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Knee-Deep in 'Bovary'

Flaubert’s obsessive masterpiece finally gets the obsessive translation it deserves.

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Davis in her upstate office, where she keeps many copies of Madame Bovary and almost as many well-worn dictionaries.  

When Viking asked Lydia Davis to translate Madame Bovary, back in 2006, she said no. She had recently finished the massive job of translating Proust’s Swann’s Waythe first entirely new version in 80 years, and one that was widely celebrated as an improvementand she was eager to focus again on her own creative work: the stream of meticulously unorthodox short fiction that culminated, last year, in the publication of the 733-page Collected Stories of Lydia Davis. Davis, who is now 63, hadn’t read Bovary since her first encounter with the book, in English, as a young womanshe can’t remember exactly when she read it, or even which translation. All she knows is that she was unimpressed. Emma Bovary, the housewife doomed by fantasies of a better life, struck the young Davis as a weak heroine, and Flaubert’s allegedly revolutionary realismthe prose style that launched Proust, Joyce, Stein, Kafka, Faulkner, and Conrad on their adventures in twentieth-century consciousnessseemed unremarkable. She preferred Flaubert’s final novel, Bouvard and Pécuchet.

A couple of years later, Viking asked Davis again. By that time, she missed translating. Her ideal creative rhythm, she’d discovered, was to have some large, stable project anchoring her to her desk so that her own stories could flit impulsively around the edges. So she started poking around in Flaubert’s novel and its many English manifestationsthere are now about twentyexpecting to find at least one or two good enough to make a new translation unnecessary. She didn’t. In fact, she found the opposite. Every version she looked at had problems: clichés, errors, awkwardness, embellishmentsall revisions that would have horrified Flaubert, one of history’s most obsessive revisers. Davis realized that the style she’d dismissed as unremarkable, all those years ago, wasn’t even really Flaubert’s.

You’d think, working from one text, that the translations have got to be fairly similar, Davis says. But it’s amazing how different they all are. Some are fairly close, but then they’ll add a metaphor that Flaubert doesn’t have. And some are outrageously far away. Two of the most popular, Steegmuller and Hopkinsthey’re not bad books. They’re well written in their own way. But they’re not close to what Flaubert did.

Davis spent more than two years trying to create the closest possible replica of Madame Bovary that would still make sense to an English reader. Her routine was to sit down, in the morning, in front of an old boxy desktop computer with no Internet connection. (I’m undistracted here, she says. I can keep it very disciplined.) Beside her keyboard she’d have Bovary in Frencha secondhand copy featuring, on its cover, the familiar caricature of Flaubert, with his smooth egg head and his mustache drooping like a pair of lobster whiskers. In front of her, propped open on mismatched book stands (wooden, plastic, metal), she’d place five different translations. Then she’d crawl, word by word, through the text, stopping occasionally to consult her pile of worn-out dictionaries or to watch the way a French phrase would ripple across the different translationshow bouffées d’affadissement, for instance, would become waves of nausea or stagnant dreariness or a kind of rancid staleness. (Davis’s version has gusts of revulsion.) On a good day she’d translate three pages.

Perfect translation, in the common-sense fantasy of one-to-one correspondence, is of course impossible. Even the simplest message, moved from one language to another, inevitably gets warped: It loses its music, its cultural resonance, and the special pace at which it surrenders its information. This warpage is magnified, by a factor of roughly 10 million, in the case of Madame Bovary. Flaubert fetishized style; he wrote slowly and revised endlessly. He worked on the novel for nearly five laborious years, and his letters from the period are a running commentary of agony. Writing this book, he wrote, I am like a man playing the piano with lead balls attached to his knuckles. At that time, the loose-baggy-monster tradition of the novel was still in ascendance: Bovary’s contemporaries include Moby-Dick, Bleak House, and Les Misérables. Flaubert’s novel, however, demonstrates the kind of perfect control seen more often in poetry: seamless sentences that unite, seamlessly, into paragraphs, which then flow seamlessly into episodes and chapterscraftsmanship so advanced that the craftsmanship disappears. As Michael Dirda once put it, You can shake Madame Bovary and nothing will fall out.

Davis admits that this is the one aspect of Bovary that will never survive translation: an almost superhuman cohesion. It’s the final, perfect fit between the style and the material, she says. It’s impossible to achieve in English. It’s organically related. Nevertheless, she’s given it her best shot. Her solution is a scrupulousness that seems, at times, to approach Flaubert’s. I stay very close to the original and only depart as much as I have to, she says. Very close. You can stay closer than most people would think. She agonizes over even minor departures, when English syntax or an obscure French reference force her to improvise. Her version even preserves glitches that previous translators silently corrected: odd capitalizations, for instance, and inconsistent verb tenses. (Viking made her address all of this in her introduction, so it wouldn’t just look like sloppy copyediting.)


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