWI Japan Translation Days 2020.

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok

On November 21, Day 1 of SCBWI Japan Translation Days 2020, Emily Balistrieri led participants in a translation workshop using a passage from 大どろぼうブラブラ氏 by Eiko Kadono. This chapter book, as yet unpublished in English, features a main character named for his facial hair, which is coarse like a scrub brush.

Nine of the translators who submitted translations of the set workshop passage also submitted translations of a “challenge” text about the main character’s grandfather. Below are the nine “challenge” submissions, blinded, followed by Emily Balistrieri’s sample translation. Enjoy!

Kiki’s Delivery Service by Eiko Kadono, translated by Emily Balistrieri, was published in the US in July 2020.

 

Original Passage 

大どろぼうブラブラ氏の家は、代々続く、ゆうめいな大どろぼうでした。

ひとくちにゆうめいといっても、人によっていろいろです。

たとえば、ブラブラ氏のおじいさまにあたるトレトレ氏は、人がはいているくつを、その人が気がつかないうちにぬすんでしまうということで、ゆうめいでした。そのまほうの技は……「あっちむいて、ほい！」

[Source: 大どろぼうブラブラ氏 (Kodansha, 2010). ISBN-13 : 978-4062851275]

 

Translation A

The Great Thief Bristly Beard came from a long line of famous thieves. Well, they were all sort of famous in their own way. Bristly Beardʼs grandpa Picky Pike, for example, was known for being able to pick the shoes off someoneʼs feet without them noticing. Beware his magic words: “Look that way!”

 

Translation B

Mr. Burabura the thief came from a long line of famous thieves, some more famous than others. For starters, his grandad Mr. Toretore was famous for stealing the shoes right off a person’s feet. His ploy was distraction. He’d point in the distance and say, “Hey, look!” and poof, there went the shoes.

 

Translation C

Mr. Bristle the Terrible Thief came from a long line of famous terrible thieves. Of course they were all famous in different ways. Take for example, his Uncle Gotcha who had been famous for stealing the shoes right off of people’s feet without their noticing. How did he do it? He’d get up close, point a pudgy finger in his victim’s face and yell, “Look over there!” flinging his finger out to the side. Worked every time.

 

Translation D

Master Thief Scrub’s family hailed from generations of the best thieves. Some would say famous, but that means different things to different people. For example, Scrub’s grandfather Scram was famous for stealing people’s shoes off their feet when they weren’t looking. His trick was to say, “Look, it’s a bird!”

 

Translation E

Mr. Brushie-Brushie the Master Thief came from a famous family with many generations of master thieves.

It’s easy to round them all up as “famous,” but each of these masters was unique.

For example, take Mr. Brushie-Brushie’s grandfather, Mr. Clutch-Clutch. He was well known for snatching people’s shoes away while they were still wearing them, right from under their noses! His magic trick? He would come up to them, put his finger in front of their faces, and point: “Hey! Look over there!” Before they knew it, he was gone with their shoes.

 

Translation F

The Great Thief Mr. Scruffyscruff came from a long line of great and famous thieves. Though all were famous, they were each famous for something different. For example, Mr. Scruffyscruff’s grandfather, Mr. Snatchittysnatch was famous for stealing the shoes right off people’s feet. His magic technique was to shout: “Hey, look over there! No, the other way! Now look to the sky!”

 

Translation G

Mr. Scrub Brush’s family had been famous thieves for generations.

Famous in different ways.

For example, Mr. Toretore—his grandpa—was famous for snatching the shoes off people’s feet when they weren’t looking. His trick phrase was, “Oh, look there!”

 

Translation H

The Great Bandit Ole Scruff’s family was and always had been a group of infamous bandits.

However, infamous meant different things for different members of the family.

For example, Ole Scruff’s father, Ole Slipfinger, was famous for stealing shoes right out from under the people who were wearing them without them realizing it. He managed this bit of magic by…“Is that a dollar I see behind your ear? Made ya look!”

 

Translation I

Bristle came from a long line of famous thieves. Of course, famous means different things to different people. For example, Bristle’s grandfather Lightfinger was famous for stealing the shoes off people’s feet when they weren’t paying attention. Lighfinger’s big technical skill involved yelling –  “Hey – look over there!”

 

Sample Translation by Emily Balistrieri

Great Thief BrushaBrusha came from a long line of infamous thieves. While all infamous, they were all known for different things.

For example, BrushaBrusha’s grandfather NabNab was known for stealing the shoes right off people’s feet. The magic was done with the art of… “Hey, look at that!!”

One Passage, Nine Translations—Mieko Kawakami

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok

At SCBWI Japan Translation Day 2018 on October 20, Louise Heal Kawai critiqued participants’ translations of a passage in Ichigo jamu kara ichigo kara hikeba (Strawberry Jam Without the Strawberries) by Mieko Kawakami, from the volume Akogare (Longing). As yet unpublished in English, Ichigo jamu features the same characters as Ms. Ice Sandwich, translated by Kawai. It takes place two years later, when the main characters are in sixth grade. It unfolds from the perspective of Tutti, the narrator’s female classmate in Ms. Ice Sandwich.

In one part of the workshop passage, Tutti expresses disgust with adults who make silly YouTube videos, which are the obsession of another classmate in the stories, nicknamed Doo-Wop.

Below are the original passage by Kawakami; eight blinded translations by participants in Translation Day; and a translation and commentary by Louise Heal Kawai.

For reference, Tutti is Kawai’s localization of a punny nickname, Hegatī, based on an incident in which the character’s fart smelled like tea.

 

Original Passage

大人にもいろいろな人がいるんだろうけれど、そんな大人ってちょっと、いや、だいぶいやじゃない？　そう話したら、ヘガティーはわかってないね、今この人たちがいちばんすごいんだよ、とドゥワップは鼻をふくらませて言うのだった。

いちばんっていったいどこのいちばんなの、何のいちばんなの、すごいっていったいどういう意味で、というわたしの質問には答えずに、ドゥワップはすごくうれしそうに話をつづけた。僕らみたいな小学生とか子どもとかが毎日毎日こうやってみてるじゃん、すっごいみるじゃん、で、僕らがみればみるだけ、この人たちにいっぱいお金がいく仕組みになってるの。それは本当なの？　本当だよ。その大人にどれくらいお金が入るの。そりゃもう、すごいお金だよ、やばい感じだよ。うそ。本当だよ。じゃあコーラ風呂とかそういうのみるたびにドゥワップはお金払ってるの？　僕はべつに払ってないよ。じゃあ誰がそのやばいくらいのお金払うの。それは、その、わからないけど、誰かだよ。

[Source: Akogare by Mieko Kawakami (Shinchosha, 2015). ISBN-13: 978-4103256243]

 

Translation A

I’m sure there are all kinds of grownups, but don’t you kinda—no, don’t you really hate that kind? When I said that to Doo-Wop he got all snooty and said, You just don’t get it, huh, Hegarty? These guys are the absolute coolest right now.

“Absolute”? Of what? What kind of absolute? And what does “coolest” mean? But Doo-Wop didn’t answer my questions; he just happily chattered on. Elementary-schoolers like us—kids, I mean—are watching every day—like a ton! And just by us watching, these guys make loads of money. Is that true? Yeah. How much money do they make? Oh man, so much. It’s crazy. No way. It’s true. So do you pay every time you watch that soda bath video or whatever? Nope, I don’t pay. So who pays that crazy amount of money? Well, I’m not sure, but someone.

Then computer time started as usual.

 

Translation B

I mean, I know there are various grownups in the world, but aren’t these people a little (actually, extremely) awful? When I suggested this to Doowop, his nostrils flared as he said, “Hegarty, you just don’t get it. These grownups are the most amazing ones.”

The most amazing? In what world are they the most amazing?! Amazing at what? What do you mean by “amazing?” Ignoring my barrage of questions, Doowop happily continued on. “So elementary school students like us, and other kids everywhere, are watching this stuff every day. I mean, we watch it a lot. And the more we watch, the more money these people make. That’s how the system works.” Really? “Yep, really.” Exactly how much do these grownups make? “They make tons of money. It’s almost scary!” No way. “Yep, it’s true.” So, you pay money each time you watch a cola-filled bathtub? “No, I’m not paying any money.” Then who is paying these scary amounts of money? “Well, that’s, um, I’m not sure. But somebody is paying.”

And so, computer class began again, as it always does.

 

Translation C

Adults come in all sorts too, but isn’t that kind of adult a bit, no, a lot, weird? But when I say that, Doo-wop flares his nostrils in disgust and retorts ‘Tutti, you don’t get it, these people are so great, they’re the best’.

Doo-wop ignored me asking about them being the best of what and of where, and what makes them so great, and just kept talking excitedly.

Loads of primary school kids like us watch them every day, you know, we watch them a lot, and the more we watch, the more money these people get.

Is that true?

Yeah, it’s true.

How much do those adults get?

It’s, you know, a lot. Like a serious amount.

No way.

Yes way.

So like every time you watch that bath full of cola, you pay money?

I don’t pay anything.

So who is paying all that money?

It’s, that’s, I don’t know, but someone does.

 

And with that, computer class starts the same way as always.

 

Translation D

There are probably some strange adults, but these ones are not just strange – they are way too weird. When I said that, Duwap snorted, “You don’t know anything do you, Hegaty. These people are the tops today. They’re amazing!”

What do you mean by tops? What are these people tops at? What’s so amazing?

Duwap didn’t answer my questions. He just kept on talking, excited.

We primary schoolers and other kids watch these videos every day, right? We just watch so much, right? Now here’s how it works – the more we watch, the more money these people get! Really? Yeah! How much do these adults get? Huge, huge amounts! It’s crazy! No way. It’s true! Do you pay when you watch coke bath videos? No, not me. I don’t pay. So, who’s paying this crazy amount of money? Well, I don’t know, but it’s gotta be someone.

And so, the PC lesson would start as it always did.

 

Translation E

I know there are all kinds of adults but an adult like that is not okay, right?

When you say the best, what kind of best, what sort of best, what does amazing mean—Doo-wop didn’t answer my questions, but just kept talking on and on happily. So, there are lots of children, school kids like us, doing this every day, which is crazy, because just us watching means those people get lots of money, right? How much do they get? Well, a lot—a ton of money. You’re kidding, I said. It’s true, he said. So then, do you pay for your cola baths and video binges? I asked. I’m not the one paying. Then who’s paying for all that? I’m not sure, he said, but someone is.

And so our computer activity class begins again.

 

Translation F

Adults surely come in a wide array, but the ones who’d make these videos are sort of weird, don’t you think? No—really weird! When I said so to Doo-Wop, he just flared his nostrils and said, “Ah, Tutti, you don’t get it, do you? These days, they are the cool ones!”

“Cooler where? How? What does cool even mean?” I asked, but without answering, Doo-Wop kept chatting gaily. “See, children and students like us are watching these vids day in and day out, right? Isn’t that amazing, if you think about it? And, the more we watch, the more money the people who make the videos get. That’s how it works.” “Really?” “Really.” “How much do they get?” “A ton, more than you can imagine.” “No way.” “It’s true!” “So, every time you view the cola bathtub video, are you paying money?” “Nah, I’m not paying anything.” “So who’s paying the ton of money?” “I don’t know, but someone is.”

And thus, a typical computer class began.

 

Translation G

I get that there’s all kinds of grown-ups out there, but aren’t people like that kinda…lame? Kinda really lame?

But when I said that to Doowop, he just scrunched up his nose at me.

“You don’t get it, Hegarty,” he said. “These guys are geniuses.”

“Geniuses at what? What do they even do?”

Doowop didn’t answer my question. He just kept on talking with a huge smile on his face.

“See, loads of grade schoolers and kids like us watch their videos every day, right? And it’s set up so they get money from us watching them.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, for real.”

“How much money do they make?”

“They get rich. Like, CRAZY rich.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“So does that mean you’re paying every time you see them take a bath in a tub full of soda or something?”

“Nah, I’m not paying them.”

“Then who is?”

“Beats me… But someone’s gotta be.”

And so started another average day of computer lab.

 

Translation H

Of course, there are all kinds of adults, but isn’t that type a bit – no, well-and-truly – off? When I said that to him, Doo-Wop just replied with, “you wouldn’t understand, Hegarty”, and infuriated me by saying these people are the best.

He just ignored all my questions – “What was so great about them? What did he mean by ‘great’ anyway?” – and happily kept rabbiting on about them.

“If primary school kids like us keep watching these things day after day, hour after hour, well, the more money these adults get from us.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How much do they make?”

“Heaps. It’s outrageous.”

“No way.”

“True. So when you watch videos like the cola bath, aren’t you paying them, Doo-Wop?”

“I haven’t paid anything.”

“So, who pays them all that money then?”

“No idea, but someone must.”

Then computer time began as usual.

 

Translation by Louise Heal Kawai

I mean I guess there are all kinds of grown-ups in the world, but don’t you find these kind of people a bit gross, don’t they freak you out? When I said this to Doo-Wop, he snorted.

“You don’t understand anything, Tutti. These are the top people, the coolest.”

The top? Top of what? And how were they cool? But Doo-Wop didn’t bother answering my questions, just kept on talking, all excited.

“Every single day, kids like us watch their videos, and every time someone watches them, there’s like a thing set up that gives them loads of money.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“How much money do these grown-ups get?”

“Tons. Tons and tons of money. Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“No!”

“I swear.”

“So you – Doo-Wop – give them money every time they get in a cola bath or stuff like that?”

“Well, no, I’m not paying anything.”

“So who’s giving them this tons of money?”

“Well…. I dunno exactly, but someone is.”

And so computer class began the same way as usual.

 

Comments by Louise Heal Kawai

“I was rather freer with my translation of the first part of this section than any of the participants. Perhaps it was because I knew my translation wasn’t going to be analyzed in a workshop (!) but in general I feel taking a few liberties as long as the meaning is not lost is something to be encouraged rather than discouraged. And I do believe that ‘a bit gross’ moving on to ‘freak you out’ is very much in the spirit of the original. I also cut a bit of Doo-Wop’s exaggeration of how much kids watched the videos, as it sounded too repetitive and I felt took away from the ‘tons of money’ speech later.

“As for the second half dialogue, I think breaking it up line by line makes it clearer, but the use of italics versus regular font also works nicely and avoids the crowded look of quotation marks or he said/she said in the run-on text.

“Although at times the vocabulary and grammar choice seemed a little mature for a twelve-year-old, in general I loved the variety of phrases used by the participants to bring these kids’ speech to life.

“Thank you to the eight brave participants who took the time to submit a translation, and to everyone who attended the workshop.”

Louise Heal Kawai leads the workshop at SCBWI Japan Translation Day 2018.

One Passage, Six Translations—Akiyuki Nosaka

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok 

At SCBWI Japan Translation Day on October 22, 2016, Ginny Tapley Takemori presented a workshop on translating excerpts from literature for young adults. One passage was a paragraph from Hotaru no haka (Grave of the Fireflies) by Akiyuki Nosaka (1930–2015), and portrays a war orphan living in Sannomiya Station, Kobe, after the end of World War II.

Prior to Translation Day, five translators submitted renderings of this paragraph. Their renderings were then blinded for critique by Takemori in a full session.

Two of the submitters and Takemori also tackled a paragraph that follows this one, which comprises a single long, highly challenging sentence in the original.

Below are the original passage and five translators’ versions, the final two of which have the further paragraph (not given in Japanese). Below that is Ginny Tapley Takemori’s rendering of both paragraphs.

This passage may disturb young children.

Original Passage

省線三宮駅構内浜側の、化粧タイル剝げ落ちコンクリートむき出しの柱に、背中まるめてもたれかかり、床に尻をつき、両脚まっすぐ投げ出して、さんざ陽に灼かれ、一月近く体を洗わぬのに、清太の瘦せこけた頰の色は、ただ青白く沈んでいて、夜になれば昂ぶる心のおごりか、山賊の如くかがり火焚き声高にののしる男のシルエットをながめ、朝には何事もなかったように学校へ向かうカーキ色に白い風呂敷包みは神戸一中ランドセル背負ったは市立中学、県一親和松蔭山手ともんぺ姿ながら上はセーラー服のその襟の形を見分け、そしてひっきりなしにかたわら通り過ぎる脚の群れの、気づかねばよしふと異臭に目をおとした者は、あわててとび跳ね清太を避ける、清太には眼と鼻の便所へ這いずる力も、すでになかった。

[Source: America hijiki, Hotaru no haka by Akiyuki Nosaka (Shinchosha, 1968). ISBN-10: 4101112037]

Translation A

Seita sat hunched over against a pillar outside the beachside exit of Sannomiya Station, buttocks pressed to the floor and legs stuck straight out before him. The glazed tiles of the pillar were chipped away in places, exposing the concrete underneath. Though his skin had been burned by the harsh sun, and he had not bathed in nearly a month, Seita’s hollow cheeks were pale and sunken. In the night he watched the silhouettes of men who brandished fire and cursed like raiders swelling with arrogance, and in the morning he watched the children walking to school as though nothing had happened. Those with khaki-coloured uniforms who carried their belongings wrapped in white cloths were from Kobe First. The ones with satchels were from public junior high schools. The girls from Kenichi, Shinwa, Shoin, and Yamate all wore loose-fitting pants and middy blouses, but you could tell them apart by their collars. They passed Seita by in an endless stream of legs. Most did not even register that he was there – those who noticed a strange smell and glanced down gave a start and hurried to avoid him. Though it was only a few steps away, Seita no longer had the strength to crawl to the bathroom.

Translation B

Along the government railway line on the ocean side of Sannomiya Station, slouched against the exposed concrete of a pillar whose tiled surface had crumbled away, Seita sat with his backside on the floor and his legs splayed out before him. Despite long exposure to the burning sun and not having bathed in nearly a month, his sunken cheeks were sallow and ashen. At night he stared at the silhouettes of the men who made bonfires and cursed loudly like bandits, animated by the arrogance in their hearts, and in the morning he watched other children heading off to school as if all were right with the world: Kobe Middle School Number One with their white and khaki bundles, Municipal Middle School shouldering school knapsacks, the girls from Prefectural Number One, Shinwa, Shoin, and Yamate all wearing loose workpants and sailor tops differentiated by the shape of each school’s collar. Among the endless stream of legs passing by there were those who, glancing down upon detecting a whiff of something foul, hurriedly leapt away to avoid Seita, who by now lacked even the strength to crawl to the nearby bathroom.

Translation C

Leaning slumped over on the beach side of the Sannomiya Station on the Sho Line against a pillar whose tiles had come off to reveal the bare concrete, butt to the floor, legs sticking straight out in front, completely sunburned, Seita’s emaciated cheeks only became paler, although he hadn’t bathed in almost a month; at night he watched the silhouettes of the men building a bonfires like bandits and shouting curses, perhaps out of pride in their agitation; and in the morning the khakis, whites, and folded cloth bags of Kobe 1 Junior High, the backpacks of the municipal junior high, and top of the prefecture Shinwa, Shoin, and Yamate students he could tell apart by the shape of the sailor collar over their monpe work pants; people in the never-ending crowd of legs passing by who looked down at the bad smell they wish they hadn’t noticed hopped, flustered, to avoid him; already, he didn’t have the strength to crawl even an inch to a better place.

Translation D

On the side of the railway ministry’s Sannomiya station facing the ocean, the tiles were peeling off a concrete pillar. A boy sat under it, hunched, ready to fall over anytime. Butt to floor, legs stretched out, at the mercy of the sun, unwashed for nearly a month. Seita lay, cheeks hollowed, sunken, pale white. In the night, he sat gazing out at silhouettes of men who, as if aroused by their memories, swore like bandits, shrilling at the top of their voices, cracking like bonfires. In the morning, students passed by on their way to school as if nothing had happened, Kobe middle schoolers in their khakis and white cloth bundles, municipal city schoolers with their backpacks, and the Prefectural First, Shinwa, Shoin, and Yamate girls differentiated by the collars of sailor-styled uniforms worn over their working clothes. Endless pairs of feet would move along normally, until a nose caught the odor that brought their eyes down to their feet, then they would jump frantically aside, away. No morsel of strength was left in Seita to crawl to a place away from those noses or eyes.

Children, homeless and orphaned, sit at every 3-foot wide pillar, leaning in what felt like the bosom of their mothers, in the train station. They gather here because it is the only place they are allowed to enter. Or maybe because they longed to be among people, like it used to be. Or perhaps because they could always have water. Or in hope of that someone who would give them something to eat. The black market under the railway tracks at Sannomiya station began in September, from a cup of caramelized sugar water dished straight out of an oil drum going for 50sen each. Soon there were steamed potatoes, steamed cakes made from potato flour, rice balls, glutinous rice cakes, fried rice, red bean soup, steamed buns, udon, tempura rice, curry with rice, cake, rice, barley, sugar, tempura, beef, milk, canned fish, shochu or sweet potato liquor, whiskey, Japanese pears, large summer oranges, rubber boots, bicycle tyre tubes, matches, cigarettes, workman’s two-toed shoes, diaper covers, military blankets, military boots, military uniforms, half boots. An alumite lunch box of barley, freshly-packed in the morning by the wife is a “good ten yen, just ten yen.” A weary hand reaches down to remove a shoe, dangle it on one finger, and offer it instead for “how about twenty, twenty yen.” Seita first wandered in, lured by the smell of food. In time, he would find a space the size of a single grass mat to peddle old clothes. Selling off his late mother’s kimono, the inner dress, sash, and outer collar, which had all faded away while soaking in the water in a bomb shelter, he managed to somehow buy food to survive for two weeks. He then sold his school uniform, which was made of good cloth, those cloth bindings from the calf to the ankle, his shoes, but certainly not his trousers? As he dithered, he gradually came to spend the nights in the station. Families with young boys would return from evacuation in full celebratory color, carrying school bags packed with a mess tin, kettle, and metal helmet. Cloth bags dangling, evacuation hoods still neatly folded within. They probably gave out emergency rations in the trains. Relieved to have come thus far, they would leave behind steamed bran cakes for him, strings undone, like some unwanted baggage. A sympathetic soldier back from the frontlines or an old lady who took pity, reminded of her grandchild around the same age, would place a bite of leftover bread or pan-fried soy beans wrapped in paper a polite distance away, like they would in an offering to Buddha. Seita took these gratefully. Now and then, the station master would try to drive him away, making him get up, but the reserve MP manning the ticket gate would stand up for him. We do have lots of water, he reassured. Once he got back, he just sat. Two weeks later, he could no longer get up.

Translation E

Seita sat on the floor of Sannomiya government railway station, the side toward the ocean. His back sagged against a pillar whose tiles had peeled off, exposing the concrete, and his legs splayed out before him. The sun had roasted him. He had not bathed in nearly a month, and his emaciated cheeks hung hollow and pale. At night, he watched the silhouettes of furious men who lit bonfires and cursed like bandits; in the mornings, he watched students commute to school as if everything were normal. Students in khaki who carried white cloth bundles headed to Kobe Middle School Number 1; students with leather backpacks went to Municipal Middle School. Girls bound for Prefectural College Number 1, or Shinwa or Shoin or Yamate, wore monpe pants and sailor tops whose collars told them apart. In the endless stream of legs were those that jumped away, owners’ eyes averted, upon smelling Seita’s stench. He had not the strength to crawl to the toilet nearby.

Children like him sat in all directions against the three-foot pillars, as if the pillars were their mothers. They had come because the station was the one place where they were allowed, or because they could be near people again here, or because they could drink water, or because they hoped for a handout when someone dropped his guard. As soon as September came, a black market had opened beneath the railroad tracks, beginning with a spot where people paid fifty sen for a cup of sugar water drawn from a steel barrel. Soon there were steamed sweet potatoes, sweet potato flour dumplings, rice balls, daifuku dumplings, fried rice, rice flour dumplings in red bean sauce, manju dumplings, udon, tempura rice, curry rice, cake, plain rice, barley, sugar, tempura, beef, milk, canned fish, shochu liquor, whiskey, pears, sour oranges, rubber boots, bicycles, tire tubes, matches, cigarettes, cloth work shoes, diaper covers, military blankets, military boots, military uniforms, military half boots. A man would hold up some barley meal in an Alumite lunch box his wife had packed that morning and say, “How ’bout it, ten yen?” Another would remove his worn shoes and hold them up by a finger, saying, “Hey, twenty yen, hey, twenty yen.” Seita, lost and drawn in by the food smells, had laid out his dead mother’s under-kimono, obi, false collar, and waist strips for under the obi, all with the colors run and faded due to getting wet in an air raid. These sold for enough to feed him for two weeks, and then he had sold his middle school uniform and gaiters. By the time he was starting to hesitate, wondering if he could really sell his pants, he had begun to spend nights at the station. Families with children sometimes returned by train from bombing evacuation sites, their air raid hoods still folded in canvas bags, their rucksacks holding ration kits, kettles, steel helmets; dressed in their best, they carried the steamed rice-bran dumplings seemingly distributed for emergencies in trains, which they would decide they no longer needed and give Seita to lighten their loads. Or a demobilized soldier or an old person with grandchildren his age might take pity on him. They would leave their items softly a distance away, as if offering them to the Buddha: leftover bread, roasted soybeans. He would receive the gifts gratefully. Sometimes a station employee would chase him off, but a military police reservist at the wickets might knock the employee down and protect Seita, saying they at least had plenty of water here. In that way Seita had put down roots. Two weeks later he could no longer stand.

Translation by Ginny Tapley Takemori

In the mainline Sannomiya Station, bayside exit, Seita sat slumped against a column, its tiles peeling off to expose the bare concrete, with his bottom on the floor and both legs stretched out straight before him. He was sunburned to a frazzle and hadn’t washed for almost a month, yet his emaciated cheeks were sunken and pale. Come nightfall, he gazed at the silhouettes of men conversing rowdily with excessive bravado as they warmed themselves around the watch fire like bandits. In the morning he saw children his age heading off to middle school as if nothing were amiss, khaki-clad boys with white bundles from the top prefectural school and those with satchels on their backs from the city school, and girls sporting sailor blouses over their baggy wartime pantaloons, the folds of their collars indicating whether they attended the prestigious prefectural school or one of the three expensive private academies. The legs of the unseeing crowds filing purposefully past jumped to avoid him only at a whiff of his stench. But Seita no longer had the strength to crawl to the nearby toilet.

War orphans clustered around the base of each of the solid meter-thick columns as if finding in them motherly protection, having gathered here perhaps because it was the only place they were allowed in, or because they yearned to be among the crowds of people, or because here there was water to drink or some hope of scraps of food being tossed their way. Already by the beginning of September someone had started selling burned sugar dissolved in a drum of water for fifty sen a cupful under the railway arches, and almost overnight a black market had sprung up offering steamed sweet potatoes, sweet potato dumplings, rice balls, rice cakes, fried rice, bean soup, bean jam buns, noodles, tempura and rice, curry and rice, and then cake, rice, barley, sugar, tempura, beef, milk, canned fish, rice liquor, whisky, pears, bitter oranges, gum boots, bicycle inner tubes, matches, cigarettes, rubber-soled work shoes, nappies, army blankets, army boots, army uniforms, army boots. Men stood holding out the aluminium lunchboxes of barley rice their wives had packed for them just that morning “Yours for ten yen, yours for ten yen!” or dangling their tired old shoes in one hand “Twenty yen, how about it? Twenty yen!” Drawn singlemindedly by the smell of food, Seita had stumbled aimlessly in and sold the underkimono, sash, collar, and waist tie that were the only mementos he had of his mother from the flooded air raid shelter, the colours faded and run, at a second-hand clothing stall consisting of a single straw mat spread out on the ground, and had thus somehow managed to keep the wolf from the door for a couple of weeks—then went his rayon middle school blazer, gaiters, and shoes, and while wondering whether he could go so far as to sell his trousers, before he knew it he had become a nightly fixture inside the station. Here a boy with his family apparently returning from evacuation to the countryside, fully decked out with his air raid hood neatly folded and placed over his canvas bag, his mess tin and kettle and steel helmet attached to his backpack, left Seita some mouldy ricebran dumplings, no doubt emergency food prepared for the train journey and now it was no longer needed, discarded to lighten the load. Others—a kindly soldier returning from the front, an elderly woman with a grandson his age who took pity on him—left crusts and roasted soybeans wrapped in paper placed quietly at a safe distance, as if making an offering to Buddha, which he gratefully accepted. From time to time he was shooed away by the stationmaster, but the adjunct from the feared military police guarding the ticket gate sent the man sprawling, protecting him, and there was always enough water, so having found some comfort he settled in and put down roots until one day a couple of weeks later he could no longer stand.

One Passage, Seven Translations—Minae Mizumura

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok

At SCBWI Japan Translation Day 2014 on October 18, Juliet Winters Carpenter presented a workshop using excerpts from A True Novel (in Japanese, Honkaku shosetsu) by Minae Mizumura. A True Novel is a re-imagining of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights set in postwar Japan and the U.S.

For the workshop, 15 participants translated one to two selected excerpts from the novel in advance. Their submissions were blinded and critiqued by Carpenter in a 90-minute session.

For this blog post, Carpenter has selected six translations of one excerpt, and edited each of the translations slightly. Below are the original Japanese passage, the six translations, and Carpenter’s own rendering.

This portion of A True Novel appears in chapter 5, “Lightbulbs,” and contains recollections about two children, Taro and Yoko. The narrator is a woman named Fumiko who worked as maid for Yoko’s family. At the time she is recalling, she would have been in her late teens.

Carpenter’s published translation of A True Novel won the 2014 Next Generation Indie Book Award Grand Prize for Fiction and was first runner-up for Best Translated Book of 2014. Carpenter will soon receive the American Translators Association’s 2014 Lewis Galantière Award for A True Novel.

 

Original Passage

　庭の隅に一人乗りのブランコがあり、一人何十回かづつ漕ぐと交替するらしく、女中部屋で本を読むわたしの耳に遠くから、おまけのおまけの汽車ぽっぽ、ぽーっと鳴ったら代わりましょ、と歌うよう子ちゃんの声がくり返しくり返し聞こえてきます。子供というのは飽きっぽいようで大人にはとうていがまんがならないほど同じことをしつこくくり返すのが平気で、ある日小一時間してもまだ、おまけのおまけの汽車ぽっぽ、が聞こえてくるので、呆れて本を閉じて見にいけば、ブランコの板の上に立ったよう子ちゃんが太郎ちゃんに背中を押してもらって、両手できつく綱をつかみ、両足を踏ん張り、くっくっくっと歓喜が身体中からこぼれ出るように笑いながら漕ぐ姿がありました。太郎ちゃん自身が漕ぐときはあまりに勢いをつけ過ぎて一回転してしまったりもします。あんたがたどこさ、肥後さ、肥後どこさ、熊本さ、熊本どこさ、と鞠つきもします。ゴム跳びもします。よう子ちゃんが跳べる高さ以上にはしませんが、太郎ちゃんはそれで構わないようです。

[Source: Honkaku shosetsu by Minae Mizumura (Shinchosha, 2002)]

 

Translation A

There was a swing in one corner of the lot. When one child had swung several dozen times, the other would take a turn. As I sat reading my book in the servant’s room, I would hear Yoko announce that they should switch off after singing, “Steam train, steam train, hear the whistle blow!” She would chant this again and again. Children may seem impatient, but they can repeat something over and over that would drive an adult crazy. One day when nearly an hour had passed and I could still hear “steam train, steam train, hear the whistle blow,” I gave up trying to read and went to watch them. I found Yoko standing upright on the wooden swing, having Taro push her from behind. She gripped the ropes tightly, her feet planted on the seat, and squealed in delight. Taro, for his part, swung so hard on his turns that he flipped over the crossbeam. They sang other chants such as, “Where are you from, Sir?” “Higo, Sir!” “Where in Higo, Sir?” “Kumamoto, Sir!” “Where in Kumamoto, Sir?” They bounced a ball as they chanted. Sometimes they also stretched a rubber cord out and took turns jumping over it. They would never set it so high that Yoko could not jump over, however. Apparently that was fine with Taro.

 

Translation B

There was a single seat swing in the corner of the garden where the children played, each swinging a dozen or so times before giving way for the other to take a turn. I could hear them in the distance from the servant’s room where I sat reading, singing one of those nursery rhymes that children have the capacity to chant tirelessly over and over again in a way that adults can never bear to do: Choo choo train, whistling down the track, time to change over, don’t look back! One day I had been listening to them sing Choo Choo train endlessly for almost an hour when I decided to give up reading and go see for myself. Yoko stood tightly gripping the swing ropes, her feet planted firmly on the plank seat as Taro pushed her from behind, spilling peals of joyous laughter as her body rose into the arc of each swing. When it was Taro’s turn he sometimes put so much power into the swing that he would go right round in a complete circle. Where are you from? I’m from Higo. Where in Higo? Kumamoto. Where in Kumamoto? they sang while throwing a handball between them. And sometimes they played jumpies with elastic. They couldn’t set the elastic higher than Yoko could jump, but Taro didn’t seem to mind.

 

Translation C

In the corner of the yard there was a swing and it seemed like they were trading off after one of them had swung some number of times: reading a book in my room, I could hear Yoko’s voice faintly as she chanted the choo-choo train song about taking turns over and over. Children are capricious and yet have no problem doing the same thing so many times it would drive an adult up a wall: one day after almost an hour they were still chanting; I couldn’t believe it and when I closed my book and went to look, Yoko was standing on the seat, gripping the ropes tightly with both hands, legs braced, getting pushed by Taro; as she swung she laughed and laughed as if the delight inside her were spilling out. When Taro swung he would sometimes pump so hard he would flip the bar. They’d bounce a ball and sing a song about Tanukis in Kumamoto. They’d do Chinese jump rope. Taro jumped only as high as Yoko could, but he didn’t seem to mind holding back.

 

Translation D

The children took turns pushing each other on the single swing that hung in the corner of the yard. From the maid’s chambers where I read, I could hear them singing their song again and again.

Listen to the choo-choo’s whistle blow,
When the train goes toot then you must go!

Children soon tire of things, yet some things that would bore any adult to tears they have no trouble doing over and over, and so that day, after a good hour of hearing the train going toot, I put down my book with a sigh and went to take a look. I found Taro pushing Yoko’s back as she stood, her little hands gripping the chains tightly, feet planted firmly on the swing, chuckles of mirth bubbling out as she swung back and forth. When Taro swung he pumped his legs so hard that sometimes he circled clear over the bar. I used to see them play with balls, bouncing them in time with their songs.

Where are you?
In Higo, friend!
Where’s Higo?
In Kumamoto!
Where o where is Kumamoto?

They played with a large rubber band, too—as large as a jump rope—which they hopped over and twisted around their feet. Though they could only go as high as Yoko could jump, Taro didn’t seem to mind.

 

Translation E

In one corner of the yard there was a swing, which only one child could use at a time, and they were apparently taking turns, each yielding his or her place after a certain number of swings. From the maid’s room where I sat reading, I could hear Yoko’s voice chanting over and over again: “When the train goes choo-choo, then it’s my turn too.” You might think that children are quick to grow tired of something, but they can also be surprisingly persistent, endlessly repeating the same thing in a way that an adult would find unbearable. One day, having found myself listening to “the train goes choo-choo” for close to an hour, I finally closed my book and went to see what was going on. Yoko was standing on the plank while Taro pushed her from behind, her hands wrapped tightly around the ropes and both feet standing firm, pumping her legs and laughing pouring out of her, as if pure joy was coursing throughout her entire body. When it was Taro’s turn, he pumped with such strength that sometimes the swing would do a complete 360-degree turn. They also played a bouncing ball game, accompanied with a traditional children’s song, and a kind of Chinese skip rope. The rope would, of course, only be raised as high as was possible for Yoko to jump, but that didn’t seem to bother Taro.

 

Translation F

In a corner of the garden, there was a swing where one of the two would swing back and forth a few dozen times before it was the other one’s turn. Far off in the maid’s room where I was reading, I could hear over and over again Yōko’s voice childishly chanting the familiar line, All aboard, all aboard! Take turns! Choo choo, that’s your cue! Children are entirely fine with doggedly repeating something that adults could never tolerate for as long. That day, even after nearly an hour, I could still hear, All aboard, all aboard! Take turns! Choo choo, that’s your cue! Irritated, I shut the book and went to take a look. I saw Yōko standing on the seat of the swing with Tarō pushing her. Both hands clutching the ropes tightly, her feet planted firmly, she was swinging while laughing with squeals of delight, joy overflowing from her entire body. When Tarō himself was on the swing, he would sometimes push much too forcefully and go all the way around. They also played a maritsuki game, bouncing a ball back and forth under one leg while singing, Where are you from, hey! Higo, hey! Where in Higo, hey! Kumamoto, hey! Where in Kumamoto, hey!¹ They also played jump rope. They could only go as high as Yōko could jump, but Tarō didn’t seem to mind.

¹A well-known song said to have originated during the Bakumatsu era (1853-1867) and sung when playing this children’s ball game. Higo Province was an old province in southern Japan in the area now known as Kumamoto Prefecture, where the city Kumamoto is now the capital.

 

Translation by Juliet Winters Carpenter

There was a swing in one corner, and they took turns on it, each child being allowed a certain number of swings. As I sat in my room reading, in the distance I’d hear Yoko chanting over and over again:

Swing, swing, here comes the train.
When you hear the whistle, then we change again.

Children have such short attention spans, and yet they will cheerfully go on repeating the same thing endlessly, beyond the endurance of any adult. One day that everlasting “Swing, swing” kept up for a good hour, until finally I shut my book and went to have a look. Yoko was standing on the wooden seat while Taro pushed her from behind, her hands clutching the ropes and her feet braced, her whole body quivering with joy as she pumped her little legs for all she was worth and laughter poured out of her. When it was Taro’s turn, sometimes he got so carried away he’d swing right around, full circle.

They also bounced balls while chanting songs to the rhythm:

Tell me where you’re from, sir.
I’m from Higo, sir.
Where in Higo, sir?
Kumamoto, sir.
Where in Kumamoto, sir?

And they tried high-jumping over a long chain of elastic bands attached to trees. It was never higher than Yoko could jump—so actually low-jumping—but Taro didn’t seem to mind.

[Source: A True Novel by Minae Mizumura, translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter (Other Press, 2013)]

One Passage, Six Translations – Nahoko Uehashi

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok

The website Books from Japan has launched a page devoted to Japanese children’s and teen books, in time for the 50^th Bologna Children’s Book Fair in Italy. All titles on the Fresh Japan page are available for translation and publication abroad.

One title is Koteki no kanata (Beyond the Fox Whistle), a YA fantasy novel by Nahoko Uehashi. Uehashi authored the Moribito novels that earned the Batchelder Award and Batchelder Honor for Arthur A. Levine Books in 2009–10, in translation by Cathy Hirano.

At SCBWI Tokyo Translation Day 2010, Cathy Hirano led a workshop that focused in part on Koteki no kanata. Five participants submitted translations of the novel’s opening, which were blinded and discussed.

Below is the opening of Koteki no kanata followed by the five translators’ renderings and, at the end, Cathy Hirano’s. The six translations give a sense of the choices that will face the translator if (when!) a publisher releases this novel in English.

Note: Cathy Hirano explains that Nobi, the name of the animal in the passage, means wildfire. “In the Japanese, the speed of the red fox cub Nobi racing through the fields is reinforced by his name.”

一　野火駆ける

りょうりょうと風が吹き渡る夕暮れの野を、まるで火が走るように、赤い毛なみを光らせて、一匹の子狐が駆けていた。

背後から、狂ったように吠える犬の声が、いくつも乱れて、追ってくる。

腹に鋭い痛みが走って、子狐は一瞬腹をふるわせた。

その子狐——〈野火〉は、おのれの命が、煙のように細くたなびき、消えていくのを感じていた。

鼻には、まだ生暖かい血の匂いが、むっとこもっている。標的の喉笛を食いちぎったときに浴びた返り血の匂いだ。

主につかわされて、人を殺したのはこれがはじめてだったが、その武者は、たやすく殺せる標的ではなかった。だれから知恵を授けられたのか、魔除けの刀を身につけていたのだ。

[Source: Koteki no kanata by Nahoko Uehashi (Rironsha, 2003)]

Translator A:

Nobi’s Chase

A fox cub raced across the windswept field at sunset, looking like a flame of fire blazing through the field as his red coat shimmered brightly in the setting sun.

From a distance, the sound of dogs barking chaotically, seemingly half-crazed, chased the fox cub.

A sharp pain raced through the fox’s belly, making it shudder for an instant.

The fox cub, Nobi, could feel the breath of life disappear from him like a thin trail of smoke.

The smell of fresh, warm blood still filled his nostrils–the sour smell of the blood splattered him as he tore open the jugular of his prey.

This was his first human kill, and, despite his training with Master, this warrior was not an easy prey to kill. He had learned well from someone, as he carried a sword to ward off evil spirits.

Translator B:

1. Nobi Runs

A single fox cub ran across a windswept field at twilight, his red coat glinting like flame.

Behind him, the bays of dogs, barking as if crazed, neared steadily.

A sharp pain shot through his abdomen. He shook it off.

The cub, Nobi, could feel his life leaving him, little by little, trailing off like wisps of smoke.

The stench of warm blood filled his nose. It was the blood that had spurted from his victim when he ripped apart his windpipe.

This was the first time he had ever killed a person on orders from his master. The warrior had not been an easy target. Who knows where he had gained his knowledge, but he had carried a sword with a charm to ward off evil.

Translator C:

Nobi’s Flight

Winds whistled over the fields. A young fox, fur glinting in the evening’s glow, fled like a streak of wildfire racing over the fields. From behind came the sound of hounds baying, crazed voices jumbling in the pursuit.

Nobi, the little fox, felt the thread of his life force trail out as if into a wisp that might vanish at any moment. A searing pain tore through him, its spasms gripping his belly as he ran. In his nostrils lingered the fresh smell of blood, the blood that had gushed forth when his jaws closed over the windpipe of his quarry.

It was the first time he had killed a human since the Master first ordered him out, and the warrior had not been easy prey. The man had had some special knowledge and had carried a sword endowed with the power to protect him from evil.

Translator D:

1. Running Wildfire

Winds roared across dry fields as a lone young fox ran through, quick as a blaze, its red fur flashing in the setting sun.

Behind him, he could hear the crazed barking of his hunters, discordant and relentless.

Sharp heat flashed through his abdomen and for a moment, his belly shivered in pain.

The young fox—Wildfire, could sense his lifespirit waver and wane like smoke in the wind.

The pervasive and sickening smell of fresh warm blood clung to his nostrils. It was the blood that had spattered him when he slashed through his target’s windpipe.

Although this was the first time he had ever assassinated a human for his master, the warrior had hardly been an easy kill. Someone must have advised him well for he had carried a warded sword.

Translator E:

Nobi Runs

With his red fur shining like a burning flame, the young fox runs across a field at dusk through which a lonely wind blows.  From behind, many dogs bark dissonantly as they chase him.  A scathing pain ran through the young fox’s belly, and for an instant, his belly shudders.  That young fox—Nobi—felt his life hang like thin trails of smoke disappearing into the air.

On his nose, the smell of lukewarm blood closed in.  It is the smell of the blood that sprayed out when the young fox bit the target’s windpipe.  Made to do it by his master, this was the first time he killed a person, but the warrior was not an easy target.  Someone must have warned the warrior, or he had an amulet on his sword.

Cathy Hirano:

Chapter 1

Nobi Runs

The wind swept across a field at sunset. A lone fox cub, his fur flashing like flame, raced through the long grass. Close on his heels came the crazed cacophony of hounds in pursuit. A sharp pain seared his belly and a shudder ran through him. He could feel his life stretch like a wisp of smoke, dissipating slowly. His nose was still rank with the raw smell of warm blood; the blood that had spurted from his victim’s throat when Nobi had ripped it out.

This was the first time Nobi had ever killed at his master’s bidding, and the warrior, armed with a sword protected by warding spells, had been no easy target.

One Passage, Five Translations – Sachiko Kashiwaba

By Avery Fischer Udagawa, Bangkok

At SCBWI Tokyo Translation Day on June 16, 2012, Alexander O. Smith presented a workshop on translating excerpts from teen-appropriate novels in contrasting genres. One excerpt was from the novel Tsuzuki no toshokan (The “What’s-Next” Library) by Sachiko Kashiwaba, a work that began as an online novel and won a prestigious Shogakukan Children’s Book Award in 2010.

Kashiwaba is a prolific author of works set in contemporary Japan that weave in fantasy and folklore. Her novel Kiri no muko no fushigi na machi (The Marvelous Village Veiled in Mist) influenced Hayao Miyazaki’s film Spirited Away. 

In Tsuzuki no toshokan, Kashiwaba explores what might happen if the characters from children’s books sought to learn “what happened next” to readers who loved them, just as readers of books seek to learn what happens to their favorite characters in stories. The main character of the novel is a librarian named Momo who, in the excerpt discussed by Smith, has moved back to her childhood home and is reconnecting with a relative.

For this blog post, Smith shared an excerpt from Tsuzuki no toshokan along with translations of four participants in the workshop, followed by his own. He writes:

“Here’s a section from the wonderfully nuanced Kashiwaba piece we translated for the workshop on Saturday. The original Japanese comes first, followed by translations submitted anonymously by translators in attendance, followed by my own take on the section. It’s a great example of how many valid ways there are to translate any given line, especially when dialogue comes into play. See how different each translator’s approach was to the mention of Momo’s father at the top of the section, and how they dealt with the potentially gnarly second ‘mention of her father’ at the end. Also, here you will find five different translations, with four entirely different ways to translate Aunt Anzu’s admonition for Momo to ‘live better.'”

Enjoy! We welcome comments on these renderings of Kashiwaba’s text.

杏おばさんのほうが、
「義正に似て、不器用そうな子だね。」
と、桃さんのお父さんの名前を口にした。
「義正といっしょで、どうせ砂をつかむみたいに、手の中からみんなこぼれてしまったんだろう。どうして、上手に生きられないかねぇ。」
と、ため息をつく。
桃さんは、お父さんまでひきあいにだされて、くちびるをかんだ。

[Source: Tsuzuki no toshokan online version, part 1, pp. 7-8]

Translator A: Aunt Anzu spoke first, mentioning Momo’s father by name. “You seem to have Yoshimasa’s knack for making a hash of things. I suppose you’ve let it all spill through your hands like so much sand, same as he did. I don’t understand,” she sighed, “why you can’t live a little smarter.”
Momo bit her lip, annoyed at having her father brought into this.

Translator B: Her Aunt spoke,
“You look awkward, just like Yoshimasa,” bringing up the name of Momo’s father.
“Yoshimasa and me, we wanted to grab sand but it all spilt out from our hands. How come we can’t have a good life?” she sighed.
Momo bit her lip at having the subject of Dad dragged into the conversation.

Translator C: Aunt Anzu was the first to speak Momo’s father’s name. “You look like Yoshimasa. Clumsy.” She sighed. “You’re just like him. Everything spills out of your hands like sand. Can’t you do anything right?”
Momo bit her lip at the mention of her father.

Translator D: “You’re a bungler just like Yoshimasa, aren’t you?” Aunt Anzu said, mentioning Momo’s father. “You let everything slip through your fingers, just like sand. Why can’t you live like you ought to?”
Momo bit her lip at being compared with her father.

Alexander O. Smith: It was Auntie Anzu who mentioned Momo’s father first. “You’re an unfortunate child, just like Yoshimasa was. Always trying to grab on to everything, ‘til it slips through your fingers like sand. Really,” she sighed. “Can’t you do anything right?”
     She didn’t need to bring him into this, Momo thought, biting her lip.