Are you aware how fast your vehicle was going, sir?

If you have read, over at Paul Collins's Weekend Stubble, that in 1903 the speed of thirty miles per hour earned a car the epithet "scorcher" in the New York Times, and that the speed limit in Long Branch, New Jersey, was in that year six miles per hour, you may have wondered how, in the time before radar, such laws were enforced.

As it happens, that question was still novel enough in 1926 for Upton Sinclair to put the answer in the opening pages of his novel Oil!. It is 1912, and the hero, Bunny Ross, age thirteen, is being driven through southern California by his father, who is going fifty miles per hour in a thirty-mile-per-hour zone. Suddenly they fall into "A speed-trap!":

Oho! An adventure to make a boy's heart jump! . . . It must be a dreadful thing to be a "speed-cop", and have the whole human race for your enemy! To stoop to disreputable actions—hiding yourself in bushes, holding a stop-watch in hand, and with a confederate at a certain measured distance down the road, also holding a stop-watch, and with a telephone line connecting the two of them, so they could keep tab on motorists who passed! They had even invented a device of mirrors, which could be set up by the roadside, so that one man could get the flash of a car as it passed, and keep the time. This was a trouble the motorist had to keep incessant watch for; at the slightest sign of anything suspicious, he must slow up quickly—and yet not too quickly—no, just a natural slowing, such as any man would employ if he should discover that he had accidentally, for the briefest moment, exceeded ever so slightly the limits of complete safety in driving.

The technology of speed traps may have changed, but it seems that the psychology of the driver suddenly aware that he is under surveillance is one of the eternal and unchanging verities of the universe.

Turgenev: The Translation Game

Over the winter, Peter and I attended all three installments of Tom Stoppard's Coast of Utopia, in the course of which I learned a great deal about the literary history of 19th-century Russia and international anarchism, and came to the realization that what I really want to do with my life is dress like Ivan Turgenev.

Despairing of that, however, I have settled for reading some of his books. At the Strand I happened onto a $10 Cresset Library edition of A Sportsman's Notebook from 1950, in Charles and Natasha Hepburn's translation, which I enjoyed, even in its occasional lushness:

It was a marvellous picture: around the fires a circle of reddish, reflected light trembled and seemed to die away into the darkness; at times the flame blazed up and scattered swift gleams beyond the edges of the circle; a thin tongue of light licked the bare willow-twigs and disappeared in a flash--- long, sharp shadows, bursting in for a moment in their turn, ran right up to the fires: it was the war of darkness with light.

There are many such passages, and for them to work, there has to be a consistency of tone. My sense was that they did work, that the Hepburns' intermittent florid touches did not damage the essential delicacy of the prose. I moved on to a Novel Library edition of First Love and Rudin, also from 1950, mostly because I'm the sort of book-collecting aesthete who likes the dainty Novel Library editions, but also because Isaiah Berlin had translated First Love. Alec Brown did Rudin, and I liked his translation even better than Berlin's, if that's possible. To be honest, though, I was only reading for pleasure, and wasn't too worried about translations.

But then I came to Fathers and Sons, and for some reason, I grew fussy. You would think that determining which is the best translation of a foreign-language classic would be the sort of task the internet would be good at. But it isn't, really; there's no such category at Metacritic. Not even searching a scholarly archive like JSTOR helped, because the academics make a point of not knowing about translations, lest anyone think they read foreign-language books in anything but the original. So I stayed up late one night, consulting various versions of the opening page of Fathers and Sons, by means of Amazon's Search Inside function and Google Books, trying to figure out which translation I wanted to read. By now I knew what I liked about Turgenev --- the unobtrusively telling detail, the mild irony, the as-if-overheard quality of the dialogue. I liked Constance Garnett's version of the opening page, but for some reason I had it in my head that since this was Turgenev's best-known work, there had to have been some improvement in the translation of it since hers. I ended up choosing Bernard Guilbert Guerney's, which the Modern Library published in 1961.

Now I should say up front that this is not a tale with a villain. Guerney's is by no means a poor translation. But it's sort of a loud one, by which I mean that the reader is often made aware that a translator has translated it. This began to bother me in chapter 6, in an exchange between the hero's uncle, Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov, and the nihilist Bazarov about science:

"Physics is your particular study, isn't that so?" Pavel Petrovich inquired in his turn.

"Physics, yes; and natural sciences in general."

"They say the Germans have achieved great success in that field of late."

"Yes, we could go to school to the Nemtzi for such things."

Pavel Petrovich had used the term Germans in lieu of the common Nemtzi [tongue-tied ones] out of irony which, however, had been entirely wasted. (Trans. Guerney)

I found this unwieldy, not least because of the bracketed annotation "[tongue-tied ones]," whose relevance I couldn't quite see. If Nemtzi was the common word for "Germans," why hadn't it been translated as "Germans"? Guerney's rendering required the reader to pause and re-read the dialogue, replacing the word "Germans" with some sort of mental notation along the lines of ironic term for Germans that might be used by a proud dandy who's been living too long in the provinces. Unfair to the reader! I went online and consulted Garnett. Her version:

"Is your special study physics?" Pavel Petrovitch in his turn inquired.

"Physics, yes; and natural science in general."

"They say the Teutons of late have had great success in that line."

"Yes; the Germans are our teachers in it," Bazarov answered carelessly.

The word Teutons instead of Germans Pavel Petrovitch had used with ironical intention; none noticed it, however. (Trans. Garnett)

Teutons! Of course! English already has an ironic term for Germans that might be used by a proud dandy who's been living too long in the provinces. Why hadn't Guerney used it? My suspicion: he wanted to show off that he knew that "Nemtzi" literally meant "tongue-tied ones," and to suggest that this etymology contributed to the Turgenev's irony in the scene. But a translator's showing off shouldn't interrupt the flow of a scene. I ordered a copy of Garnett's Fathers and Sons, also published by Modern Library, at once.

But before it could arrive, I discovered that the Novel Library also had an edition of the novel. Powerless against my bibliophilia, and having happy memories of Isaiah Berlin and Alec Brown, I ordered it, too. It turned out to have been translated by someone named George Reavey, who translated the dialogue thus:

'Is physics your chief occupation then?' Paul Petrovich inquired in turn.

'Physics, yes; and the natural sciences in general.'

'They say that the Teutons, of late, have done wonders in this domain.'

'Yes, the Germans are our masters there,' Bazarov replied casually.

Paul Petrovich had used the word 'Teutons' instead of 'Germans' with ironical intent, but this had passed unnoticed. (Trans. Reavey)

I liked this even better. There was no nonsense about "Nemtzi," and the dialogue had a natural air that it didn't in Garnett. To some extent this is a matter of taste, and also of one's theory of translation. I happen to think that it's not only fair play but necessary to re-order the words of a sentence when translating, particularly when translating from a language with genders and cases, such as Russian, to one without them, such as English. But such things give people like Milan Kundera the heebie-jeebies, FYI. (I wrote an article on this once, for Lingua Franca.)

Philistine that I am, I was entirely capable of choosing to read George Reavey's version because the Novel Library edition was cuter than the others, even if I hadn't thought the translation was better, too. In any case, I started the novel over, from the beginning, and read happily away in Reavey's Turgenev, about the poignant-because-a-bit-ridiculous affection of Nicholas Petrovich for his son Arcady, about Arcady's hero-worship of the somewhat brutish Bazarov, about the impossible dignity of Arcady's uncle Pavel Petrovitch. And all was well, I was very happy, until I came to Madame Odintzov.

Madame Odintzov was a little older than Arcady; she had turned twenty-nine, but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a young student, as though the difference of years between them were much greater. . . . Her nose, like that of most Russians, was a trifle thick, and her complexion matt; for all that, Arcady decided that he had never met such an entrancing woman. (Trans. Reavey)

"Matt"? As a surface texture for a photograph, yes, but as a complexion on a human being, I couldn't even picture it. But in a proximity dangerous for a compulsive like me, I now had two other translations for comparison.

Madame Odintsov was a little older than Arkady--- she was twenty-nine--- but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a little student, so that the difference in age between them seemed of more consequence. . . . Her nose--- like almost all Russian noses--- was a little thick; and her complexion was not perfectly clear; Arkady made up his mind, for all that, that he had never before met such an attractive woman. (Trans. Garnett) She was but a little older than Arcadii--- going on twenty-nine--- yet he felt like a schoolboy, like a freshman in her presence, just as if the difference in their ages were far more considerable. . . . Her nose--- like the noses of almost all Russians--- was a trifle bulbous, and her complexion was not altogether clear; for all that Arcadii decided that he had never encountered a woman so alluring. (Trans. Guerney)

I didn't like "bulbous" at all, and I didn't think Madame Odintsov would, either. Nor did I like "freshman," because the word seemed too specific to American society. And how old was she, anyway--- twenty-nine or almost twenty-nine? But "not perfectly clear" seemed a more plausible adjective for a woman's complexion than "matt"; in the suggestion of a flaw in Madame Odintsov's beauty, Turgenev might have intended a touch of pathos. And to say that the difference in their ages seemed of more consequence was subtler than to say that it seemed greater. So perhaps Reavey's wasn't the platonic ideal of translation after all.

I went back to it nonetheless, though saddled, now, with the knowledge that I could at any time compare versions. Which I did. Here, for example, is another problematic passage, involving a colloquial phrase, in a discussion that Bazarov and Arcady have about Madame Odintsov:

   'A certain gentleman was just telling me that the lady in question was--- "quite hot" but he looks a fool. Well? What is your opinion? Is she really--- "quite hot?" '
   'I completely fail to grasp the allusion,' Arcady replied.
   'Come, come! What innocence!'
   . . . 'Well?' he asked when they were out in the street. 'Are you still of the opinion that she is--- "quite hot?" '
   'One can never tell! Just look at the way she has put herself on ice!' Bazarov retorted . . . (Trans. Reavey)
   "A gentleman has just been talking to me about that lady; he said, 'She's--- oh, fie! fie!' but I fancy the fellow was a fool. What do you think, what is she!--- oh, fie! fie!"
   "I don't quite understand that definition," answered Arkady.
   "Oh, my! What innocence!"
   . . . "Well?" he said to him in the street; "are you still of the same opinion--- that she's . . ."
   "Who can tell? See how correct she is!" retorted Bazarov . . . (Trans. Garnett)
   "A certain high-born gent was telling me just now that this lady is 'My-my-my!' But then the gentleman himself seems to be a nincompoop. Well, is she truly 'My-my-my!' in your opinion?"
   "I don't fully understand that definition," Arcadii retorted.
   "Come, now! What an innocent fellow!"
  . . . "Well?" Arcadii questioned him when they were outside. "Is it still your opinion that she's 'My-my-my'?"
   "Really, who knows what she's like! Just see what an icicle she has turned herself into!" Bazarov retorted . . . (Trans. Guerney)

There's no way to win, in translating a colloquialism. A rendering that sounds successfully up-to-date now may sound like, well, "fie, fie," a century later. But I think Reavey has the best of it here, because he's the only one whose rendering of Arcady's indignant retort ("I completely fail to grasp the allusion") conveys that he of course does grasp it but is rebuking Bazarov's vulgarity, and because Reavey manages to save the specificity of the ice imagery in the last line (Guerney's icicle doesn't quite sound idiomatic to me). Here's another:

Madame Odintzov continued to treat him like a younger brother: she seemed to appreciate his good qualities and youthful simplicity--- and no more. (Trans. Reavey) Madame Odintsov treated him as though he were a younger brother; she seemed to appreciate his good-nature and youthful simplicity and that was all. (Trans. Garnett) Odintsova was still treating him as a younger brother: apparently what she appreciated about him was the geniality and simpleheartedness of youth--- and that was all. (Trans. Guerney)
Reavey seems to have fallen into an error: if Mme. Odintsov appreciates Arcady's good qualities, there can't be anything worth appreciating that she has overlooked. No doubt Garnett's "good-nature" and Guerney's "geniality" are closer to what Turgenev meant. (Let me confess here that I can neither speak nor read Russian; all of my inferences about accuracy are just that, inferences, made by parallax.) And for the sake of justice, here's a round that Guerney seems to win. Bazarov is falling into cynicism about the supposed improvement in the lives of serfs:
'As I was walking yesterday by the side of a fence, I heard some local lads bawling, instead of some old song, this new refrain: The appointed hour is drawing nigh, And love comes welling to the heart. . . . That's progress for you.' (Trans. Reavey) "Yesterday I was walking under the fence, and I heard the peasant boys here, instead of some old ballad, bawling a street song. That's what progress is. (Trans. Garnett) "I was going past a fence yesterday and I heard some of the local peasant boys, but instead of singing some old song they were bawling the latest cheap hit: 'Now the faithful time is coming, the heart feels it is in love.' Well, there's your progress. (Trans. Guerney)

When I read this sentence in Reavey's version, I was baffled. I couldn't figure out why Bazarov was mocking the song he heard. The lyrics were mediocre, but it wasn't at all clear why they served as an occasion for an ironic remark on progress. Garnett provides the necessary cultural information--- namely, that the boys are singing a trashy pop song, instead of a traditional folk ballad--- but she leaves the song itself out, and its words matter, because Bazarov, given his plight at this stage in the story, probably found in them a further reason for cynicism. Of the three translators, here only Guerney fulfills all his duties, sketching out enough of the cultural context for us to understand the point of Bazarov's sarcasm, and giving us a version of the jingle itself. But since, in the end, I did like Reavey's version the best, I want to end on one of his triumphs. Katya and Arcady are discussing poetry:

   'I don't like Heine,' Katya said, with her eyes indicating the book in Arcady's hands, 'when he is either sarcastic or plaintive. I prefer his pensive and nostalgic moods.'
   'And I prefer his gibing tone,' Arcady remarked.
   'That's the residue of your sardonic turn of mind.'
   ('Residue!' Arcady thought. 'If only Bazarov could hear that!') (Trans. Reavey)
   "I don't like Heine," said Katya, glancing towards the book which Arkady was holding in his hands, "either when he laughs or when he weeps; I like him when he's thoughtful and melancholy."
   "And I like him when he laughs," remarked Arkady.
   "That's the relics left in you of your old satirical tendencies." ("Relics!" thought Arkady--- "if Bazarov had heard that?") (Trans. Garnett)
   "I have no love for Heine," Katya spoke up, indicating with her eyes the book Arcadii was holding, "either when he laughs or when he weeps; I like him when he's pensive and melancholy."
   "But I like him when he laughs," Arcadii remarked.
   "That's because of the persistent old traces of the satirical tendencies in you." ("Old traces!" Arcadii reflected. If Bazarov were to hear that!) (Trans. Guerney)

"Residue" is a brilliant choice, because it has a little frisson of the chemistry lab to it, which would indeed have impressed the scientific Bazarov, and it suggests that Arcady is one of Katya's experiments, a pleasantly ironic attitude for her to have toward him, who is only just beginning to take her seriously.

Oregon, free state

Just a few days after posting, my chart is out of date. On May 2, the Oregon Senate approved a bill authorizing same-sex domestic partnerships (link via Towleroad). Since the Oregon House has already approved it, and the governor is expected to sign, I ought to add another line to my chart:

2007 Oregon 1844 Oregon

To be consistent, actually, I should add in the right column all the states and territories that outlawed slavery between "1818 Illinois" and "1844 Oregon." In other words, no sooner did I wonder why the pattern I'd noticed hadn't yet "been broken by the passage of gay-union laws in states like California, low in the right column not because they abolished slavery later but because they didn't exist until later," than Oregon broke it for exactly that reason.

Abolition and gay marriage

Four years ago, I wondered on this blog whether 18th-century abolition causes 21st-century gay marriage. Or, to put it less mystifyingly, and more precisely, I wondered if the order in which states abolished slavery in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries would predict the order in which they instituted gay marriages or civil unions in the late twentieth and early twenty-first. At the time, I only had two data points, Vermont and Massachusetts, but I predicted that New Hampshire would legalize gay unions before New York would, preconceptions about the isle of Manhattan notwithstanding. Today the New Hampshire legislature passed a bill authorizing same-sex unions, which the governor is expected to sign.

Not that I'm the sort to say I told you so or anything. Nonetheless, in triumph, I thought I'd revisit my data. Four years ago I came up with my 18th/19th-century list by ranking the states according to the proportions of slaves to total population reported in the 1790 census. That was laziness on my part; I did it because I didn't have at hand a list of the years each state abolished slavery. I'm still lazy, but today such a list is readily available, so here's a comparison based on slightly better 19th-century data and a few more years of 21st-century data: side-by-side tables of states in the order they instituted gay marriage or civil unions (through a court ruling or legislation) and in the order abolished slavery (through a constitutional provision, legislation, or a court ruling):

Advent of gay marriage or civil unions

1999 Vermont
2004 Massachusetts
2005 Connecticut
2006 New Jersey
2007 New Hampshire

Abolition of slavery

1777 Vermont
1780 Pennsylvania
1783 Massachusetts
1783 New Hampshire
1784 Rhode Island
1784 Connecticut
1799 New York
1802 Ohio
1804 New Jersey
1816 Indiana
1818 Illinois

Sources: Human Rights Campaign and Leon F. Litwack, North of Slavery: The Negro in the Free States, 1790-1860, qtd. by Afrolumens Project's FAQ about slavery in Pennsylvania

As you can see, I went the extra mile and colorized the state names to make it easier to see the pattern. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but I think it's a pretty striking one. I would have thought that by now the pattern would have been broken by the passage of gay-union laws in states like California, low in the right column not because they abolished slavery later but because they didn't exist until later. But though California has come close, it hasn't passed gay civil-union laws yet.

My new prediction, then: gay marriage in Pennsylvania, which looks overdue.

More on torture, sympathy, novels, and streaming media

My post earlier this month, on torture, novels, and human rights, has met with more response than my meanderings usually do: a response at Hermits Rock, and a post and a comments thread at the Valve. I'm also told that a recent book by Daniel Griffith, A Good War Is Hard to Find, makes an argument similar to mine, and even starts by comparing the novel and movie versions of the torture scenes in Deliverance.

A few commenters at the Valve somehow figured out that I'm not a cognitive psychologist, alas. Fortunately, this morning I happened to stumble across some confirmation of my irresponsible hunches. Even though I didn't know about it when I wrote my original post, it turns out that there is evidence that watching violence on screen changes the brain, according to "Mind-altering media," an article by Helen Philips in the 19 April 2007 issue of New Scientist:

Brain imaging and other physiological measures also reveal changes in emotional responses to violent images as a result of viewing violence or playing violent games. Bruce Bartholow of the University of Missouri, Columbia, has found that people with a history of game playing have a reduced brain response to shocking pictures, suggesting that people begin to see such imagery as more normal. Another study found that frontal lobe activity was reduced in youngsters who played a violent video game for 30 minutes, compared with those playing an equally exciting but non-violent game. This brain region is important for concentration and impulse control, among other things. A region called the amygdala, important for emotional control, was more aroused in those who experienced the violent game.

The article also references what is apparently overwhelming scientific documentation of a link between television viewing and increased aggressive behavior in children, so overwhelming that one developmental psychologist calls the ambivalence about the link in the mainstream press exasperating. The implication is that reporting on the research has been befuddled in much the way that reporting on smoking and global warming once were.

Of course this doesn't necessarily prove the other lemma in my hypothesis, that reading novels is good for you.

Lullaby

You shall be the rose you see
And the cardinal's cry you hear.
No frost will come, when north is south,
To end the cutworm's year.

And you shall be the breeze you feel
Caress you with a sigh.
But songbirds' breasts will pillows be
For mites that never die.

And you shall be the bud that starts,
And petals as they fall,
And the sixfold mouth that eats the bud
That never starts at all.

 

What you can see of Grozny

In a "Diary" about a recent visit to Grozny, Chechnya, published in the 22 March 2007 issue of the London Review of Books, Tony Wood writes:

It is hard to tell exactly where Grozny begins: it still consists for the most part of rubble-strewn patches of ground. Low, single-storey houses lie in ruins, entangled in dry, dead bushes; apartment blocks stand ragged, some blown open by shells, others peppered with bullet holes, yet others consisting now of nothing more than fragments of concrete --- one or two bones from a skeleton. For a few miles there is nothing but ruins and rubble, half-homes that would seem to be uninhabitable. But then you see washing hanging from balconies, lights in a window here or there. There have been many images of Grozny after the Russian bombardments of 1994-95 and 1999-2000, and the memory of them goes part of the way towards preparing you for the devastation. The biggest shock is not the scale of destruction but the idea that anyone at all can live in this desert; that anyone could have returned to it and wanted to start again.

Wood's description was so grim that I found myself wondering, as I read it, whether the devastation was visible from space --- by the satellites and low-flying planes that feed data to Google Maps, to be specific. I put the article aside a few weeks ago, meaning to check, but forgot to, in part, I think, because I feared that Wood must have been exaggerating. Could the destruction really have been of such a magnitude, and the evidence of it still so abundant half a dozen years after the last major bombardment? And then there was the possibility that Wood was telling the truth, but that the wreckage wouldn't be identifiable from a pure vertical angle. Maybe, if you were looking straight down, a bombed building would look very much like an intact building. Or maybe it would look like an empty field, and be invisible for the opposite reason.

A Printer's Tray As it turns out, I needn't have worried. The maps at Google fully support Wood, and it's very easy to identify a bombed building: the walls are often still standing, at least in part, but the roofs never are. So, when you look from above, instead of seeing the single homogeneous rectangle of a roof, you see all the elaboration of the building's floor plan --- the interstitial division of the building into individual rooms. They look uncannily like printer's trays, the wooden boxes that typesetters once used to store their type, one compartment per letter.

For example:

Grozny, Chechnya

Sometimes you can see more evidence of the building's state in the shadow it casts. The sun seems to fall through this building as through a skeleton:

Grozny, Chechnya

Sometimes all the buildings in an area are skeletons, but sometimes the skeletons are standing beside intact buildings on the same block, confirming Wood's observation that some residents of Grozny are living next-door to rubble:

Grozny, Chechnya

If Ronald Firbank were a peak-oil fanboy . . .

. . . he would probably have written cocktail-party banter along these lines:

"I heard a most interesting broadcast today," Mrs. Kelso said firmly. Fluffy entered the room carrying a dead mouse.

"Funny, I never noticed that place on the ceiling before," Irving said.

"If you're looking at the place I am," Fabia said, "I think it's the shadow of the knob on that lamp."

"You look terribly uncomfortable, Mr. Bush," Mrs. Kelso said. "Why don't you sit on one of the less ornamental chairs. In the broadcast I heard," she went on, "a scientist explained how very close our planet is to being drained of its natural resources. He seemed to think it quite likely we would run out of them before men have learned how to harness solar energy or the tides, in which case we would all either starve or freeze."

"Oh, Mildred," Irving said, "he sounds like that discredited alarmist to me."

"I'm sure it made very good sense as he explained it," Mrs. Kelso said. "The first thing to go will be coal."

"We could all go down South and live, until the food started running low," Alice suggested pleasantly.

"Collard greens with salt pork? Not for me thank you," Fabia said.

"I don't think it's a joking matter," Mrs. Kelso said.

"Are these goblets Bohemian glass?" Marshall asked.

"Of course I don't know why I'm criticizing you," Mrs. Kelso said, ignoring Marshall. "Being an inveterate apartment dweller, I'd be totally hamstrung if the electricity or the gas were to go off."

From chapter 3 of John Ashbery and James Schuyler's A Nest of Ninnies (1969), which one hopes the NYRB folks will soon restore to print, along with their lovely editions of Schuyler's sublime Alfred and Guinevere and his silly What's for Dinner?. (Of course, and for the record, it probably won't in fact be coal that goes first.)

The New Climate

One day Grandmother drove us away from such a sky,
Iron gray, clotted like mud, leaking light
Like sheets stripped from a bed in a dim room and thrown
Over a lamp still plugged in. She held our fear
With hers at the steering wheel; for play, my sister and I
Watched trees bow and arch, and wondered if we might
See cyclones. One crossed the road behind us, we learned by phone
Near Houston, by only half an hour. How sharp the air
Then smelled. We were so young, we would never die
And thought it clever to have preceded fate with flight,
Instead of lucky, or, as she might say, if alone,
Blessed. To keep us from such knowledge was her care
    And our adventure, an order changed if the sky here,
    In Brooklyn, is the same that came after us there.

Cover models

Abby, Louise, and fellow passengerLouise on swing

My sister, my niece, and their chihuahua are cover models for "Why Bushwick Is Brooklyn's New Frontier," an article in the Home section of the 19 April 2007 New York Post.

This blog is written by Caleb Crain.