Translate César Vallejo? Well, not exactly. Attempt a translation, yes.
One is aware of the usual problems of the process: culture, lexicon, authors’ quirks, historical periods, slang, wordplay, musical, religious, and literary references, among many others. To those, in the case of Vallejo, is added a large quotient of impenetrability. Enigmas that will never be illuminated once the author who created them can no longer be consulted. So from the beginning the translator knows that she will follow a path leading through a text constantly changing from blazing light to most profound shadow. She will feel her way, always searching, always hoping for a ghostly finger to point to one of many possible English definitions for a difficult word, or for a light pat on the shoulder if she thinks she may have taken a leap that lands somewhere near what Vallejo was thinking and feeling as he wrote the line.
I consulted dictionaries, of course. All the standards, plus several devoted to Peruanismos, found through the help of colleagues. We are all dependent on them, though they can be the worst of betrayers. Vallejo uses words that have meanings specific to Peru, as well as an occasional sprinkling of Quechua, which I chose to include. They are not vital for a quick reading, though it gives the reader a deeper appreciation of the poem to know that the corequenque is a bird whose feathers were worn by Inca sovereigns as a sign of authority; that huaco and huaca are related in various ways to burial practices, objects, or grounds; that a yaraví is a melancholy song; that a ñandú is a South American bird, a rhea, similar to an ostrich; and that a coriconcha is a temple. It seemed appropriate to leave those words in the poems with specifically Inca flavor. I offer the same argument for having chosen to maintain many words in Spanish, those referring to place, rank, or everyday practices. Even though one wants to move the text into the world of the English-language reader, I find it condescending to anglicize place names, terms of address, and common words that are making their way into our language anyway.
It is reasonably easy to capture the sense of some of Vallejo’s lines. Unfortunately those are few and far between. The Vallejo translator must slowly find a way to “read” these poems, to decide how much license to take—for license must be taken—to construct a template on which he or she unconsciously places a poem with the hope of finding similarities of treatment among them, clues to a way to react to the author’s implausible leaps and abrupt slashings of flow that mask deeper expression.
One of the fascinations about translating a poem—translating anything, really—is that there is seldom a “correct” solution. Students in translation courses are often upset by that truth until it becomes clear to them that there are simply better and worse ways to move a text into a second language, not one that is definitive—unless, of course, in regard to factual material. Read several translations of the same poem and you will be amused, perhaps confounded, by the differences among them. Translators of Vallejo carry those differences into amazing ranges of interpretation. One example will suffice. In Trilce X, relating the death of Vallejo’s lover, the last stanza reads (italics mine):
No hay ni una violencia.
El paciente incorpórase,
y sentado empavona tranquilas misturas.
Here are four translations of those final lines. First, Michael Smith:
There is not the slightest violence.
The patient sits up,
and, seated, dips quiet breadcrumbs.
Clayton Eshleman:
There’s not even any violence.
The patient rises up,
and seated enpeacocks tranquil nosegays.
Rebecca Seiferle:
There is not even one constraint.
The patient sits up
and, seated, daubs tranquil mixtures.
And myself:
There is not even one violent act.
The patient stands up,
and, seated, paints out tranquil petal showers.
Extreme variance, yes, but even so these four examples still illustrate the cardinal rule of translation: Somewhere among the many drafts and versions, somewhere deep between the lines, lies the authentic poem.
Many writers precede me in translating César Vallejo. I applaud them all, now that I have a taste of what’s involved in trying to put on paper something that may approximate the original Vallejo poem. I also have experienced with them the quiet thrill that comes when seemingly intractable words open up to reveal a thought, an image you feared might lie hidden forever. I am specifically grateful to Ilan Stavans, who put up with endless annoyance during the course of my working on these translations. Thanks to all those who labor in the Vallejo garden.