The Empty Grave of Edgar Allan Poe

THE LIBRARY OF THADDEUS TRIPP

6. The Translations II

          I was intrigued by Bloxwich’s idea. Personally I too had always felt misaligned in regard to the rest of humanity. It seemed perfectly reasonable that my own opinion of my literary endeavours would fail to jibe with that of my readers. ‘My readers’ being the various individuals in the publishing world who consistently rejected my stories. In fact, the fact of this consistency, the unvarying response of different individuals to different examples of my work, surely indicated a deeper cause than mere coincidence. Therefore I decided to try Bloxwich’s experiment.
          Naturally, I would not fall prey to the obsession which destroyed him and threw Bloxwich into the bottomless pit of madness. I would merely dip my toe into the muddy waters of his theory. I would take a story, translate it into French, then render that translation back into English. Then I would submit the result for publication and wait to see what happened. The entire process would be made much quicker and (more importantly) cheaper by the use of one of the many free translation services now available on the internet. Considering how easy it would be to carry out this scheme, I felt I would be mad not to try it.
          Rather than write a completely new tale, I selected an old one which had already done the rounds of magazines, publishing houses and literary agents. This way I could be sure that the story I had chosen was one which emanated from the other side of Bloxwich’s mystical barrier. If I wrote something new, then in its altered form it was rejected, how could I tell that in the translation process it had not slipped over the line. Perhaps it would have been accepted in its original form. If the barrier existed then one really needed to know how it operated. Was it fixed, or did it shift about, perhaps reversing its polarity occasionally so that a writer could suddenly find himself on the other side, with a Booker prize in his pocket and Hollywood beckoning. It was unfortunate that Bloxwich had gone mad, rather than research the phenomenon more thoroughly.
          I was also aware of the fact that if I wrote something new with the experiment in mind then I might step into the obvious trap of larding the tale with certain phrases and expressions which might fall foul of the translation device in order to create, by aleatoric means, a more striking divergence between the original and final versions of the piece. Such intervention on my part would nullify the integrity of the experiment, since I would just be using the translating process as an aid to create a more interesting story. The sole purpose of the translator was to allow me to break through the barrier. It was not to be used as another tool in the writer's arsenal, such as a wobbly pen, or as a technique to confuse the muse and break down a blockage in one’s inspiration, such as automatic writing. For the experiment to work it must be conducted with the full rigour of scientific method. My job was to carry out the instructions with all the detachment of a bored laboratory assistant.
          The story I chose for the experiment is reproduced below in its original form. It was chosen because of its length- it is short - and the fact that it includes the word 'translation', which I took as a sign.

The Hound

Wherefore he wander’d on, and still in vain
Sought Death the slayer. Into burial-places,
Heapen with stones and seal’d with slime of grass,
He track’d him, found him sitting lonely there
Like one that dreams, his dreadful pitiless eyes
Fix’d on the sunset star. Or oftentimes
Beheld him running swiftly like a wolf
Who scents some stricken prey along the ground.

                                                  (from Balder the Beautiful by Robert Buchanan)

          My wife told me this story. She heard it from a friend, who in turn was relating what he had been told by a friend of his. So, I got it at third hand. Who knows what details were lost in the translation?
          I would have liked to use this supposedly true incident in a story. I would have liked to embellish the details and invented characters and a plot to go with it. I would have liked to have written a tale of terror. But whenever I tried to think of a framing device, the details of the original incident would dissipate in the well-worn conventions of the genre. It would lose its horror, by association with the fictional elements. The incident can only retain its horror if it is true. Or if one believes it to be true, because the person telling the tale believes it to be true. If it is not true then it becomes banal. As dreams are banal when recounted to all except the dreamer.
          Maybe it is not true. Perhaps it would be best to believe it is not true. After all, I got the story at third hand, as I said, so perhaps my wife's friend was ‘having her on’ or perhaps his friend was ‘having him on’. Yes, it would make perfect sense for the story to be untrue. And then it would cause no disquiet. This then is a story which is probably not true at all. In which case it is worthless and not worth recounting.
          A man was walking along a street one night when he noticed something climbing over a wall and scurrying off down the pavement in front of him. At first he took it for a dog, a large dog, but there was something in the way it moved that did not seem right. As he watched the creature scamper away into the night he realised that in fact it resembled most a man, running on all fours. The next day, he read in the paper that the occupant of the house, whose garden wall the creature had climbed, from which it had fled into the night, had died of natural causes.

_____

English to French to English:

The Gun dog

Wherefore it wander’d above, and always in vain sought death the killer. In burial-places, Heapen with stones and seal’d with the mud of l’herbe, it track’d it, l’a found to only rest there like one which dreams, its frightening eyes without pity Fix’d on l’étoile to lay down sun. Or often considering him running quickly as a wolf which smells a certain prey unweaves some along the ground.

                                                                                        (moreover bald person the beautiful one by Robert Buchanan)

          My wife m’a says this history. It l’a heard d’un friendly, which alternatively brought back this qu’il had been said by a friend to him. Thus, I l’ai obtained with the third hand. Who knows which details were lost in the translation?
          I would like to employ this supposedly true incident in a history. I would like to embellish the invented details and characters and a piece of ground d’aller of par with it. I would like to have written a tale of terror. But all the times that j’ai tried to think of a framing device, the details of l’incident original would absorb in quite worn conventions of the kind. It would lose its horror, by association with the fictitious elements. L’incident can only maintain its horror s’il is true. Or if is thought it to be true, because the person saying the tale thinks it to be true. S’il n’est not true then it becomes banal. Because the dreams are banal once told with all exclude the dreamer.
          Perhaps this n’est not true. Perhaps it would be the best to believe than this n’est not true. After all, j’ai obtained l’histoire with the third hand, like I said, thus perhaps my friend of wife’s was ‘having his on’; or perhaps his/her friend was ‘having it on’;. Yes, it would seem reasonable perfect so that l’histoire is false. And then it would not cause any concern. C’est then a history which n'est probably not true of the whole. In this case it is a sans.valor and not interesting the racontage.
          A man walked the length d’une street one harms where it noted something s’élever above d’un wall and scurrying in addition to to the bottom of the pavement in front of him. D’abord l’a taken to him for a dog, a large dog, but there was something in the moved qu’elle way s’est which n’a not seemed exact. Because it observed the scamper creature far in the night when it s’est returned account qu’en made it resembled the majority to a man, running on all the furnaces. The next day, it read paper inside that l’occupant of the house, whose wall of garden the creature of which had climbed, it s’était saved in the night, had died of the normal causes.

_____

          Frankly, I was disappointed with the result. I tried again, and again. I will not bother you with the results. I began to concur with Thaddeus’s opinion about Bloxwich’s efforts. The experiment was a total failure. From English to French and back to English, then into German and back to English, then to Spanish, to English, and so on until I had exhausted the limited languages available on all the free translation sites on the internet. I then considered paying for translations, perhaps the experiment was not working because the translation devices were too crude. Perhaps I should invest money as well as time in the enterprise. Maybe if I tried Chinese or ancient, long dead tongues, or maybe even obscure tribal dialects then I would succeed. Or maybe the key was the story itself. Maybe...
          “Maybe you should read this,” said Thaddeus, breaking into my babbling by slapping me hard across the face and handing me a thin leather-bound volume entitled: The Casebook of Lu Chow: Chinese Detective. He made me sit there and read it. He let me smoke. He made me fresh cups of tea. He said nothing. I rubbed my cheek where he had hit me. I read the three stories. I didn’t understand what I had read and when I told Thaddeus so, he nodded and said, “Exactly.”