"Parlez-vous français?"

For this week’s post, I will discuss the comparisons between the essay “Death of the Author” in French and in English.

When I first read the article in English, I was initially taken aback. This essay was unlike any other we had read in class. Instead of explaining or providing supplementary information to an already existing (sacred) text, this essay introduced a new idea entirely. To be honest, the sprawling sentences, technical language, and esoteric references to French literature were daunting at first. Yet, even as I delved into the essay, I felt a tug at my subconscious - something was missing. For some reason, I couldn’t connect entirely with the text. When I reached the final sentence, I understood. The text was a translation, albeit a beautiful one. 

To me, reading a translated text is like listening to a song one octave higher than it was initially composed. Although the notes are right, the overall tone and message are a bit off. In this class, all of the primary source readings are translated from their original language. To make things even more complicated, these texts are supposed to be “heard” rather than “read.” To make an analogy, reading the Vedas in English is like reading Shakespeare’s scripts in Chinese. Not only is the native language (with all its idiosyncrasies) diluted, the raw power and emotion from recitation is ultimately lost. 

However, “The Death of the Author,” presented me with a unique opportunity. Unlike the other primary source texts, written in Sanskrit or Arabic, “The Death of the Author” is written in French. Fortunately, I can read French. Unfortunately, I have the vocabulary of  a dyslexic ten-year-old. Regardless, I set about re-reading the essay. 

Not surprisingly, there are a few mistranslated words. A “nevertheless” instead of “however,” a “we” instead of “one,” but no glaring errors. The biggest difference, however, came from the “feel” or the text. Ironically, in the original essay I could hear Barthes “voice.” I could read his original words, rather than rely on the murky lens of translation. 

For the first time, I could make my own interpretations, my own hermeneutics. I, not a translator, determined the meaning of each syllable, word and phrase in the text. Barthes' essay was the sheet music, and I the conductor. Together, we made a beautiful melody exactly on key.