Paradoxically, the rise of multiculturalism may have been the worst thing to happen to translation. The original multiculturalist critique of the Eurocentrism of the canon and so forth did not lead– as I, for one, hoped it would– to a new internationalism, where Wordsworth would be read alongside Wang Wei, the Greek anthology next to Vidyakara's Treasury , Ono no Komachi with H.D. Instead it led to a new form of nationalism, one that was salutary in its inclusion of the previously excluded, but one that limited itself strictly to Americans, albeit hyphenated ones. Today nearly every freshman literature course teaches Chinese-American writers, but no Chinese, Latinos but no Latin Americans. In terms of publishing, if you are a Mexican from the northern side of the Rio Grande, it is not very difficult to get published; if you're from the southern side, it is almost impossible. There are probably less than a dozen living Mexican writers who have been translated and published in the U.S., and only two or three with some regularity. In contrast there are many millions of dollars pouring into Chicano Studies departments, Chicano literary presses, special collections at libraries, literary organizations, prizes, and so on. In terms of Mexican-Americans, this is necessary and healthy, but it has also meant that, in terms of translation, readers in the U.S. now have less contemporary Mexican literature available to them than they did in the 1960's.
Translation is a necessity, for the obvious reason that one's own language has only created, and is creating, a small fraction of the world's most vital books. It is also perhaps the best source for the genuine news from abroad. Mexico, hardly an obscure corner of the globe from a U.S. perspective, is a case in point:
The American perception of Mexico has radically changed in the last forty years, and the beginning of that change has a precise date. For much of the twentieth century, what we knew in English about Mexico came from the foreign writers who had been inspired, moved, and sometimes repelled by their visits there: Malcolm Lowry, D.H. Lawrence, Aldous Huxley, Katherine Anne Porter, Hart Crane, Graham Greene, and Langston Hughes, among them. Then, in 1959, the Evergreen Review published a special issue called "The Eye of Mexico," edited by Ramón Xirau with the assistance of Octavio Paz. This was the first highly visible introduction of Mexican literature in the U.S. and one that was much discussed at the time: the first news of writers such as Paz, Rulfo, Fuentes, Sabines, Poniatowska, Arreola, and others, as well as León-Portilla on the Náhuatl concept of art. We were, at last, hearing from the Mexicans themselves.
That magazine issue led to numerous books in English by these writers and, from that moment on, it was not only Mexico that was inspiring American writers, it was Mexican literature. For the general reading population, Mexico could now be seen through Mexican eyes. What was once a set of stereotypes began– though of course this work is far from complete– to take on a human face.
The same principle is at work south of the border. With the exception of Paz– who was a true internationalist– and a very few others, Mexican writers have tended largely to ignore U.S. literature beyond certain classics, to see it as part and parcel of the monstrous culture that has brought the world McDonald's and the Marines. This, in the last ten or fifteen years, has begun to change, and many Mexican writers are becoming increasingly interested in that world of U.S. culture that, from the outside, remains hidden in the back streets behind the neon signs of the mass market. It may begin with the translation of a few poems but– as has been historically the case many times– a few cultural artifacts often grow into a more general national understanding. Mexico has gone from a cliched anti-Americanism to the point where its new President-elect is calling for a kind of binational citizenship– a massive cultural change that is not attributable solely to migration and cable tv.
This importing of American literature into Latin America is not part of the Coca-Colaization of the planet: poetry particularly always moves through underground channels that have little to do with the dominant and corporate cultures, and American poetry has always been written in spite of, and not because of, the State and the culture at large. Moreover, unlike Coca Cola– which you either drink or you don't– poetry is a dialogue. To take two examples: The poetry of Octavio Paz was radically altered by his readings of American poetry, particularly Pound and Williams. The translations of Paz's poetry, in turn, were tremendously influential for certain American poets of the 1960's and 1970's. These same poets are now being translated in Mexico and have attracted wide interest. In short, there are now younger Mexican poets who are influenced by the American poets who were influenced by Paz who was influenced by American poetry. Translation is not appropriation, as is sometimes claimed; it is a form of listening that then changes how you speak.
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