Imagery in Translation
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Introductory Notes
Jerome David Salinger, an American novelist and she story writer, is world-known for his novel The Catcher in the 1 (1951), a modern variant of the ancient story of initiation. Its m character, Holden Caulfield, runs away from his boarding-sch to New York, where he faces many challenges, dangers and pr< lems.
American critics say that serious interest in Salinger's w< was slight until The Catcher in the Rye "occasioned a bela deluge of critical comment." The literary world of the USA scol< him for social irresponsibility, obfuscation, and obsession w Eastern philosophy and religion. Yet the fact is that his only n< el and a number of short stories made his name realised as thai a real artist.
Although Salinger has a good sense of humour, his vis: of life is of utmost seriousness. Most of his works, though i without a comic touch, are serious, if not sad. His major stor started from 1955, with Franny and Zooey presenting the Gl saga, his most sophisticated work.
Yet The Catcher in the Rye made him popular. The st< of an adolescent boy is an odyssey, a search and a series of capes — a quest. The odyssey begins on a Saturday afternoor Pencey Prep and ends at the New York Zoo on Monday aft noon; though Holden tells his story some months later in Calif nia, where he has been seeing a psychiatrist.
The central conflict of the novel is the traditional one 1 tween innocence and experience. Holden Caulfield is innoci but not altogether naive; he has some knowledge of evil thou
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not himself corrupted by it. More than that, he has a mes-c sense, he wants to save people from sin, their own as well e world's. But like most messiahs, he is a failure: he learns t is impossible to be a catcher in the rye, to save people from ig the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.
The strongest of Holden's aversions is that to the "phony .' Everybody who pretends somebody he is not is a phony lolden. Yet he feels some sympathy towards those phonies pretend in defence. Sometimes the boy overreacts, for the :s of evil are eternal and inescapable. By his own words, "You i ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when re not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write 'Fuck you' : under your nose."
This book by Salinger is often compared to the greatest xican odyssey of initiation, Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn. books are similar in their narrative framework, and their col-ial style, in partly using the real speech and partly inventing ;cial language, that of adolescence.
In a way, the novel is partly autobiographical, for Holden he reputation of a writer in his school, and other people have gnised his literary talents and tastes. It is a striking detail n a teenager seriously admits that his favourite is not baseball Ireat Gatsby.
For translation, Salinger's novel makes a great challenge s language, which is not easy to deal with. Salinger's ear for )quialisms is perfect, even when he invents some or makes :r functions for others. Those personal words, like phony or iam, ox I mean it, or numerous collocations will cause a trans-■ headache. The Russian translation by Rita Rait-Kovaleva become a classic since the sixties, yet it represents a certain jlator position, tastes and preferences that may have changed e then. The text in translation becomes as if softer, more liter-■ather than colloquial, and somewhat less tensed.
Task for comparison:
The Catcher inthe Rye — Над пропастью во ржи
THE CATCHER IN THE RYE
(from Chapter 6)
Some things are hard to remember. I'm thinking now of when Stradlater got back from his date with Jane. I mean I can't remember exactly what I was doing when I heard his goddam stupid footsteps coming down the corridor. I probably was still looking out the window, but I swear 1 can't remember. I was so damned worried, that's why. When I really worry about something, I don't just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something. Only, I don't go. I'm too worried to go. I don't want to interrupt my worrying to go. If you knew Stradlater, you'd have been worried, too. I'd double-dated with that bastard a couple of times, and I know what I'm talking about. He was unscrupulous. He really was.
Anyway, the corridor was all linoleum and all, and you could hear his goddam footsteps coming right towards the room. I don't even remember where I was sitting when he came in — at the window, or in my chair or his. I swear I can't remember.
He came in griping about how cold it was out. Then he said, "Where the hell is everybody? It's like a goddam morgue around here." I didn't even bother to answer him. If he was so goddam stupid not to realize it was Saturday night and everybody was out or asleep or home for the weekend, 1 wasn't going to break my neck telling him. He started getting undressed. He didn't say one goddam word about Jane. Not one. Neither did I. 1 just watched him. All he did was thank me for letting him wear my hound's-tooth. He hung it up on a hanger and put it in the closet.
Then, when he was taking off his tie, he asked me if I'd written- his goddam composition for him. I told him it was over on his goddam bed. He walked over and read it while he was unbuttoning his shirt. He stood there, reading it, and sort of strok-
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ing his bare chest and stomach, with this very stupid expression on his face. He was always stroking his stomach or his chest. He was mad about himself.
All of a sudden, he said, "For Chrissake, Holden. This is about a goddam basebaU glove."
"So what?" I said. Cold as hell.
"Wuddaya mean so what? I told ya it had to be about a goddam room or a house or something."
"You said it had to be descriptive. What the hell's the difference if it's about a baseball glove?"
"God damn it." He was sore as hell. He was really furious. "You always do everything backasswards." He looked at me. "No wonder you're flunking the hell out of here," he said. "You don't do one damn thing the way you're supposed to. I mean it. Not one damn thing."
"All right, give it back to me, then," I said. I went over and pulled it right out of his goddam hand. Then I tore it up. "What the hellja do that for?" he said. I didn't even answer him. 1 just threw the pieces in the wastebasket. Then I lay down on my bed, and we both didn't say anything for a long time. He got all undressed down to his shorts, and I lay on my bed and lit a cigarette. You weren't allowed to smoke in the dorm, but you could do it late at night when everybody was asleep or out and nobody could smell the smoke. Besides, I did it to annoy Stradlater. It drove him crazy when you broke any rules. He never smoked in the dorm. It was only me. He still didn't say one single solitary word about Jane. So finally I said, "You're back pretty goddam late if she only signed out for nine-thirty. Did you make her be late signing in?"
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, cutting his goddam toenails, when I asked him that. "Coupla minutes," he said. "Who the hell signs out for nine-thirty on a Saturday night?" God, how I hated him.
"Did you go to New York?" I said. 144