Oh translators. Specifically, those translators who start with their own venting transplain of what a translation is. Normally leaves me groaning before I’ve even begun. In this case I kept groaning.
The transplain in question runs into a lengthy critique of the previous translation of Gilbert-Lacomte's poetry into English. This was published in the ‘90’s, titled Black Mirror and by David Rattray. Rattray’s is certainly uneven, and his use of words like ‘cooties’ and ‘boogieman’ did stick in my grille, but generally his lines read with far more fluency than Ball’s flat-footed and charmless attempts, which try so very hard not to repeat their predecessor, yet only to their further detriment.
In his introduction, Ball remarks of the Surrealist’s ‘exclusion’ of R.G-L and his friends “how could they possibly prevent someone from writing surrealist poetry or making a surrealist painting?” Before going on to get so heated about Rattray’s looser translations (whilst ignoring the fact that his edition was duel text, so changes were apparent) as to declare “Don’t call your own poems translations.” Oh. The. Irony.
If you want to read one thing by R.G-L in English, let it be Rattray's frankly immaculate translation of 'Coronation and Massacre of Love'.
Beyond that, in truth, neither book does justice to R.G-L, but this, while the more comprehensive, is also the lesser; for all the extra poems he translates, you find it just taking longer over a poorer, thinner version of the same vision.
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