Printer Friendly

Turning inside and out: translating and Irish 1950-2000.

There is no need to recount the history of the wheel when writing about the invention of the motor car, but there is no harm in reminding ourselves that the history of translation in Irish is almost as old as literacy in the language. Versions of Lucan's Pharsalia, The Destruction of Thebes, the Aeneid, and the Odyssey were being written by the ninth century. (1) This tradition of translations from the classics continued with vigour until at least late into the fifteenth century (2) and was followed by equally copious translations of romantic material from English and from French unto the seventeenth century. There were also, of course, many translations of medical, philosophical, scientific, and religious works until the great rupture of the sixteen hundreds. (3)

This is to say, that Irish intellectual and literary discourse was part of the greater world in that unselfconscious way in which people accept themselves as normal until it is forced upon them that they are not. Conquest implies the non-application of normality to the conquered and when translation began to emerge in the late eighteenth century, it appeared as a revelation of the native to the uppers. This was particularly true because translation was going the other way. For a thousand years, the literature of the world was being translated into Irish. From the eighteenth century it was being translated out into English and other tongues, demonstrating that the power relations had entirely reversed. Translation is always a reflection of the power relations between languages and peoples. Walk into any bookshop in an English-speaking country and the number of translations from any other language, apart from old classics and the occasional exotic choice, will be between minimal and zilch. Browse in a bookshop in, for example, a Scandinavian or a Balkan country, and the number of translations, particularly from English, smacks you in the gob. I have never been in any bookshop in any country in any continent where I have not seen a translation of Frank McCourt's execrable classic Angela's Ashes. The only consolation is that the translation must surely be better than the original.

When the Irish revival came about--that broad general movement which energized the country and resulted in the Irish Free State--there was a sense in which it was believed that a modern literature and a new society could be brought about only by the translation of the works of the world into Irish. In those early years of the revival, classics such as Don Quixote and Robinson Crusoe were translated into Irish, and indeed into an Irish which was the most Irish of Irishes, so that you would never suppose that the sun shone ever upon La Mancha, nor that Crusoe's island was not Cape Clear without its inhabitants.

These examples were the exemplars of the project of translation which An Gum, (4) the publishing branch of the Department of Education, followed since its foundation in 1926. An Gum set about providing reading material for the new Irish-speaking public which was being created by independence and by the infusion of literacy in Irish throughout Ireland. In theory it seemed like a wonderful scheme. It paid reasonably generous money for writers to churn out classics in Irish, and most of the prominent Irish literary figures of the first generation of the new Irish Free State were involved with the scheme. Mairtin O Cadhain translated that most garrulous of writers, Charles J. Kickham, but bested him in loquacity; Seosamh Mac Grianna matched Joseph Conrad over many rounds; and Sean O Ruadhain de-Victorianized Dickens, as far as that could be done. Popular garbage was also produced, like the sleuthish stories of Freeman Wills Crofts and E. C. Bentley. While much cynicism has gathered around the work of An Gum, it cannot be denied that they did provide valuable reading material of both a high and a low order for the new Ireland, and they also provided training in literature which became exponentially valuable in the decades that followed its golden-paper age.

The translation scheme of An Gum began to peter out by the late 1930s and early 1940s. This was because some of their work had been done. They had trained a generation of writers and editors who now began to fly the coop and work on their own. Prose literature in Irish chucked off whatever shackles were enchaining it in the fifties and the sixties, and there seemed less need of an injection from abroad than ever before. But hand in hand with the growth of an original and confident literature came a resurgence in the work of translation.

Some of the most important work of translation into Irish was done before our period begins. It was not, however, published until much later for editorial, financial, and accidental reasons. The single most important example of this is Monsignor Padraig de Brun's translations of the Odyssey and the Divine Comedy. (5) I have no hesitation in saying that these are the two most excellent examples of literary poetic Irish based on demotic and natural speech in the entire twentieth century. Both of these are original translations with no English intermediary or middleman huckster. De Brun was an extraordinary scholar and person who was steeped in European languages and culture. He translated poetry and prose from classical Greek, Latin, English, Icelandic, French, and Italian as well as writing original poetry in both Irish and English. (6) He was a firm believer in the uplifting excellence of great literary works and in the strengthening of the connection with Europe. He had been involved in a celebrated debate on the pages of Humanitas in 1930 with Daniel Corkery about the nature of Irish literature and the direction which it should take. Corkery was more on the 'nativist' side arguing that as Irish was already a classical literature in itself, it had little need of injections from the outside and should build on its own genius. De Brun's point was that we were part of the main and should enrich ourselves with the great works of the world.

It may have been because most Irish speakers and readers were more sympathetic to Corkery's viewpoint, a viewpoint which was borne out by the great rediscovery of native Irish literature since the 1880s, that De Brun's work was left largely unheralded, and that his translation of the first book of Dante's Divine Comedy was not published until after his death. (7) While he does not try to emulate Dante's terza rima, a task which would be very difficult to do and to maintain because of the nature of Irish prosody, he does manage a regular rhythm throughout, so that when read out loud you are carried along by the surge of the language. A later translation of selections from the Divine Comedy by Criostoir O Floinn (8) deliberately sets out to imitate the terza rima in the belief that the form of poetry is itself its most valuable attribute and that Dante himself would have no time for the loose misshapen stuff now growing up. (9) True or not, it is a rare thing when we can compare two Irish translations of any work. O Floinn's is certainly more loyal in that official sense, and has a clarity and sharpness which de Brun's lacks. On the other hand, De Brun uses all his knowledge of the spoken tongue to fashion a rich poetry which haunts the ear. For every translation there is loss and gain. Ciaran Carson's version of The Inferno, (10) for example, uses the rhythms and sometimes the echoes of Anglo-Irish ballads which seems to move us from fourteenth-century Florence to the smoky halls of a music session in deepest Fermanagh, while Steve Ellis's Hell (11) is so deceptively simple and readable at times as to move uneasily into that unDantean region of limbo between poetry and prose.

De Brun's Odyssey, on the other hand, is a much more demotic affair. He uses long winding lines that curl through the story. The fact that it is a great story makes it easier to read, and there are times when there seems to be a marriage between the native storytelling tradition and this translation. George Steiner wrote that 'it is in and through the process of translation that a language is made eminently self-aware' and that the 'act of translation draws up a balance sheet, as it were, for the target language'. (12) De Brun met the challenge and organized his material around the normal speech of the people, but heightened and enriched it with his learning, meeting Homer on sea and on land. This is all the more remarkable, as poetry in Irish never really embraced the narrative tradition, saving prose for the normal business of narrative and poetry for states of heightened emotion. The only real native narrative poetry in Irish is that of the Fenian ballads, and these are usually short and sharp in their lines and presuppose a knowledge of the story already. If Irish had been stronger, it would have been interesting to see if any of his Homeric translations would have entered the language. An earlier translation of the Iliad done in the nineteenth century never made any real impact, as the language was in the throes of its great decline, and the translation itself was not particularly striking. (13)

A man in the same mould as Padraig de Brun is Breandan O Doibhlin. Both priest and scholar and former professor of French in St Patrick's College, Maynooth, he has worked in a similarly unstinting way in his efforts to make Irish a modern and a thinking literature. He has written several novels of thought and reflection and worked out a style of his own which is both poetic and cerebral. He has produced a prodigious amount of critical commentary and technical literary work, which includes an analogical dictionary of Irish. In recent years his main focus has been on translation, particularly from the French which includes versions of La Fontaine's Fables, Alain de St Exupery's Little Prince, and much poetry. Perhaps his most important work of translation is, however, his Smaointe or Pensees of Pascal. (14)

Pascal himself left about a thousand separate notes scattered around after his death, some very brief, and others longer. Editors have argued constantly about how to organize this material, and the first task of any translator is to knock it into some kind of shape. O Doibhlin does not follow any previous edition in its entirety but while making his own of the mess that is Pascal's random jottings, acknowledges the order laid out by Jacques Chevalier. He then has to provide a language in Irish to suit these thoughts. This has its own difficulty, since Irish had not really been used as a language of philosophic discourse in any sustained way since the great rout of the seventeenth century. There, is of course, a mass of wealthy material from that earlier period, but it can hardly be transposed holus bolus into the twentieth century without the dangers of incomprehensibility and some absurdity. There is the added difficulty that Pascal, for all his clarity, often used words in his own especial way, and this personal idiolect has to be similarly negotiated.

O Doibhlin manages this by initially explaining what the most salient of Pascal's terminology is, and then provides us with a brief French-Irish vocabulary. He also, with a wicked sense of humour, gives us a selection of Pascal's most famous thoughts for those who are too lazy to read the whole book. After that, we can plunge into it any way we like. His Irish is clear and uncluttered and brings a stylishness to the language that is logical and even cold. It is a language that is the opposite of De Brun's warm embrace with his Kerry Homeric talk and heroic flourishes. O Doibhlin's Pascal cuts to the quick, and though he is unfailingly courteous, you always feel that his words mean something. The purpose of a translation is not just to provide a style so that we can admire it, but to carry the message of the original. There is something calculating about much of Pascal's philosophy, especially his famous 'wager' which surely must be the most spurious and mean-spirited reason for adopting Christianity ever invented. But there is also an honesty which springs from his own lack of guile and search for meaning. These traits are perfectly captured in O Doibhlin's work. His selection of Montaigne's essay is also a cool (in the non-American sense) mogrification of that classy introspector. (15) While there is no such thing as stylistic equivalence in any real sense, you suspect that O Doibhlin has Gallified Irish and made it into a scalpel that can be wielded with some kind of accuracy as against the loquacity of the Irish mind which likes to show off rather than show.

One of the many criticisms of the earlier generation of translations was that it was unlikely that many people would read them, as they were largely rendered from the English and were readily available anyway. Thus, Sean O Ruadhain's masterly translation of David Copperfield, stretching to more than a thousand pages, although beautifully idiomatic was not likely to be read by many when the original was close at hand. A translation of Macbeth was certainly interesting, being linguistically closer to the original language of that much-maligned monarch than Shakespeare's Stuartish propaganda; while a version of Coriolanus gave more prominence to the translator than to the bard of the ford of the street upon the river.

One striking factor in the newer generation of translators--prescinding from the classics which are always a necessary must--is their introduction into Irish of works which are not immediately accessible or available, or indeed, longed for, by the average reader of literary English. Also and more, they are invariably translated from the original language, rather than being intermediated through English which is inclined to leave the core but to lose the rough and sensuous skin. This is not to suggest that these translations are always successful. Heinrich Boll's Dialann as Eirinn (16) must surely be, at least in parts, one of the most execrable translations ever made, while Marx's and Engels's Communist Manifesto for all its laudable sentiments is hardly any clearer in Irish than in any other gobbledegook. (17)

On the other hand, Gabriel Rosenstock has introduced into Irish a gabble of poets that most of us would not have encountered. He is our translator of poetry par excellence. He has translated from German, Spanish, Flemish, English, and other languages, and has been most opportune in choosing poets that suit his own genius and temperament. Because of his love of the haiku, the short sharp moment of revelation, the spark on the long road of dullness, it is no accident that he is at his best in dealing with poets such as Michael Augustin and Hansjorg Schertenleib who cut to the quick and the chase and the deep marrow. (18) Although the most hackneyed and threadworn and raggedy theme of poetry is poetry itself, there is a jumping truth in:
 Sometimes,
 The poet says,
 I can almost
 Hear them scream,
 The poems
 Deep down in the inkwell:

 Get me out of here!
 Get me out of here!

 Uaireanta,
 Arsa an file,
 Is laidir nach gcloisim iad,
 Na danta
 Is iad ag liu
 Sa tobar duigh:

 Scaoil amach me!
 Scaoil amach me!


There is nothing here to be translated apart from an aphorism, a twist on the belief that the poem chooses the author, rather than the author choosing the poem. There is no syntactical problem, no wrestling with form, no matching of phoneme with phoneme, no attempt at any kind of sound equivalence, and yet he lays the two poems together in such a way that neither of them is mauled or debauched. Rosenstock's simplicity is his great gift, his sense of seeming to say that one version in any language is as good as another, while at the same time choosing the right and proper sound in Irish to show that it can possess the world. His translations of Willem Roggeman, on the other hand, present a much more tasty challenge, and his turnings twist on the tongue which makes you suppose that Irish was never a battered and thinned-out language.

More exotically, in the newspaper sense, we have translations from languages that are deemed to be far away both geographically and physically. While Rashoomon is a famous Japanese story, made into a film by Kurosawa in 1950 and Americanified much later, it remains a classic of world literature. It is Irishified, along with other stories of Akutagawa Ryuunosoke by Sean O Durois, who was himself born in Essex in England which may be some kind of symbol of the internationalism of Irish writing today. (19) Indeed, another Englishman, in so far as this nationality stuff means anything when it comes to cultural translation, has provided the second translation of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, and his own wizardry and fun joins the author's with creative invention. (20) In the meantime, the Rashoomon collection is a fine introduction to Japanese culture. It must surely be a wonder that the quiet, reticent, over-courteous, face-smiling front of Japan can meet up with the louder, bigwinded, empty-garrulous, sly-grinning back of Ireland and make a connection. On the other hand, Ryuunosoke's stories are akin to fable and folklore however sophisticated, so that the simple-minded critic who sees Irish literature and folklore intertwined would have no difficulty in joining up the dots. There is, of course, no art to find the tongue's construction in one place rather than another, so that the best of us are unable to examine Sean O Durois's words as accurate translations. It is enough to say that they work.

Maybe more inaccessible than Japanese are those European neighbours of whom many are slightly ashamed. Those darkies from Eastern Europe are all very well to slave in restaurants and to muck about in the unspeakable joblets of the poor, but we might be better off not writing about them at all, at all. Aodh O Canainn had already translated from the Spanish, but his translations of the Rumanian poet Marin Sorescu introduce us to a writer who is both life-enhancing and troubling and gutsy. (21) His poetry rings with the affirmation of life as in 'Ar son na beatha mise' [For life] which screams at the end: 'Na geill, na lig uait an claiomh' [Don't give in, don't give up the sword], or in his exhortation to a soldier to 'Can amhran na beatha' [Sing the song of life] which on the surface is as oxymoronic as you can get. There have been other middle-European interventions in Irish such as Milan Kundera's pamphlet Croi na hEorpa, (22) and the stories of the Slovenian Drago Janchar (23) but the primary locus of sentiment has come from the west of the continent, and the artistic and subtle translations of Maire Nic Mhaolain from the Italian are particularly germane. (24) Exchanging the blue skies of Italy for the grey clouds of County Down is no mean achievement.

A feature from the first half of the century was the amount of translation from what were then called Anglo-Irish writers, but whom we now designate simply dull and boring. William Carleton, probably the only nineteenth-century novelist writing in English still worth reading, was translated by Sean Mac Maolain; the great stylist and innovator Mairtin O Cadhain rewrote Charles J. Kickham's truly awful Sally Kavanagh with even more excess of verbosity than the original; Seosamh Mac Grianna returned Peadar O'Donnell's Islanders to their native tongue. The second half of the century, was, however, more cautious in going down this boreen. Two projects are particularly worth mentioning, however.

William Butler Yeats, of fairy and ectoplasmic fame, was turned into an Irish writer by a collective of poets in a 1991 edition of translations. (25) They are amazingly well done, considering that translation can expose charlatanry quicker than any sleuth. Some poems, such as 'The Ballad of Father Gilligan' or 'The Ballad of Moll Magee' from his early period lend themselves easily to the Irish idiom. On the other hand, Gabriel Rosenstock's 'Amhran na poite' [Drinking song] must surely surpass the original since Yeats was incapable of differentiating between a dry white sherry and a wet black Guinness. Paddy Finnegan's 'Lake Isle of Inisfree' exposes the hollowness of the original with its honeyed lapping words and if it does not quite make the perfect jingle-jangle it may be that Irish is resistant to a particular kind of candyflossed nonsense.

The other great project worth dwelling on was the translation of James Joyce's Ulysses into Irish by Breasal Uilsean and Seamas O hInneirghe. (26) This began more than ten years ago and has been published in instalments. Some of it is stunningly beautiful in measuring itself against Joyce's own magnificent prose, but there are also bizarrities which rather add to the work than detract from it. It does give a taste of what Irish might have been like if it had not slipped off the map of the urban world, and was allowed to sing and to scream and to wobble without the policemen of grammatical correctness. It is, in truth, one of the finer achievements of Irish prose, and like De Brun's Odaise and Coimeide Dhiaga make the language a much better and stronger thing than it was by virtue of the wrestling with it.

Inevitably, I have been referring to translations into Irish until now, but the intercourse also comes the other way. Translations from Irish into English and other languages is not a bloodsucking enterprise, but ideally should raise the standard of the language and make it fly in the face of the world. Traditionally, only the most specific and rural and bucolic texts have been approached for elevation. Thus, Tomas O Criomhthain's An tOileanach [The Islandman], Muiris O Suilleabhain's Fiche Blian ag fas [Twenty Years a'Growing], and Peig Sayers's Peig have all been reduced into English. Very few, however, of the more imaginative and less documentary texts have been enSaxoned. Mairtin O Cadhain's great classic Cre na cille [Graveyard clay], arguably the greatest novel in modern Irish, has been translated but never published in full. (27) It is not difficult to see why.

The first few sentences set the problem. Cre na Cille is all talk, the characters are dead, but not silent, and they gabble on in the graveyard for ever and ever without end about all the petty miniflogging garbage that clutters up our lives. When Caitriona Phaidin, the principal character (if she can be glorified with such a name) wakes up in her grave, the only thing that is pissing her off is if she is buried in the pound plot or the fifteen-shilling plot. 'Ni me an ar Ait an Phuint no na Cuig Deag ata me curtha? D'imigh an diabhal orthu dha mba in Ait na Leathghine a chaithfidis me, th'eis ar chuir me d'fhaineacachai orthu'. [Now I wonder is it in the pound plot or in the fifteen shilling plot they have me buried. They went to the devil entirely if it's in the ten shilling place they threw me after all the warnings I gave them.] (28) There is obvious social snobbery here, the kind that goes beyond the grave. Life is about having one inch or cubit or zloty over your neighbour. The context of who lords it over whom can be easily explicated. If two people are stranded on a desert island, then one side of it will be inevitably more fashionable than the other. All those writers who said that we were equal when we died have the wrong end of the spade. Snobbery and class consciousness goes on for ever; money defeats death and conquers all.

The more difficult part is the charge and energy and taste and trust and tactility of all the words, which is the never-ending insoluble question of translation. The pound or the fifteen-shilling plot is easily explainable. 'D'imigh an diabhal orthu' is a more thorny problem. Literally meaning 'the devil went on them', it is not even Anglo-Irish Hiberno-bogtalk. The devil looms richly in Irish maledicta, but as he has been marginalized as much as God in the normal scheme of things, he is a prickly sprite to turn around. Crude Anglo-Irishisms and Synge-sayings suffered 'Their sowls to de divil', or 'de divil take 'em', or some such, but these don't cut no gorse no more. The difficulty is, of course, that if Irish is translated into any kind of Hiberno-English it will immediately begin to sound exotic, and its speakers will be turned into country bumpkins. Their Irish is the most natural thing in the world, but their English would be turned into something crude and ugly. There is the added problem that Hiberno-English is more or less dead meat now apart from a few broken-toothed hill farmers in isolated areas and will shortly be a thing of yesteryear. It is noteworthy that very few novels have been translated from Irish as the market seems to prefer the rural autobiography for its sentimental depiction of rural life and its supposed authenticity.

Some of O Cadhain's stories have appeared in The Road to Brightcity (29) and are stylishly rendered by Eoghan O Tuairisc, himself an important writer in both Irish and English. (30) And it is fairly certain that some of Liam O'Flaherty's celebrated short stories were originally written in Irish, but they are almost always reworkings rather than strict translations. Other writers have fared less well, although the progressive publishing house of Clo Iar-Chonnachta has brought out a collection of stories of four writers with the purpose of getting them recognized abroad. (31) It was subsequently translated into Rumanian, Croat, Albanian, and other languages.

The translation of poetry into English has been the most successful of all the genres. Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill is probably more widely known through English than through Irish as a result of being translated. She is also fortunate in having been 'reworked' by excellent poets themselves. In Pharaoh's Daughter, for example, she is translated by a veritable roll-call of the finest of Irish poets, including Seamus Heaney, John Montague, Derek Mahon, Michael Coady, Eilean Ni Chuilleanain, and Ciaran Carson, (32) while both Michael Hartnett and Paul Muldoon have translated two other collections. Some of these are very true and accurate, in so far as there can be such a thing in translation, others more quirky. 'Gan do chuid eadaigh' is made into 'Nude' by Paul Muldoon, and 'do bhroga ar a mbionn | i gconai snas' is muldooned as 'your snazzy loafers', and so it goes. At one level, poetry should be the most difficult of all the arts to translate, but in the hands of a master we can get a new poem that bears a relationship to the original, but that relationship is opaque. I see a translation as a black and white photograph of a sensuous three-dimensional piece of sculpture. You can see the shape and cut and outline, but the tactile rub and the feel is missing.

Frank Sewell's translations of Cathal O Searcaigh are a much safer affair. (33) He honours the originals by sticking as close to them as possible and negotiates some tricky passages whose resonance in Irish is obvious, but which call up something else in English. Place-names and nicknames are especially part of time and place, and in the case of the pet-names of sheep, he manages to make it seem easy without pretending that it is tightly accurate: 'Raimsce na Coise Duibhe, Peata Abhainn an Mhadaidh | Bradai an Leicinn Bhain agus Smiogadan na hAitinne'; '"Scamp" with the black feet, the "river minder", | the "white-cheeked Braddy" and "Gorsegobbler".' On the other hand, a poem in honour of Jack Kerouac which he cleverly turns into 'Let's Hit the Road, Jack' has already the American slang available to him, and he does not need to search for 'equivalents' for O Searcaigh's richly patterned language. Very few of the Irish poets have translated their own work, even though they are all fluent in English, and in many cases it is their mother tongue. Louis de Paor is one of the exceptions. He did the facing translations for Aimsir Bhreicneach: Freckled Weather, but this may have been partly prompted by his living in Australia where the pickings for poetry in Irish must be very thin indeed. (34)

There certainly has been a revival in the work of translation during the last decade in particular. While not matching the flow of work which was Government sponsored in the 1930s and 1940s, the quality of much of the new wave is often excellent. (35) An Gum have also republished some of their earlier works, making them available for new readers. The relationship of translations to the encouragement of new original literature is a troubling and difficult one. The earlier scheme provided some training for writers in their wrestling with language. More recent translations are more likely to be read for their own quality, and for their intrinsic interest. They also, of course, introduce very fine writers to a new audience.

(1) W.B. Stanford, Towards a history of classical influences in Ireland, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 70 C 3. ps 34-7.

(2) Nessa Ni Sheaghdha Translations and Adaptations into Irish. Statutory lecture 1984, School of Celtic Studies. Dublin 1984. p.3

(3) ibid. p. 5-14.

(4) Ui Laighleis, Gearoidin. The Encyclopaedia of Ireland. Dublin 2003. p.465

(5) Hoimeir. An Odaise (eag) Padraig de Brun a d'aistrigh; Ciaran O Coigligh a chuir in eagar. Dublin 1990. Dainte Ailigieiri. An Choimeide Dhiaga. Padraig de Brun a d'aistrigh. Ciaran O Coigligh a chuir in eagar. Dublin 1997.

(6) See, Breathnach, Diarmaid agus Ni Mhurchu, Maire. 1882-1982 Beathaisneis a Ceathair. Dublin 1994. ps 23-6.

(7) An Monsignor Padraig de Brun Coimeide Dhiaga Dante. Dublin 1963.

(8) Criostoir O Floinn Tri Gheata na Sioraiochta Dublin 1988.

(9) ibid. Introduction. p.6

(10) Ciaran Carson. The Inferno of Dante Alighieri London 2002.

(11) Dante Alighieri Hell translated, annotated, and introduced by Steve Ellis. London 1994.

(12) George Steiner Homer in English (with the assistance of Aminadav Dykman) p. xxi.

(13) John Mac Hale. Iliad Hoimear. 1844 to 1871 in parts.

(14) aistrithe ag Breandan O Doibhlin Smaointe le Blaise Pascal Dublin 1994.

(15) Montaigne, Deascan as na haisti. Breandan O Doibhlin a d'aistrigh go Gaeilge. Dublin 2001.

(16) Dialann as Eirinn le Heinrich Boll. Leagan Gaeilge le Sean Sabhaois. Dublin 1988.

(17) Karl Marx agus Friedrich Engels. Clar na Comhsheilbhe, Forogra na gCumannach. Pairti Cumannach na hEireann a d'aistrigh. Dublin and Belfast, 1986.

(18) Michael Augustin ad finitum. Aistritheoiri Gabriel Rosenstock agus Hans-Christian Oeser. Dublin 2001. Hansjorg Schertenleib. Gib mire dein aug/ Give me you eye/ T'rom do shuil. Aistritheoiri: Hans-Christian Oeser agus Gabriel Rosenstock. Dublin 2003.

(19) Rashoomon. Gearrscealta le Akutagawa Ryuunosuke arna aistriu ag Sean O Durois. Dublin 1995.

(20) Lewis Carroll. Eachtrai Eilise i dTir na nIontas. Nicholas Williams a d'aistrigh go Gaeilge. Dublin 2003.

(21) Marin Sorescu. Danta deireadh saoil. Poemale sfarsitului. Aistrithe ag Aodh O Canainn agus Anamaria Maior.

(22) Milan Kundera Croi na hEorpa. Aine Ni Chonghaile a d'aistrigh go Gaeilge. Dublin. 1990.

(23) Drago Jancar. Dalta an tSeoighigh. Breandan O Doibhlin a chuir Gaeilge air. Dublin 2004.

(24) See, for example, Grazia Deledda An Mhathair (La Madre) Maire Nic Mhaolain a d'aistrigh go Gaeilge. Dublin 1985, and Luciano Radi Dialann Seansagairt (Non Sono Solo). Dublin 1988.

(25) William Butler Yeats. Byzantium. Eagran dhatheangach/dual language edition. In eagar ag Gabriel Rosenstock agus Gearailt Mac Eoin. Dublin 1991.

(26) James Joyce. Uiliseas (Cuid a h-aon. Caibidli a h-aon, a do agus a tri). Breasal Uilsean agus Seamas O hInneirghe a d'aistrigh. Belfast 1992. Continuing.

(27) Selections from in Seamus Deane (ed) The Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing. Vol 111. ps 857-860.

(28) Ibid. p 857 and 859. Translation by Eibhlin Ni Allmhurain and Maitiu O Neill.

(29) Mairtin O Cadhain The Road to Brightcity. Short stories translated by Eoghan O Tuairisc. Dublin 1981.

(30) O Tuairisc wrote in English under the name Eugene Watters.

(31) Micheal O Conghaile, Padraic Breathnach, Dara O Conaola, Alan Titley. Fourfront: Modern short stories from the Irish. Indreabhan 1988.

(32) Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill Pharaoh's Daughter Oldcastle 1990.

(33) Cathal O Searcaigh Out in the Open. Translations by Frank Sewell. Indreabhan 1997.

(34) Louis de Paor. Aimsir Bhreicneach: Freckled Weather Canberra 1993.

(35) Much of the credit for these translations must go the publishing house Coisceim and its energetic owner, Padraig O Snodaigh. Although he is best known for his dedication to poetry, a quick perusal of his list shows many translations from European languages other than English.

ALAN TITLEY

St Patrick's College, Dublin
COPYRIGHT 2005 Modern Humanities Research Association
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2005 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Titley, Alan
Publication:Yearbook of English Studies
Geographic Code:4EUIR
Date:Jan 1, 2005
Words:5489
Previous Article:Ireland in two minds: Martin McDonagh and Conor McPherson.
Next Article:Irish and Postcolonial Writing: History, Theory, Practice.
Topics:


Related Articles
Expats flock to Kabul's first Irish pub, the only bar in Afghanistan. (Weekly Specialty Beer Report).
Codex: Frostbite.
The novel in Irish since 1950: from national narrative to counter-narrative.
JARVEY LEARNS LESSON AT SCGA SLEEPLESS NIGHT LEADS TO SIXTH-PLACE FINISH.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2019 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters