edinblack's Reviews > If This Be Treason: Translation and its Dyscontents

The book has two parts: six chapters at the beginning about the art of translation and Gregory Rabassa's life as a translator, and a second—thankfully longer—part consisting of chapters each written about one of the many authors he has translated from Spanish and Portuguese. Some of these are well-known names, such as Jorge Amado, Julio Cortázar, Clarice Lispector, and Gabriel García Márquez; others are "cult" authors, such as Dalton Trevisan. Gabriel García Márquez stands out insofar as he said that Rabassa's English translation of his novel One Hundred Years of Solitude was even better than the Spanish original!
The second part is very enjoyable, full of stories about the authors, about the coincidences that brought them to him, the particular hurdles of translating their work, and the personal connections that grew along the way. To me, reading each of these was like eating candy: they were great fun to read, but I knew as I finished each chapter that I would immediately forget almost everything I had just read as soon as I was done. To be fair, Rabassa is not setting out seafaring adventures or acts of derring-do (though he did spend time in the military, working in the Office of Strategic Services), and yet it seems odd that the art of painting a scene or telling a good story did not rub off more from all the literature he translated. (By comparison, the autobiography of Paul Feyerabend, the philosopher of science, Killing Time, is much more memorable, due to the crazy schemes he cooked up, most of them to lessen his workload. Then again, if Rabassa had written an autobiography, he might have had better stories to choose from.)
The first part, a little less than a third of the book, made up of essays about translation and his life as a translator, was a spottier experience. When Rabassa ruminated, it was often not to my taste, but as soon as he would return to discussing the actual ins and out of the publishing world, literary trends, world literature, etc., then it suddenly became very engaging again.
Although it is clear from the stories he tells that he formed many fast friendships, the attitude that sometimes comes across from the writing is dismissive, curmudgeonly, and resentful. (Again, by comparison, Paul Feyerabend, although he also writes off many people with whom he disagrees, doesn't come off as bitter as Rabassa sometimes does.) He also sometimes discusses what could be interesting aspects of Spanish, Portuguese, or Italian, but without enough detail or context to understand the point he is making. (I was almost tempted to write him a letter for more clarification until I realized he was no longer alive.)
Overall, it pulled me forward—as I said, most of it was like eating candy—but Rabassa's occasional pomposity and the fact that some passages from which I should have been able to learn about Spanish or Portuguese were ultimately impenetrable (as least to me) took away from the pleasure of the treat. He was best when he simply recounted his experiences—his reflections sometimes fell flat.