Just spent two days in Venice, which was AWESOME.
It was the weekend before Carnivale, so there were mask shops everywhere selling everything from cheap glitter-and-glue to elaborate artpieces of gold and feathers. Not to mention the weather, which was warm and sunny, something that isn't going to happen in good old Deutschland for a while, and the gelato. Need I say anything besides Italian gelato?
Bridges are to Venice what bakeries are to Marburg - you can't go a block without finding one. Yet even with so much water, it is hard to remember that the city is sinking. It looks so old, one can only imagine it will be there forever. Narrow alleys are everywhere, so that not even the most cautious person can avoid them. Luckily it is a big tourist town, so they try to keep the crime rate low.
How bizarre must it be to live in a place where you have more tourists than neighbors?
In any case, what struck me as most wondrous about being in Venice is that when you think of it, it is almost a mythical land. Like Narnia, or Atlantis. People write books about the place (see Cornelia Funke's The Thief Lord, auf Deutsch, Herr der Diebe; also Mary Hoffman's City of Masks) and the magic that takes place within. Of course, people write stories about magic in London and New York as well (neither of which I have been too), but those cities star so often only because that is what most writers are familiar with. Still, it brings up an interesting point: Nearly every single book that takes place in London - or any city - takes place in a different universe.
I am not just talking about fantasy, for once. I mean that the universe a book takes place in is necessarily different from the one we live in - we cannot meet the characters in ours. Often, too, the characters do not meet each other. Here, fantasy is a good medium to demonstrate this - the London from which the Pevensie children go to Narnia simply cannot possibly be the same London that housed Clive Barker's mystif (Imajica - like Abarat, but for grownups).
Yet going to a place in the flesh makes it real. To think that the Venice I went to is the same Venice that my relatives have gone to, that my friends have visited, where Cornelia Funke drew her inspiration for The Thief Lord. No streets had been rearranged or buildings added to suit the plot or the author's memory. It is the Venice that exists on its own, independent from the imagination of a writer or reader.
It is also worth saying that Venice is a magical city in its own right, without authorial additions. Even when it is overrun by tourists, you can tell that it truly deserves to be a tourist destination, and that it is appreciated. No one goes to Venice to drink and party - they go to Venice for the magic, to be able to say "I have been to Venice" the same way one would want to say "I have been to Narnia."
What is the magic of Venice, then? Is it the architecture, the history, the age? The canals and gondoliers and bridges? Palaces and churches - but can those not be found all over Europe? The glassmakers and mask-shops? Is it something in the air, the water, the light, a mystical aura? Is it simply the fact that I have read too many fantasy books about the place - though the same could be said for London? Though it occurs to me that most fantasy stories that start in London end up going somewhere else, but the magic in Venice is actually in Venice. Why was it that when I was aimlessly browsing Ryanair for cheap tickets, that as soon as I saw the name Venice I knew I had to go there?
In this life, Venice is the closest any of us can get to Narnia.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Kai Meyer's "Frostfire" - Chapter 1, Part 2/3
“Do you have it with you?” he asked abruptly. “The icicle of the Snow-Queen’s heart?”
She nodded, but made no move to pull it out from under her coat. She felt its cold on her breast. The longer she carried it on her, they more painful it became to think that she would once again have to part with it.
“I don’t want it,” the old man said. “I know that this is the reason you have come here.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, disappointed, despairing. “Who else could I give it to?”
“Who then did you steal it for?”
“My father and I were chartered a few months ago by a group of revolutionaries, up in the realm of the Queen. They have been planning a coup for years. They knew that only someone like my father had the…talent to break the power of the Snow-Queen.”
“Or someone like you. People with quite special abilities.”
She smiled for the first time since she had taken the place next to him. “Compared to him, I am only a child.”
“Yes. His child.”
Her smile brightened for an instant. Then her features darkened once again. “I had so hoped that you would take the icicle from me. I could not think of anyone else that I could trust it with.”
The old man shook his head. “It would corrupt me. Just as it ices over the soul of anyone who carries it with them too long.” A spark was suddenly in his eyes, perhaps suspicion, perhaps something entirely different. “You would like to be right about needing to get rid of it. But the there is only one single possibility.”
She frowned. “Well?”
“Bring it back.”
Tamsin pressed her lips together. They were dry and chapped from the bitter cold. “Never,” she said instantly.
“But you have already thought of it yourself, haven’t you?”
“No,” she lied. “My father died trying to steal it. The Snow-Queen…she killed him.” Master Spellwell’s body had stayed behind in the Palace of the tyrant; there he stood as a frozen statue in one of the countless Ice Domes, with only the silence for company.
Tamsin’s lower lip trembled. “I would rather go the same way as he than give her the icicle of my own free will.”
Father Frost smiled indulgently and put his trembling right hand over both of hers. “Those are brave words, Tamsin Spellwell. We have only met once, and you were still a little girl. But even then your father said that you had great courage.”
“Please,” she said beseechingly. “Take the icicle.”
“Never.” He pulled his hand back and stroked it over his white beard. “This is now your battle alone. And your decision. Tell me, how old are you now?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five.”
“You look younger.”
“Can one trust the judgement of someone who is older than mountains and forests?”
His laugh sounded like rasping ice. “Maybe not. But still take a word of advice from an old fool. Give her the icicle back, before she destroys you. What concern is her realm to you – or the people who live there in her thrall?”
Tamsin still shook her head. Her decision stood fast. At once there was a new energy in her, flaring up like flames from the ashes of a cold fireplace. “You know that it is not about her realm. Not anymore.” She was silent a moment. “Is she here already? In St. Petersburg?”
He nodded. “This snow was brought by her. The snowflakes are talkative, when one feeds them.”
“Where is she staying?”
He told her.
Tamsin pulled her crumpled top hat straight and stood up from the bench.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Writer's Block (Part 2)
I did promise you the rest of the story. There isn't as much of it as I had thought.
I left off in sixth grade when I was starting to realize that I had a problem. Middle school did nothing to help any of my social phobias. In fact, the less time spent dwelling on it, the better.
Seventh grade English class was a joke. The only good thing about it was that the teacher actually explained what he wanted from a book report - or a "book review," since we were big kids now. I believe I was the only person in the class who ever got a 100% on one of those. A rather unremarkable event over the course of a day in middle school, but it was a turning point in my life. For the first time, I realized that I might actually be decent at writing if I ever gave myself a chance.
That is to say, writing became easier, but having my stuff read still made/makes me feel a bit queasy. I'm getting better though. I can physically bring myself to read the teacher's comments when I get papers back. Most of the time.
Just don't ask to see my novels.
Big Secret #1: I write.
It started in middle school. As though all of the words and stories I had been taking in almost constantly suddenly overflowed. It started with some typical "normal person discovers magical powers, plot ensues." Then, as my tastes in literature began to mature, it moved on to deconstructions of fantasy cliches. I am on something like my twentieth draft, with no end in sight. Every time I think I'm getting close, a new complication appears.
There ought to be a better way to connect me child who hated to create a single sentence to me attempting to write a novel, but there is not. One day I started writing. And I haven't stopped.
I left off in sixth grade when I was starting to realize that I had a problem. Middle school did nothing to help any of my social phobias. In fact, the less time spent dwelling on it, the better.
Seventh grade English class was a joke. The only good thing about it was that the teacher actually explained what he wanted from a book report - or a "book review," since we were big kids now. I believe I was the only person in the class who ever got a 100% on one of those. A rather unremarkable event over the course of a day in middle school, but it was a turning point in my life. For the first time, I realized that I might actually be decent at writing if I ever gave myself a chance.
That is to say, writing became easier, but having my stuff read still made/makes me feel a bit queasy. I'm getting better though. I can physically bring myself to read the teacher's comments when I get papers back. Most of the time.
Just don't ask to see my novels.
Big Secret #1: I write.
It started in middle school. As though all of the words and stories I had been taking in almost constantly suddenly overflowed. It started with some typical "normal person discovers magical powers, plot ensues." Then, as my tastes in literature began to mature, it moved on to deconstructions of fantasy cliches. I am on something like my twentieth draft, with no end in sight. Every time I think I'm getting close, a new complication appears.
There ought to be a better way to connect me child who hated to create a single sentence to me attempting to write a novel, but there is not. One day I started writing. And I haven't stopped.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Writer's Block
My parents read my blog - that's what I get for posting the link on facebook, I suppose. Luckily I had not yet posted any embarrassing information. Come to think of it, I don't think I have any embarrassing information. I don't drink. I've never been romantically involved with anyone. They more or less already know my secrets. It's just a little embarrassing. Awkward. Something I was not expecting and did not expect to come up during a skype conversation the other day.
Though all my mom had to say was, "Actually, we went to Iowa State University, not University of Iowa." To which I did not reply. "It's Iowa. No one cares."
No offense to anyone who may be reading this if you are from Iowa, have friends in Iowa, eventually move to Iowa, or have some sort of fondness for the cornfield I mean state.
So for my sanity's sake I am just going to pretend my parents do not know that I am writing and carry on as normal.
Several readers have made it known to me that they enjoy reading my blog, and that they consider it well written. First of all, thank you, it really does mean a lot to me. It's actually a little mind-blowing to hear/read that.
I've struggled with writing since I was about six, about the same time I was solidifying my reputation as a bookworm, and paving the way for the many ironies of my life. Of course I could understand those wonderful things called books, and read those magical things called words, but generate my own? Take those words that have already been laid down in perfect order by holy beings called authors and scramble them with my own clumsy efforts? Use them to express my own weak thoughts and tiny life experiences? Impossible. Every sentence was a drag, and I kept to the bare minimum, ashamed of my puny efforts to control words.
It did not help that in the midst of this, I had a slightly traumatizing event. First grade. We had been herded to the gymnasium to watch some concert/performance thing, probably the middle school or high school choir. Then we were herded back to the classroom and told to write a journal about it. I stuck with my three sentence minimum, ending with "It was cinduv (kind of - this was, believe it or not, before I devolped my mad spelling skills) boring."
A reasonable statement, yes? In fact I had enjoyed the concert or whatever it was, but due to the disorganization of the management, we had waited for the show to begin longer than a six-year-old's patience finds acceptable - that was the part I had meant was boring, though I could not think how to express it. I showed it to the teacher to get it stamped off.
She did not like it. In fact, a part of my memory that I do not entirely trust but do not entirely doubt says that she tore the page from my journal. "That is not how you talk about other people!" she told me sharply. The part of the memory I am sure of is that she was loud enough to cause the entire class to look at me and witness my humiliation. And for a shy child who does not have many friends and does not like being in the spotlight, can you imagine a worse punishment?
Now that I am older (it seems there are advantages to growing up after all) I find the teacher's response to have been entirely unreasonable. Since when was "boring" a forbidden word? Since when was an opinion of disapproval socially unacceptable? And what the HELL gave her the right to frickin' embarrass me in front of everyone and give me a literary handicap that still affects me today at nineteen?
For years I could not show anyone anything I had written. The safest course, in fact, was to not write anything at all. It's not like I intended to be a writer or anything, as so many smiling adults asked me when they heard I liked to read. But there was still curricular writing to deal with. Make a sentence using each of the spelling words - I couldn't even do that. Well, I could, but it was very, very uncomfortable, especially when the teacher sat down and read them right in front of me. Don't even think about writing a story. Or book reports. I sucked at book reports. Summarize the book: It's about a kid who finds out he's a hero and has to save the world. Now tell why you liked the book: ...I don't know, I just did? Because it was fun to read and a heck of a lot more interesting than my own life?
That fell a bit short of the 1-2 page requirement.
Oh, and in sixth grade, I found out at the end of the DARE (Drug Abuse Resistance Education, for those who don't know or forgot) Program that we were supposed to have written an "essay" about how DARE changed our life, which I had not realized was mandatory. Nor had I realized that we were supposed to read it out loud in front of the whole frakking class. So I and the underachievers were sent to the computer lab to type something up - I think that was probably my first experience BS-ing a paper - and called back into the classroom to read our pieces. And I couldn't do it. A kind girl offered to do it for me, and I let her, sitting for the next two minutes in abject misery, each word a slap in the face from my incompetence. This part might have more to do with stage fright than write-fright, actually, but the two were closely tied.
It did get better, oddly enough, in middle school. However, as this post has run rather long (and is not what I was intending to write about at all), I will save the story of how I triumphantly overcame my difficulties (And you can too! Isn't it inspiring???) for the next post.
Though all my mom had to say was, "Actually, we went to Iowa State University, not University of Iowa." To which I did not reply. "It's Iowa. No one cares."
No offense to anyone who may be reading this if you are from Iowa, have friends in Iowa, eventually move to Iowa, or have some sort of fondness for the cornfield I mean state.
So for my sanity's sake I am just going to pretend my parents do not know that I am writing and carry on as normal.
Several readers have made it known to me that they enjoy reading my blog, and that they consider it well written. First of all, thank you, it really does mean a lot to me. It's actually a little mind-blowing to hear/read that.
I've struggled with writing since I was about six, about the same time I was solidifying my reputation as a bookworm, and paving the way for the many ironies of my life. Of course I could understand those wonderful things called books, and read those magical things called words, but generate my own? Take those words that have already been laid down in perfect order by holy beings called authors and scramble them with my own clumsy efforts? Use them to express my own weak thoughts and tiny life experiences? Impossible. Every sentence was a drag, and I kept to the bare minimum, ashamed of my puny efforts to control words.
It did not help that in the midst of this, I had a slightly traumatizing event. First grade. We had been herded to the gymnasium to watch some concert/performance thing, probably the middle school or high school choir. Then we were herded back to the classroom and told to write a journal about it. I stuck with my three sentence minimum, ending with "It was cinduv (kind of - this was, believe it or not, before I devolped my mad spelling skills) boring."
A reasonable statement, yes? In fact I had enjoyed the concert or whatever it was, but due to the disorganization of the management, we had waited for the show to begin longer than a six-year-old's patience finds acceptable - that was the part I had meant was boring, though I could not think how to express it. I showed it to the teacher to get it stamped off.
She did not like it. In fact, a part of my memory that I do not entirely trust but do not entirely doubt says that she tore the page from my journal. "That is not how you talk about other people!" she told me sharply. The part of the memory I am sure of is that she was loud enough to cause the entire class to look at me and witness my humiliation. And for a shy child who does not have many friends and does not like being in the spotlight, can you imagine a worse punishment?
Now that I am older (it seems there are advantages to growing up after all) I find the teacher's response to have been entirely unreasonable. Since when was "boring" a forbidden word? Since when was an opinion of disapproval socially unacceptable? And what the HELL gave her the right to frickin' embarrass me in front of everyone and give me a literary handicap that still affects me today at nineteen?
For years I could not show anyone anything I had written. The safest course, in fact, was to not write anything at all. It's not like I intended to be a writer or anything, as so many smiling adults asked me when they heard I liked to read. But there was still curricular writing to deal with. Make a sentence using each of the spelling words - I couldn't even do that. Well, I could, but it was very, very uncomfortable, especially when the teacher sat down and read them right in front of me. Don't even think about writing a story. Or book reports. I sucked at book reports. Summarize the book: It's about a kid who finds out he's a hero and has to save the world. Now tell why you liked the book: ...I don't know, I just did? Because it was fun to read and a heck of a lot more interesting than my own life?
That fell a bit short of the 1-2 page requirement.
Oh, and in sixth grade, I found out at the end of the DARE (Drug Abuse Resistance Education, for those who don't know or forgot) Program that we were supposed to have written an "essay" about how DARE changed our life, which I had not realized was mandatory. Nor had I realized that we were supposed to read it out loud in front of the whole frakking class. So I and the underachievers were sent to the computer lab to type something up - I think that was probably my first experience BS-ing a paper - and called back into the classroom to read our pieces. And I couldn't do it. A kind girl offered to do it for me, and I let her, sitting for the next two minutes in abject misery, each word a slap in the face from my incompetence. This part might have more to do with stage fright than write-fright, actually, but the two were closely tied.
It did get better, oddly enough, in middle school. However, as this post has run rather long (and is not what I was intending to write about at all), I will save the story of how I triumphantly overcame my difficulties (And you can too! Isn't it inspiring???) for the next post.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
"Can I Ask Why You Have An Asian Face?"
Yes, I honestly did get asked that once. And I have had to go through something similar with EVERY SINGLE PERSON that I have met here. It's ususally about the third or fourth question I get asked. "Hi, what's your name? Where are you from? What are you studying? Why do you look Asian?"
Here is the story of how I came to be:
My father was born in Germany after the war. My grandfather worked on an American air base, and all the American soldiers told him that he should totally come to America, because it's such a great place. So my grandparents decided that they would take their infant twin children and live in America for ten years, build up some financial savings, and then return to the homeland. Of course, ten years later they had two American kids who spoke hardly any German. So they stayed. My dad went to college, studying chemistry, and ended up at the University of Iowa for graduate school.
Now my mother. She is of Chinese descent, but her parents moved to a tiny island in the Indian ocean called Mauritius before them darn Commies got to the country. My mother was born on Mauritius, but grew up in Hong Kong. She went to college in America and got a chemistry major and a double minor in math and business. Then she went to graduate school at the University of Iowa.
They met in chemistry class. Cue the bad puns. According to legend, my dad had a crush on her and started talking to her, but couldn't get the courage to ask her out. My mom realized what he was trying to do and so asked him out instead.
Ten or so years later, I was born in Minnesota.
Now. The Asian thing. In America, people don't ask. I can choose to "out" myself whenever I feel like it, usually when my friends happen to be discussing their European mutt heritages. Then the reactions are "Oh, that's cool," rather than someone's mind being completely blown: "You're Chinese?! And German?! And American!?!" In America, no one really cares where your parents came from, or why you look they way you do. Sure they wonder, but it's not a big burning question that they need an answer to before you've even held a conversation with them. Besides, it's not that hard to find people of Asian descent who are American citizens, or adopted, or half-Chinese half-white. Honestly, it's a lot harder to find people who are of pure German descent, like my dad.
However, in Germany, Germans are white. And apparently, so are Americans. A slight consolation is that I overheard one of my friends explaining his European mutt heritage to a pair of Taiwanese girls, and they reacted with almost the same kind of amazement. "Wait, so you're French? And German? And Polish? And American?"
I am an American.
I am a German-American who has sold her soul to her father tongue, who is currently residing in the land of her ancestors, who likes schnitzel and potatoes and bread and nutella (but not beer).
I am a Chinese-American who has tried and failed multiple times to learn her mother tongue or a dialect thereof, who slightly resents her mother for not raising her bilingual, who is damn good at cooking stir-fry and potstickers, who can use chopsticks and prefers tea to coffee. And won't put up with Asian jokes any more than "That's so gay."
I am an American, a Midwesterner, a Minnesotan, from the suburbs of the Twin Cities. I speak English, I am Minnesota nice, I like the snow, yes our last governor was a wrestler, we don't like to talk about that, no one's quite sure how that happened; it's pop (even though I don't drink it) and hot dish and drinking fountain, and we need to take the ACTs to get into college.
The American Dream is kind of cheesy, but there is some truth to it - in America, it doesn't matter who your parents are as much as who you are. I'm not saying that's better than having a strong cultural connection to one's ancestors; only both my parents were chemistry majors, my brother is going into biochem, and I'm studying German and Linguistics. Where did I come from? I don't know. But I have felt absolutely no pressure to be like my parents, and for that I am glad.
So yes, I have an Asian face. But that's just an accident of birth. That's just how I look. There is so much more about me that is interesting and startling than just that.
Here is the story of how I came to be:
My father was born in Germany after the war. My grandfather worked on an American air base, and all the American soldiers told him that he should totally come to America, because it's such a great place. So my grandparents decided that they would take their infant twin children and live in America for ten years, build up some financial savings, and then return to the homeland. Of course, ten years later they had two American kids who spoke hardly any German. So they stayed. My dad went to college, studying chemistry, and ended up at the University of Iowa for graduate school.
Now my mother. She is of Chinese descent, but her parents moved to a tiny island in the Indian ocean called Mauritius before them darn Commies got to the country. My mother was born on Mauritius, but grew up in Hong Kong. She went to college in America and got a chemistry major and a double minor in math and business. Then she went to graduate school at the University of Iowa.
They met in chemistry class. Cue the bad puns. According to legend, my dad had a crush on her and started talking to her, but couldn't get the courage to ask her out. My mom realized what he was trying to do and so asked him out instead.
Ten or so years later, I was born in Minnesota.
Now. The Asian thing. In America, people don't ask. I can choose to "out" myself whenever I feel like it, usually when my friends happen to be discussing their European mutt heritages. Then the reactions are "Oh, that's cool," rather than someone's mind being completely blown: "You're Chinese?! And German?! And American!?!" In America, no one really cares where your parents came from, or why you look they way you do. Sure they wonder, but it's not a big burning question that they need an answer to before you've even held a conversation with them. Besides, it's not that hard to find people of Asian descent who are American citizens, or adopted, or half-Chinese half-white. Honestly, it's a lot harder to find people who are of pure German descent, like my dad.
However, in Germany, Germans are white. And apparently, so are Americans. A slight consolation is that I overheard one of my friends explaining his European mutt heritage to a pair of Taiwanese girls, and they reacted with almost the same kind of amazement. "Wait, so you're French? And German? And Polish? And American?"
I am an American.
I am a German-American who has sold her soul to her father tongue, who is currently residing in the land of her ancestors, who likes schnitzel and potatoes and bread and nutella (but not beer).
I am a Chinese-American who has tried and failed multiple times to learn her mother tongue or a dialect thereof, who slightly resents her mother for not raising her bilingual, who is damn good at cooking stir-fry and potstickers, who can use chopsticks and prefers tea to coffee. And won't put up with Asian jokes any more than "That's so gay."
I am an American, a Midwesterner, a Minnesotan, from the suburbs of the Twin Cities. I speak English, I am Minnesota nice, I like the snow, yes our last governor was a wrestler, we don't like to talk about that, no one's quite sure how that happened; it's pop (even though I don't drink it) and hot dish and drinking fountain, and we need to take the ACTs to get into college.
The American Dream is kind of cheesy, but there is some truth to it - in America, it doesn't matter who your parents are as much as who you are. I'm not saying that's better than having a strong cultural connection to one's ancestors; only both my parents were chemistry majors, my brother is going into biochem, and I'm studying German and Linguistics. Where did I come from? I don't know. But I have felt absolutely no pressure to be like my parents, and for that I am glad.
So yes, I have an Asian face. But that's just an accident of birth. That's just how I look. There is so much more about me that is interesting and startling than just that.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
"Frostfire" by Kai Meyer, Chapter 1 - Part 1 of 3
(My translation continues, slowly but steadily. Until I have to return the book to the library. I may have to buy it.)
The Chapter In Which The True Heroine Of This Tale Does Not Yet Emerge
The Chapter In Which The True Heroine Of This Tale Does Not Yet Emerge
St. Petersburg, capital of the Russian Empire, 1893
The old man sat on a bench in front of the Winter Palais and fed the snowflakes.
Next to him lay a leather pouch, from which he now and then pulled out a handful of silver dust, and with a soft, joyful laugh, scattered it into the air before him. The wadded flakes that had fallen incessantly for days from the gray sky, swarmed to him from all directions equally and clustered themselves around the glistening clouds. When they reached the ground, the dust disappeared. The snowflakes had eaten it up.
The man was big and of a brawy build, despite his great age. Nobody had dared to claim the free space on the bench next to him. One could not see much of his weather-beaten features, as they were them behind a full bushy beard, as pale as the snow in the northern taiga. His eyes, amidst the weathered star-shaped creases, gleamed a crystal blue.
The man wore a coat of bear’s fur, and a snow-powdered cap, though he seemed to give them hardly any worth: the coat stood open, the headpiece was carelessly askew. The cold could not touch him.
“Good day, Father Frost.”
The man looked up. For the blink of an eye his smile faded, as someone had dared to disturb his feeding the snowflakes. But then he recognized the woman who had spoken to him. His smile returned.
“Lady Spellwell?” he asked. “Tamsin Spellwell?”
A woman stepped out of the driving snow like a motley specter. He cinnabar-colored coat reached all the way to the floor. The shoes that peeked out from underneath were pointed like tusks – and painted purple. On her head she wore a felt top hat that was much too big, squashed together like an accordian, as though someone had sat on it. A cheerfully colored scarf was looped many times around her neck, and yet still so long that the ends dangled almost to the ground.
Rainbow-bright as well was the closed umbrella that she held in her hand. In the other she carried a tattered leather suitcase.
She stayed standing in front of the bench and indicated the free place next to him with a nod of her head. “May I?”
Father Frost sealed the pouch shut and made it disappear under his coat. “It’s been a long time since someone has dared to sit next to me.”
Tamsin took a seat, shoved the umbrella through the handles of the suitcase, and placed both next to her on a snowbank. Then she laid her hands with their clumsy mittens in her lap. Under the battered brim of her hat, a few violet locks of hair lay like the tips of the feathers of an exotic bird.
“Do these people know who you are?” She indicated the few pedestrians that crossed the square in front of the Palais, faces bent low against weather. Horse-drawn sleighs glided past behind curtains of snow. No one took notice of the two curious shapes on the bench.
The bearish old man shook his head gloomily. “They feel something that keeps them away from me. But they do not recognize the truth. That was different, once upon a time.”
Tamsin thought that she smelled the scent of vodka on his breath. Dark times, she thought, when even the master of Russian winters mourns for the past. “Thank you for answering my call,” she said.
“Your father was a friend.” Father Frost hesitated a moment. “I am sorry, about what happened.”
She did not want to speak about her father’s end. Not enough time had passed since the death of Master Spellwell. “How long has it been snowing this hard?”
Father Frost looked at the sky. “Since a few days ago. And before you ask: No, I don’t have anything to do with it. And I can’t change it.”
She cursed softly. Only one reason came to her mind, why St. Petersburg would be plagued with such a snowfall.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Nuts and Bolts
Translation is harder than you might think.
Presumeably you know that it requires more than a dictionary, and more than a basic grasp of the grammar of a language - there is a reason foreign language teachers always advise against using online translators.
I can read German very well. In fact, I would likely have been able to read Frostfeuer without a dictionary and still been able to follow the story. Translation is another matter. That is when you find out that although many of the words you can guess at something close to the meaning, you don't quite know exactly what the particular mood of a word is, what sort of connotations it is meant to bring to mind. That is when you discover the relationship between two languages.
For instance: I almost feel like I have to credit co-translatorship with my online dictionary (dict.cc is the best). The lovely thing about online dictionaries is that you can type in a word, and it will give you a whole list of translations with all the different shades of meaning that the word you are looking for uses. That is excellent for comprehension. But when you are translating, you have to choose just one. And it has to be exactly right, or as close as you can make it.
Some words that gave me difficulty:
Der Zapfen
That "Zapfen" was a bitch. It can mean either pine cone, or icicle, or various cone-shaped pieces of machinery. All I gleaned from the text was that it contained the heart of the Snow-Queen. And it is fairly important to the story. Though after finishing the book, I am fairly certain that it is an icicle. "Eiszapfen" is supposed to be the word that means icicle - and of course there is no entry for "Herzzapfen" - the icicle of her heart (Or perhaps the pine cone).
Der Schneeadler
Okay, a snow-eagle. Pretty straightforward, right? Except in German, the word for "eagle" is masculine, so in the text it was referred to as "he," even though we find out that the eagle is female. Which makes you wonder if that sounds normal to Germans. Another peculiarity of the German language is that the word for "girl" is actually neuter. So girls are sometimes referred to as "it." Those crazy Germans...
"Gen"
I may never run across this word again. It is an archaic word for "towards." I could have just used "towards," but that does not have the same archaic feel. "Thither" was the closest English equivalent I could come up with.
If there is a point to knowing any of this, it is that while many translations are wonderful, and that it is great to experience other cultures without having to spend years learning a language, no translation is exact. I will save my Bible rant for another time, but the short version is - the original Bible was written in Greek and Hebrew, then translated into Latin, and it was the Latin text that was translated into English and considered the definitive edition for a long time. It was used to create laws and put people to death and all kinds of insanity. Some people today still base their entire lives on the translation, without checking to see if they are missing something that did not transfer from the original text (not that I think one's life should be entirely modelled on a single book anyway, but that's yet another rant).
It is probably worth throwing in there that I am in fact slightly bitter that the gays have been screwed over for centuries because of a shoddy translation job - turns out there is no Hebrew word for "gay."
So as a follow up to why I want to be a translator - I want to be a good translator. And while I will probably never have the opportunity to translate a text as important as the Bible, that story still demonstrates why it is important to translate well.
I promise I'll post something interesting next time.
Presumeably you know that it requires more than a dictionary, and more than a basic grasp of the grammar of a language - there is a reason foreign language teachers always advise against using online translators.
I can read German very well. In fact, I would likely have been able to read Frostfeuer without a dictionary and still been able to follow the story. Translation is another matter. That is when you find out that although many of the words you can guess at something close to the meaning, you don't quite know exactly what the particular mood of a word is, what sort of connotations it is meant to bring to mind. That is when you discover the relationship between two languages.
For instance: I almost feel like I have to credit co-translatorship with my online dictionary (dict.cc is the best). The lovely thing about online dictionaries is that you can type in a word, and it will give you a whole list of translations with all the different shades of meaning that the word you are looking for uses. That is excellent for comprehension. But when you are translating, you have to choose just one. And it has to be exactly right, or as close as you can make it.
Some words that gave me difficulty:
Der Zapfen
That "Zapfen" was a bitch. It can mean either pine cone, or icicle, or various cone-shaped pieces of machinery. All I gleaned from the text was that it contained the heart of the Snow-Queen. And it is fairly important to the story. Though after finishing the book, I am fairly certain that it is an icicle. "Eiszapfen" is supposed to be the word that means icicle - and of course there is no entry for "Herzzapfen" - the icicle of her heart (Or perhaps the pine cone).
Der Schneeadler
Okay, a snow-eagle. Pretty straightforward, right? Except in German, the word for "eagle" is masculine, so in the text it was referred to as "he," even though we find out that the eagle is female. Which makes you wonder if that sounds normal to Germans. Another peculiarity of the German language is that the word for "girl" is actually neuter. So girls are sometimes referred to as "it." Those crazy Germans...
"Gen"
I may never run across this word again. It is an archaic word for "towards." I could have just used "towards," but that does not have the same archaic feel. "Thither" was the closest English equivalent I could come up with.
If there is a point to knowing any of this, it is that while many translations are wonderful, and that it is great to experience other cultures without having to spend years learning a language, no translation is exact. I will save my Bible rant for another time, but the short version is - the original Bible was written in Greek and Hebrew, then translated into Latin, and it was the Latin text that was translated into English and considered the definitive edition for a long time. It was used to create laws and put people to death and all kinds of insanity. Some people today still base their entire lives on the translation, without checking to see if they are missing something that did not transfer from the original text (not that I think one's life should be entirely modelled on a single book anyway, but that's yet another rant).
It is probably worth throwing in there that I am in fact slightly bitter that the gays have been screwed over for centuries because of a shoddy translation job - turns out there is no Hebrew word for "gay."
So as a follow up to why I want to be a translator - I want to be a good translator. And while I will probably never have the opportunity to translate a text as important as the Bible, that story still demonstrates why it is important to translate well.
I promise I'll post something interesting next time.
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